Dracula
grave and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such a time.
His reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was logical and
forceful and mysterious. He said:--
“Ah, you don’t comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not sad,
though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But
no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come
just the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your
door and say, ‘May I come in?’ is not the true laughter. No! he is a
king, and he come when and how he like. He ask no person; he choose no
time of suitability. He say, ‘I am here.’ Behold, in example I grieve my
heart out for that so sweet young girl; I give my blood for her, though
I am old and worn; I give my time, my skill, my sleep; I let my other
sufferers want that so she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very
grave--laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her
coffin and say ‘Thud! thud!’ to my heart, till it send back the blood
from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor boy--that dear boy, so of
the age of mine own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his
hair and eyes the same. There, you know now why I love him so. And yet
when he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my
father-heart yearn to him as to no other man--not even to you, friend
John, for we are more level in experiences than father and son--yet even
at such moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear,
‘Here I am! here I am!’ till the blood come dance back and bring some of
the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is
a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and
troubles; and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance to the
tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and
tears that burn as they fall--all dance together to the music that he
make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John, that
he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn
tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come; and,
like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain
become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the
sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on with
our labour, what it may be.”
I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea; but, as I
did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As he
answered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different
tone:--
“Oh, it was the grim irony of it all--this so lovely lady garlanded with
flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered if she
were truly dead; she laid in that so fine marble house in that lonely
churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the mother
who loved her, and whom she loved; and that sacred bell going ‘Toll!
toll! toll!’ so sad and slow; and those holy men, with the white
garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time
their eyes never on the page; and all of us with the bowed head. And all
for what? She is dead; so! Is it not?”
“Well, for the life of me, Professor,” I said, “I can’t see anything to
laugh at in all that. Why, your explanation makes it a harder puzzle
than before. But even if the burial service was comic, what about poor
Art and his trouble? Why, his heart was simply breaking.”
“Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had
made her truly his bride?”
“Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him.”
“Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then
what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist,
and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by Church’s law, though
no wits, all gone--even I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife,
am bigamist.”
“I don’t see where the joke comes in there either!” I said; and I did
not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He laid
his hand on my arm, and said:--
“Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others
when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust.
If you could have looked into my very heart then when I want to laugh;
if you could have done so when the laugh arrived; if you could do so
now, when King Laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to him--for
he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time--maybe you would
perhaps pity me the most of all.”
I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why.
“Because I know!”
And now we are all scattered; and for many a long day loneliness will
sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her
kin, a lordly death-house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming
London; where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill,
and where wild flowers grow of their own accord.
So I can finish this diary; and God only knows if I shall ever begin
another. If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to deal with
different people and different themes; for here at the end, where the
romance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of my
life-work, I say sadly and without hope,
“FINIS.”
_“The Westminster Gazette,” 25 September._
A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.
The neighbourhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a
series of events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of what
was known to the writers of headlines as “The Kensington Horror,” or
“The Stabbing Woman,” or “The Woman in Black.” During the past two or
three days several cases have occurred of young children straying from
home or neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath. In all
these cases the children were too young to give any properly
intelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of their excuses
is that they had been with a “bloofer lady.” It has always been late in
the evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions the
children have not been found until early in the following morning. It is
generally supposed in the neighbourhood that, as the first child missed
gave as his reason for being away that a “bloofer lady” had asked him to
come for a walk, the others had picked up the phrase and used it as
occasion served. This is the more natural as the favourite game of the
little ones at present is luring each other away by wiles. A
correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending to
be the “bloofer lady” is supremely funny. Some of our caricaturists
might, he says, take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing the
reality and the picture. It is only in accordance with general
principles of human nature that the “bloofer lady” should be the popular
rôle at these _al fresco_ performances. Our correspondent naïvely says
that even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly attractive as some of
these grubby-faced little children pretend--and even imagine
themselves--to be.
There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some of
the children, indeed all who have been missed at night, have been
slightly torn or wounded in the throat. The wounds seem such as might be
made by a rat or a small dog, and although of not much importance
individually, would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has
a system or method of its own. The police of the division have been
instructed to keep a sharp look-out for straying children, especially
when very young, in and around Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog
which may be about.
_“The Westminster Gazette,” 25 September._
_Extra Special._
THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR.
ANOTHER CHILD INJURED.
_The “Bloofer Lady.”_
We have just received intelligence that another child, missed last
night, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at the
Shooter’s Hill side of Hampstead Heath, which is, perhaps, less
frequented than the other parts. It has the same tiny wound in the
throat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and
looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the common
story to tell of being lured away by the “bloofer lady.”
CHAPTER XIV
MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL
_23 September_.--Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad that
he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible
things; and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the
responsibility of his new position. I knew he would be true to himself,
and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the height of his
advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties that come upon
him. He will be away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch
at home. My household work is done, so I shall take his foreign journal,
and lock myself up in my room and read it....
_24 September_.--I hadn’t the heart to write last night; that terrible
record of Jonathan’s upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered,
whether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if there is any truth
in it at all. Did he get his brain fever, and then write all those
terrible things, or had he some cause for it all? I suppose I shall
never know, for I dare not open the subject to him.... And yet that man
we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him.... Poor fellow! I
suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back on some
train of thought.... He believes it all himself. I remember how on our
wedding-day he said: “Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to
the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane.” There seems to be
through it all some thread of continuity.... That fearful Count was
coming to London.... If it should be, and he came to London, with his
teeming millions.... There may be a solemn duty; and if it come we must
not shrink from it.... I shall be prepared. I shall get my typewriter
this very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be ready for other
eyes if required. And if it be wanted; then, perhaps, if I am ready,
poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and never let
him be troubled or worried with it at all. If ever Jonathan quite gets
over the nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and I can ask him
questions and find out things, and see how I may comfort him.
_Letter, Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker._
“_24 September._
(_Confidence_)
“Dear Madam,--
“I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as that I
sent to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra’s death. By the kindness of
Lord Godalming, I am empowered to read her letters and papers, for I am
deeply concerned about certain matters vitally important. In them I find
some letters from you, which show how great friends you were and how you
love her. Oh, Madam Mina, by that love, I implore you, help me. It is
for others’ good that I ask--to redress great wrong, and to lift much
and terrible troubles--that may be more great than you can know. May it
be that I see you? You can trust me. I am friend of Dr. John Seward and
of Lord Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must keep it private
for the present from all. I should come to Exeter to see you at once if
you tell me I am privilege to come, and where and when. I implore your
pardon, madam. I have read your letters to poor Lucy, and know how good
you are and how your husband suffer; so I pray you, if it may be,
enlighten him not, lest it may harm. Again your pardon, and forgive me.
“VAN HELSING.”
_Telegram, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing._