Original Gothic Novel
Same day, 11 o'clock
p.m.- Oh, but I am tired! if it were not that I had made my diary a duty I
should not open it tonight. We had a lovely 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 the lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us.
I believe we forgot everything, except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed
to wipe there slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had a capital "severe
tea" at Robin Hood's Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a
bow-window right over the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we
should have shocked the "New Woman" with our appetites. Men are
more tolerant, bless them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many,
stoppages to rest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls.
Lucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we could.
The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay for
supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty miller; I know it
was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I think that some day
the bishops must get together and see about breeding up a new class of curates,
who don't take supper, no matter how they may be pressed to, and who will
know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more
colour in her cheeks than usual, and looks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood
fell in love with her seeing her only in the drawingroom, 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 and women should be allowed to see each other
asleep before proposing or accepting. But I suppose the New Woman won't condescend
in future to accept; she will do the proposing herself And a nice job she
will make of 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 the corner,
and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be quite 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 an agonising experience. I fell asleep
as soon as I had closed my diary... Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat
up, with a horrible sense of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness
around me. The room was dark, so I could not see Lucy's bed; I stole across
and felt for her. The bed was empty. I lit a match, and found that she was
not in the room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared
to wake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on
some clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it struck
me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her dreaming intention.
Dressing-gown would mean house; dress, outside. Dressing-gown and dress were
both in their places. "Thank God," I said to myself, "she cannot
be far, as she is only in her nightdress." I ran downstairs and looked
in the sitting-room. Not there! Then I looked in all the other open rooms
of the house, with an ever-growing fear chilling 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. The people of the house are careful to lock the door
every night, so I feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was
no time to think of what might happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured
all details. I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking
one as I was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along
the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I expected.
At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across the harbour to
the East Cliff, in the hope or fear- I don't know which- of seeing Lucy in
our favourite seat. There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving
clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and shade
as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow
of a cloud obscured St. Mary's Church and all around it. Then as the cloud
passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into view; and as the edge
of a narrow band of light as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church
and the churchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was,
it was not disappointed, for there, on our favourite seat, the silver light
of the moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the
cloud was too quick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on light almost
immediately; but it seemed to me as though something dark stood behind the
seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was, whether
man or beast, I could not tell; I did not wait to catch another glance, but
flew down the steep steps to the pier and along by the fish-market to the
bridge, which was the only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as
dead, for not a soul did I see; I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted no
witness of poor Lucy's condition. The time and distance seemed endless, and
my knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I toiled up the endless steps
to the abbey. I must have gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet
were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty.
When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, for
I was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of shadow.
There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over the half-reclining
white figure. I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy!" and something raised
a head, and from where I was I could see a white face and red, gleaming eyes.
Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the churchyard. As I
entered, the church was between me and the seat, and for a minute or so I
lost sight of her. When I came in view again the cloud had passed, and the
moonlight struck so brilliantly that I could see Lucy half reclining with
her head lying over the back of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was
not a sign of any living thing about.
When I bent over
her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips were parted, and she was
breathing- not softly, as usual with her, but in long, heavy gasps, as though
striving to get her lungs full at every breath. As I came close, she put up
her hand in her sleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around
her throat. Whilst she did so there came a little shudder through her, as
though she felt the cold. I flung 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 to have my hands free that I might help her. I fastened the shawl
at her throat with a big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxiety
and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing became
quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I had her carefully
wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet, and then began very gently to wake
her. At first she did not respond; but gradually she became more and more
uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At last, as time was
passing fast, and, for many other reasons, 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 surprised to see me, as, of course, she did not realise all at
once where she was. Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when
her body must have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled
at waking unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She
trembled a little, and clung to me; when I told her to come at once with me
home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. As we passed
along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. She stopped and
wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I would not. However, when we
got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where there was a puddle of water
remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with mud, using each foot in turn
on the other, so that as we went home no one, in case we should meet any one,
should notice my bare feet.
us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we saw a man, who seemed
not quite sober, passing along a street in front of us; but we hid in a door
till he had disappeared up an opening such as there are here, steep little
closes, or "wynds," as they call them in Scotland. My heart beat
so loud all the time that sometimes I thought I should faint. I was filled
with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her health, lest she should suffer from
the exposure, but for her reputation in case the story should get wind. When
we got in, and had washed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness
together, I tucked her into bed. Before falling asleep she asked- even implored-
me not to say a word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking
adventure. I hesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of
her mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her,
and thinking, too, of how such a story might become distorted- may, infallibly
would- in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do so. I hope I did
right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to my wrist, so perhaps
I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping soundly; 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 seemed not to have even changed
her side. The adventure of the night does not seem to have harmed her; on
the contrary, it has benefited her, for she looks better this morning than
she has done for weeks. I was sorry to notice that my clumsiness with the
safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might have been serious, for the skin of her
throat was pierced. I must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and have
transfixed it, for there are two little red points like pin-pricks, and on
the band of her nightdress was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was
concerned about it, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel
it. Fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.
Same day, night.-
We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the sun bright, and there was
a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving
by the road and Lucy and I walking by the cliff-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 had Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only
be patient. In the evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some
good music by Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more
restful than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall
lock the door and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect
any trouble to-night.
12 August.- My
expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I was wakened by Lucy
trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, to be a little impatient
at finding the door shut, and went back to bed under a sort of protest. I
woke with the dawn, and heard the birds chirping outside of the window. Lucy
woke, too, and, I was glad to see, was even better than on the previous morning.
All her old gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled
in beside me, and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about
Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded somewhat,
for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can help to make them more bearable.
13 August.- Another
quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as before. Again I awoke in
the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed, still asleep, pointing to the
window. I got up quietly, and pulling aside the blind, looked out. It was
brilliant moonlight, and the soft effect of the light over the sea and sky-
merged together in one great, silent mystery- was beautiful beyond words.
Between me and the moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in great,
whirling circles. Once or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened
at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards the abbey. When
I came back from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully.
She did not stir again all night.
14 August.- On
the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems to have become as
much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to get her away from it
when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or dinner. This afternoon she
made a funny remark. We were coming home for dinner, and had come to the top
of the steps up from the West Pier and stopped to look at the view, as we
generally do. The setting sun, low down in the sky, was just dropping behind
Kettleness; the red light was thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey,
and seemed to bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for
a while, and suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:-
eyes again! They are just the same." It was such an odd expression, coming
apropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. I slewed round a little, so
as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare at her, and saw that she was
in a half-dreamy state, with an odd look on her face that I could not quite
make out; so I said nothing, but followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking
over at our own seat, whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was a little
startled myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great
eyes like burning flames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red
sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our seat,
and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the refraction and
reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy's attention
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 thinking of that terrible
night up there. We never refer to it; so I said nothing, and we went home
to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went early to bed. I saw her asleep, and
went out for a little stroll myself, I walked along the cliffs to the westward,
and was full of sweet sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming
home- it was then bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our
part of the Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen- I threw
a glance up at our window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I thought that
perhaps she was looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief and waved
it. She did not notice or make any movement whatever. Just then, the moonlight
crept 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 the window-sill
and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and by her, seated on 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 came into the room she was moving back
to her bed, fast asleep, and breathing heavily; she was holding her hand to
her throat, as though to protect it from cold.
I did not wake
her, but tucked her up warmly; I have taken care that the door 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 it is.
15 August.- Rose
later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired, and slept on after we had been
called. We had a happy surprise at breakfast. Arthur's father is better, and
wants the marriage to come off soon. Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother
is glad and sorry at once. Later on in the day she told me the cause. She
is grieved to lose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon
to have some one to protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to me
that she has got her death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made me promise
secrecy; her doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must die,
for her heart is weakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be
almost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep 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 to write. Some sort of
shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness. No news from Jonathan,
and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her mother's hours are numbering
to a close. I do not understand Lucy's fading away as she is doing. She eats
well and sleeps well, and enjoys the 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 her gasping as if for air. I keep the key of our door always
fastened to my wrist at night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and
sits at 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 I managed
to restore her she was as weak as water, and cried silently between long,
painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how she came to be at the window
she shook her head and turned away. I trust her 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 wounds seem not to have healed. They are still open,
and, if anything, larger than before, and the edges of them are faintly white.
They are like little white dots with red centres. Unless they heal within
a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor seeing about them.
Samuel F. Billington & Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to
Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London.
please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern Railway. Same are to
be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately on receipt at goods station
King's Cross. The house is at present empty, but enclosed please find keys,
all of which are labelled.
please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the consignment, in
the partially ruined building forming part of the house and marked 'A' on
rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easily recognise the locality, as
it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The goods leave by the train at 9:30
to-night, and will be due at King's Cross at 4:30 to-morrow afternoon. As
our client wishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged
by your having teams ready at King's Cross at the time named and forthwith
conveying the goods to destination. In order to obviate any delays possible
through any routine requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose
cheque herewith for ten pounds (L10), receipt of which please acknowledge.
Should the charge be less
than this amount, you can return balance; if greater, we shall at once send
cheque for difference on hearing from you. You are to leave the keys on coming
away in the main hall of the house, where the proprietor may get them on his
entering the house by means of his duplicate key.
not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in pressing you in
all ways to use the utmost expedition.
are, dear Sirs,
"Samuel F. Billington & Son."
Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London, to Messrs.
Billington & Son, Whitby.
"We beg to
acknowledge 10 pounds (L10) received and to return cheque L1 17s. 9d., amount
of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. Goods are delivered in
exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in parcel in main hall,
are, dear Sirs,
"Pro Carter, Paterson & Co."
18 August.- I
am happy to-day, and write sitting on the seat in the churchyard. Lucy is
ever so much better. Last night she slept well all night, and did not disturb
me once. The roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she is still
sadly pale and wan-looking. If she were in any way anaemic I could understand
it, but she is not. She is in gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness.
All the morbid reticence seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded
me, as if I needed any reminding, of that night, and that it was here, on
this very seat, I found her asleep. As he told me she tapped playfully with
the heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:-
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 up Geordie." As
she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she had dreamed at
all that night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckered look came into her
forehead, which Arthur- I call him Arthur from her habit- says he loves; and,
indeed, I don't wonder that he does. Then she went on in a half-dreaming kind
of way, as if trying to recall it to herself:-
quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be here in this
spot- I don't know why, for I was afraid of something- I don't know what.
I remember though I suppose I was asleep, passing through 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- the whole town seemed as if it must
be full of dogs all howling at once- as I went up the steps. Then I had a
vague memory of something long and dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the
sunset, and something very sweet and very bitter all around me at once; and
then I seemed sinking into deep green water, and there was a singing in my
ears, as I have heard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed
passing away from me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about
the air. I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under
me, and then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if I were in an earthquake,
and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do it before I felt
Then she began
to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I listened to her breathlessly.
I did not quite like it, and thought it better not to keep her mind on the
subject, so we drifted on to other subjects, and Lucy was like her old self
again. When we got home the fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks
were really more rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent
a very happy evening together.
19 August.- Joy,
joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news of Jonathan. The dear fellow
has been ill; that is why he did not write. I am not afraid to think it or
say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent me on the letter, and wrote himself,
oh, so kindly. I am to leave in the morning and go over to Jonathan, and to
help to nurse him if necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it
would not be a bad thing if we were to be married out there. I have cried
over the good Sister'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 one change
of dress; Lucy All bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for it,
for it may be that... I must write no more; I must keep it to say to Jonathan,
my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched must comfort me till we
Sister Agatha, Hospital of SL Joseph and Ste. Mary,
Buda-Pesth, to Miss Wilhelmina Murray.
by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong enough to write,
though progressing well, thanks to God and St. Joseph and 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 his delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will
require some few weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then
return. He wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money with him, and
that he would like to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall
not be wanting for help. "Believe me,
with sympathy and all blessings,
patient being asleep, I open this to let you know something more. He has told
me all about you, and that you are sortly to be his wife. All blessings to
you both! He has had some fearful shock- so says our doctor- and in his delirium
his ravings have been dreadful; of wolves and poison and blood; of ghosts
and demons; and I fear to say of what. Be careful with him always that there
may be nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to come; the traces
of such an illness as his do not lightly die away. We should have written
long ago, but we knew nothing of his friends, and there was on him nothing
that any one could understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and
the guard was told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station
shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that he
was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thither
that the train reached.
that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his sweetness and gentleness.
He is truly getting on well, and I have no doubt will in a few weeks be all
himself But be careful of him for safety'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. About eight o'clock he began to
get excited and to sniff about as a dog does when setting. The attendant was
struck by his manner, and knowing my interest in him, encouraged him to talk.
He is usually respectful to the attendant, and at times servile; but to-night,
the man tells me, he was quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with
him at all. All he would say was:-
want to talk to you: you don't count now; the Master is at hand."
thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has seized him. If
so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with homicidal and religious
mania at once might be dangerous. The combination is a dreadful one. At nine
o'clock I visited him myself. His attitude to me was the same as that to the
attendant; in his sublime self-feeling the difference between myself and attendant
seemed to him as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon
think that he himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man
and man are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves
away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the God created from
human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh, if men
For half an hour
or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and greater degree. I did
not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict observation all the same.
All at once that shifty look came into his eyes which we always see when a
madman has seized an idea, and with it the shifty movement of the head and
back which asylum attendants come to know so well. He became quite quiet,
and went and sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space
with lack-lustre eyes. I thought I would find out if his apathy were real
or only assumed, and tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which
had never failed to excite his attention. At first he made no reply, but at
length said testily:-
all! I don't care a pin about them."
I said. "You don't mean to tell me you don't care about spiders?"
(Spiders at present are his hobby, and the note-book is filling up with columns
of small figures.) To this he answered enigmatically:-
rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride; but when the bride draweth
nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes that are filled."
He would not explain
himself, but remained obstinately seated on his bed all the time I remained
I am weary to-night
and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and how 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 let it grow into a habit. No, I shall take
none ton-night! I have thought of 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 lain tossing
about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the night-watchman
came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield had escaped. I threw
on my clothes and ran down at once; my patient is too dangerous a person to
be roaming about. Those ideas of his might work out dangerously with strangers.
The attendant was waiting for me. He said he had seen him not ten minutes
before, seemingly asleep in his bed, when he had looked through the observation-trap
in the door. His attention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched
out. He ran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at
once sent 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 should go
than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out of the
building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't get through the window.
I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost, and, as we were
only a few feet above ground, landed unhurt. The attendant told me the patient
had gone to the left, and had taken a straight line, so I ran as quickly as
I could. As I got through the belt of trees I saw a white figure scale the
high wall which separates our grounds from those of the deserted house.
ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men immediately and
follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friend might be dangerous.
I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall, dropped down on the other side.
I could see Renfield's figure just 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 old iron-bound oak door of the chapel. He was talking, apparently
to some one, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying,
lest I might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant swarm
of bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping
is upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not take
note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to him- the more
so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him in. I heard him
am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave, and You will reward me,
for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped You long and afar off. Now that
You are near, I await Your commands, and You will not pass me by, will You,
dear Master, in Your distribution of good things?"
is a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes even when
he believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make a startling 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 I shall not again. It is a mercy that
we have found out his strength and his danger in good time. With strength,
and determination like his, he might have done wild work before he was caged.
He is safe now at any rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn't get free from the
strait-waistcoat that keeps him restrained, and he's chained to the wall in
the padded room. His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow
are more deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.
now he spoke coherent words for the first time:-
shall be patient, Master. It is coming- coming- coming!"
I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep, but
this diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep to-night.
Original Gothic Novel
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