The poor dear was evidently terrified at something,
very greatly terrified. I do believe that if
he had not had me to lean on and to support him he
would have sunk down. He kept staring.
A man came out of the shop with a small parcel, and
gave it to the lady, who then drove off. The
dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the
carriage moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same
direction, and hailed a hansom. Jonathan kept
looking after him, and said, as if to himself,
“I believe it is the Count, but he has grown
young. My God, if this be so! Oh, my God!
My God! If only I knew! If only I 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 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 quickly 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 the 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 homecoming 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 today.”
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 a sweetness out of his life!
God help us all to bear our troubles.
DR. SEWARD’S DIARY-CONT.
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
