NOTE: Letter not received by Mina Murray until 19 August]

LETTER FROM SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL OF ST. JOSEPH AND STE. MARY,
BUDA-PESTH, TO MISS WILLHELMINA MURRAY.

"Dear Madam.--                                   "12 August.
    "I write 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 belp.
    "Believe me,
               yours, with sympathy and all blessings,
                                     "Sister Agatha"

    "P. S.--My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know
something more. He has told me all about you, and that you are
shortly 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 of 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 nothing on him, nothing
that anyone 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 demeanor that he was English, they gave
him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thither that
the train reached.

    "Be assured 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."

MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL

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.

MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL

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:--

    "His red 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 quite 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 wondow, and saw
Lucy's head leaning out. 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 the 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.

MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL

  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.

MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL

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 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.

LETTER, SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON, SOLICITORS, WHITBY, TO
MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON. 17 August

"Dear Sirs,--                                      "17 August.
    "Herewith 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.

    "You will 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 diagrams enclosed.
Your agent will easily recognize 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, 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.

    "Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business
courtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost
expedition.
                                   "We are, dear Sirs,
                                       "Faithfully yours,
                             "SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON."

MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL.

    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 anemic 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 she told me she tapped
playfully with the heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:--

    "My poor little feet didn't make much noise then! I daresay
poor old Mr. Swales would have told me that it was because I
didn't want to wake 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:--

    "I didn't 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
agonizing 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 you."

    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 another subject, 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.

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY.
    19 August.--Strange and sudden change in Renfield last
night. About eight o'clock he began to get excited and 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:--

    "I don't want to talk to you; you don't count now; the
master is at hand."

    The attendant 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 the 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 only knew!

    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-luster 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:--

    "Bother them all! I don't care a pin about them."

    "What" I said. "You don't mean to tell me you don't care
about spiders?" (Spiders at present are his hobby and the
notebook is filling up with columns of small figures.) To this
he answered enigmatically:--

    "The bride-maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of
the bride; but when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens
shine not to the eyes that are filled."

    He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately
seated on his bed all the time I remained with him.

    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--C2HCl3 O. H2O! I
must be careful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall
take none to-night! I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not
dishonour her by mixing the two. If need by, to-night shall be
sleepless.

Later.--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.

    I 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 ironbound 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, les t 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 say:--

    "I 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?"

    He 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, for 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.

    Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time:--

    "I shall be patient, Master. It is coming--coming--coming!"

    So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to
sleep, but this diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get
some sleep to-night.

MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL.

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 to 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 near 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 will 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
meet.

DR. SEWARDS DIARY

  20. August.--The case of Renfield grows even more interesting.
He has now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation
from his passion. For the first week after his attack he was
perpetually violent. Then one night, just as the moon rose, he
grew quiet, and kept murmuring to himself: "Now I can wait. Now
I can wait." The attendant came to tell me, so I ran down at
once to have a look at him. He was still in the strait-waistcoat
and in the padded room, but the suffused look had gone from his
face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading--I might
almost say, "cringing"--softness. I was satisfied with his
present condition, and directed him to be relieved. The
attendants hesitated, but finally carried out my wishes without
protest. It was a strange thing that the patient had humour
enough to see their distrust, for, coming close to me, he said
in a whisper, all the while looking furtively at them:--

    "They think I could hurt you! Fancy me hurting you! The
fools!"

    It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself
disassociated even in the mind of this poor madman from the
others; but all the same I do not follow his thought. Am I to
take it that I have anything in common with him, so that we are,
as it were, to stand together. Or has he to gain from me some
good so stupendous that my well-being is needful to Him? I must
find out later on. To-night he will not speak. Even the offer of
a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt him. He will
only say: "I don't take any stock in cats. I have more to think
of now, and I can wait; I can wait."

    After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was
quiet until just before dawn, and that then he began to get
uneasy, and at length violent, until at last he fell into a
paroxysm which exhausted him so that he swooned into a sort of
coma.

    ...Three nights has the same thing happened--violent all day
then quiet from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some
clue to the cause. It would almost seem as if there was some
influence which came and went. Happy thought! We shall to-night
play sane wits against mad ones. He escaped before without our
help; to-night he shall escape with it. We shall give him a
chance, and have the men ready to follow in case they are
required....

LETTER FROM MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON,
TO MESSRS. BILLINGTON & SON, WHITBY.

"Dear Sirs,--                                     "21 August.
    "We beg to acknowledge 10 pounds received and to return
cheque of 1 pound, 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, as directed.
                                    "We are, dear Sirs,
                                    "Yours respectfully,
                                 "Pro CARTER, PATERSON & CO."

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

   23 August.--"The expected always happens." How well Disraeli
knew life. Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly,
so all our subtle arrangements were for nought. At any rate, we
have proved one thing; that the spells of quietness last a
reasonable time. We shall in future be able to ease his bonds
for a few hours each day. I have given orders to the night
attendant merely to shut him in the padded room, when once he is
quiet, until the hour before sunrise. The poor soul's body will
enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot appreciate it. Hark!
The unexpected again! I am called; the patient has once more
escaped.

Later.--Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited until
the attendant was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed
out past him and flew down the passage. I sent word for the
attendants to follow. Again he went into the grounds of the
deserted house, and we found him in the same place, pressed
against the old chapel door. When he saw me he became furious,
and had not the attendants seized him in time, he would have
tried to kill me. As we were holding him a strange thing
happened. He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then as
suddenly grew calm. I looked round instinctively, but could see
nothing. Then I caught the patient's eye and followed it, but
could trace nothing as it looked into the moonlight sky, except
a big bat, which was flapping its silent and ghostly way to the
west. Bats usually wheel about, but this one seemed to go
straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or had some
intention of its own. The patient grew calmer every instant, and
presently said:--

    "You needn't tie me; I shall go quietly!" Without trouble,
we came back to the house. I feel there is something ominous in
his calm, and shall not forget this night....

LETTER FROM MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA.

"My dearest Lucy,--                      "Buda-Pesth, 24 August.
    "I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened
since we parted at the railway station at Whitby.

    "Well, my dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught the boat
to Hamburg and then the train on here. I feel that I can hardly
recall anything of the journey, except that I knew I was coming
to Jonathan, and that as I should have to do some nursing, I had
better get all the sleep I could...I found my dear one, oh, so
thin and pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out
of his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in
his face has vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he
does not remember anything that has happened to him for a long
time past. At least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall
never ask.

     "He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might
tax his poor brain if he were to try to recall it. Sister
Agatha, who is a good creature and a born nurse, tells me that
he wanted her to tell me what they were; but she would only
cross herself, and say she would never tell; that the ravings of
the sick were the secrets of God, and that if a nurse through
her vocation should hear them, she should respect her trust..

    "She is a sweet, good soul, and the next day, when she saw I
was troubled, she opened up the subject my poor dear raved about,
added: `I can tell you this much, my dear: that it was not about
anything which he has done wrong himself; and you, as his wife
to be, have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you
or what he owes to you. His fear was of great and terrible
things, which no mortal can treat of.' I do believe the dear
soul thought I might be jealous lest my poor dear should have
fallen in love with any other girl. The idea of my being jealous
about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me whisper, I felt a
thrill of joy through me when I knew that no other woman was a
cause for trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can
see his face while he sleeps. He is waking!...

    "When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get
something from the pocket; I asked Sister Agatha, and she
brought all his things. I saw amongst them was his notebook, and
was going to ask him to let me look at it--for I knew that I
might find some clue to his trouble--but I suppose he must have
seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent me over to the window,
saying he wanted to be quite alone for a moment. "Then he called
me back, and he said to me very solemnly:--

    `Wilhelmina'--I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for
he has never called me by that name since he asked me to marry
him--`you know, dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and
wife: there should be no secret, no concealment. I have had a
great shock, and when I try to think of what it is I feel my
head spin round, and I do not know if it was real or the
dreaming of a madman. You know I had brain fever, and that is to
be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want to know it. I want
to take up my life here, with our marriage.' For, my dear, we
had decided to be married as soon as the formalities are
complete. `Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to share my ignorance?
Here is the book. Take it and keep it, read it if you will, but
never let me know; unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come
upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or
mad, recorded here.' He fell back exhausted, and I put the book
under his pillow, and kissed him. I had asked Sister Agatha to
beg the Superior to let our wedding be this afternoon, and am
waiting her reply....

    "She has come and told me that the Chaplain of the English
mission church has been sent for. We are to be married in an
hour, or as soon after as Jonathan awakes...

    "Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but
very, very happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all
was ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He
answered his `I will' firmly and strong. I could hardly speak;
my heart was so full that even those words seemed to choke me.
The dear sisters were so kind. Please, God, I shall never,
never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities I
have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When
the chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my
husband--oh, Lucy, it is the first time I have written the words
`my husband'--left me alone with my husband, I took the book
from under his pillow, and wrapped it up in white paper, and
tied it with a little bit of pale blue ribbon which was round my
neck, and sealed it over the knot with sealing-wax, and for my
seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it to
my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it
would be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that
we trusted each other; that I would never open it unless it were
for his own dear sake or for the sake of some stern duty. Then
he took my hand in his, and oh, Lucy, it was the first time he
took his wife's hand, and said that it was the dearest thing in
all the wide world, and that he would go through all the past
again to win it, if need be. The poor dear meant to have said a
part of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I shall
not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the
year.

    "Well, my dear, could I say? I could only tell him that I
was the happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had
nothing to give him except myself, my life, and my trust, and
that with these went my love and duty for all the days of my
life. And, my dear, when he kissed me, and drew me to him with
his poor weak hands, it was like a solemn pledge between us...

    "Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not
only because it is all sweet to me, but because you have been,
and are, very dear to me. It was my privilege to be your friend
and guide when you came from the schoolroom to prepare for the
world of life. I want you to see now, and with the eyes of a
very happy wife, whither duty has led me; so that in your own
married life you too may be all happy, as I am. My dear, please
Almighty God, your life may be all it promises: a long day of
sunshine, with no harsh wind, no forgetting duty, no distrust. I
must not wish you no pain, for that can never be; but I do hope
you will be always as happy as I am now. Goodbye, my dear. I
shall post this at once, and perhaps, write you very soon again.
I must stop, for Jonathan is waking--I must attend to my husband!

                                    "Your ever-loving
                                       "MINA HARKER."

LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY.

    Hillingham, 24 August.--I must imitate Mina, and keep
writing things down. Then we can have long talks when we do
meet. I wonder when it will be. I wish she were with me again,
for I feel so unhappy. Last night I seemed to be dreaming again
just as I was at Whitby. Perhaps it is the change of air, or
getting home again. It is all dark and horrid to me, for I can
remember nothing; but I am full of vague fear, and I feel so
weak and worn out. When Arthur came to lunch he looked quite
grieved when he saw me, and I hadn't the spirit to try to be
cheerful. I wonder if I could sleep in mother's room to-night.
I shall make an excuse to try.

.LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY.

    25 August.--Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take
to my proposal. She seems not too well herself, and doubtless
she fears to worry me. I tried to keep awake, and succeeded for
a while; but when the clock struck twelve it waked me from a
doze, so I must have been falling asleep. There was a sort of
scratching or flapping at the window, but I did not mind it, and
as I remember no more, I suppose I must have fallen asleep. More
bad dreams. I wish I could remember them. This morning I am
horribly weak. My face is ghastly pale, and my throat pains me.
It must be something wrong with my lungs, for I don't seem to be
getting air enough. I shall try to cheer up when Arthur comes,
or else I know he will be miserable to see me so.