“I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young.
My God, if this be so!
Oh, my God! my God!
If I only knew! if I only knew!”
He was distressing himself so much that I feared to keep his mind on the subject by asking him any questions, so I remained silent.
I drew him away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily.
We walked a little further, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park.
It was a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady place.
After a few minutes’ staring at nothing, Jonathan’s eyes closed, and he went quietly into a sleep, with his head on my shoulder.
I thought it was the best thing for him, so did not disturb him.
In about twenty minutes he woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully:—
“Why, Mina, have I been asleep!
Oh, do forgive me for being so rude.
Come, and we’ll have a cup of tea somewhere.”
He had evidently forgotten all about the dark stranger, as in his illness he had forgotten all that this episode had reminded him of.
I don’t like this lapsing into forgetfulness; it may make or continue some injury to the brain.
I must not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good; but I must somehow learn the facts of his journey abroad.
The time is come, I fear, when I must open that parcel, and know what is written.
Oh, Jonathan, you will, I know, forgive me if I do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake.
Later.—A sad home-coming in every way—the house empty of the dear soul who was so good to us; Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a slight relapse of his malady; and now a telegram from Van Helsing, whoever he may be:—
“You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five days ago, and that Lucy died the day before yesterday.
They were both buried to-day.”
Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words!
Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor Lucy!
Gone, gone, never to return to us!
And poor, poor Arthur, to have lost such sweetness out of his life!
God help us all to bear our troubles.
Dr. Seward’s Diary.
22 September.—It is all over.
Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has taken Quincey Morris with him.
What a fine fellow is Quincey!
I believe in my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy’s death as any of us; but he bore himself through it like a moral Viking.
If America can go on breeding men like that, she will be a power in the world indeed.
Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory to his journey.
He goes over to Amsterdam to-night, but says he returns to-morrow night; that he only wants to make some arrangements which can only be made personally.
He is to stop with me then, if he can; he says he has work to do in London which may take him some time.
Poor old fellow!
I fear that the strain of the past week has broken down even his iron strength.
All the time of the burial he was, I could see, putting some terrible restraint on himself.
When it was all over, we were standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was speaking of his part in the operation where his blood had been transfused to his Lucy’s veins; I could see Van Helsing’s face grow white and purple by turns.
Arthur was saying that he felt since then as if they two had been really married and that she was his wife in the sight of God.
None of us said a word of the other operations, and none of us ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went away together to the station, and Van Helsing and I came on here.
The moment we were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of hysterics.
He has denied to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted that it was only his sense of humour asserting itself under very terrible conditions.
He laughed till he cried, and I had to draw down the blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge; and then he cried, till he laughed again; and laughed and cried together, just as a woman does.
I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the circumstances; but it had no effect.
Men and women are so different in manifestations of nervous strength or weakness!
Then when his face grew grave and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such a time.
His reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was logical and forceful and mysterious.
He said:—