It is strange to me to be kept in the
dark as I am today, after Jonathan's full confidence for so many years, to see
him manifestly avoid certain matters, and those the most vital of all. This morning
I slept late after the fatigues of yesterday, and though Jonathan was late too,
he was the earlier. He spoke to me before he went out, never more sweetly or tenderly,
but he never mentioned a word of what had happened in the visit to the Count's
house. And yet he must have known how terribly anxious I was. Poor dear fellow!
I suppose it must have distressed him even more than it did me. They all agreed
that it was best that I should not be drawn further into this awful work, and
I acquiesced. But to think that he keeps anything from me! And now I am crying
like a silly fool, when I know it comes from my husband's great love and from
the good, good wishes of those other strong men.
That has done me good.
Well, some day Jonathan will tell me all. And lest it should ever be that he should
think for a moment that I kept anything from him, I still keep my journal as usual.
Then if he has feared of my trust I shall show it to him, with every thought of
my heart put down for his dear eyes to read. I feel strangely sad and low-spirited
today. I suppose it is the reaction from the terrible excitement.
I went to bed when the men had gone, simply because they told me to. I didn't
feel sleepy, and I did feel full of devouring anxiety. I kept thinking over everything
that has been ever since Jonathan came to see me in London, and it all seems like
a horrible tragedy, with fate pressing on relentlessly to some destined end. Everything
that one does seems, no matter how right it may be, to bring on the very thing
which is most to be deplored. If I hadn't gone to Whitby, perhaps poor dear Lucy
would be with us now. She hadn't taken to visiting the churchyard till I came,
and if she hadn't come there in the day time with me she wouldn't have walked
in her sleep. And if she hadn't gone there at night and asleep, that monster couldn't
have destroyed her as he did. Oh, why did I ever go to Whitby? There now, crying
again! I wonder what has come over me today. I must hide it from Jonathan, for
if he knew that I had been crying twice in one morning . . . I, who never cried
on my own account, and whom he has never caused to shed a tear, the dear fellow
would fret his heart out. I shall put a bold face on, and if I do feel weepy,
he shall never see it. I suppose it is just one of the lessons that we poor women
have to learn . . .
I can't quite remember how I fell asleep last night.
I remember hearing the sudden barking of the dogs and a lot of queer sounds, like
praying on a very tumultuous scale, from Mr. Renfield's room, which is somewhere
under this. And then there was silence over everything, silence so profound that
it startled me, and I got up and looked out of the window. All was dark and silent,
the black shadows thrown by the moonlight seeming full of a silent mystery of
their own. Not a thing seemed to be stirring, but all to be grim and fixed as
death or fate, so that a thin streak of white mist, that crept with almost imperceptible
slowness across the grass towards the house, seemed to have a sentience and a
vitality of its own. I think that the digression of my thoughts must have done
me good, for when I got back to bed I found a lethargy creeping over me. I lay
a while, but could not quite sleep, so I got out and looked out of the window
again. The mist was spreading, and was now close up to the house, so that I could
see it lying thick against the wall, as though it were stealing up to the windows.
The poor man was more loud than ever, and though I could not distinguish a word
he said, I could in some way recognize in his tones some passionate entreaty on
his part. Then there was the sound of a struggle, and I knew that the attendants
were dealing with him. I was so frightened that I crept into bed, and pulled the
clothes over my head, putting my fingers in my ears. I was not then a bit sleepy,
at least so I thought, but I must have fallen asleep, for except dreams, I do
not remember anything until the morning, when Jonathan woke me. I think that it
took me an effort and a little time to realize where I was, and that it was Jonathan
who was bending over me. My dream was very peculiar, and was almost typical of
the way that waking thoughts become merged in, or continued in, dreams.
thought that I was asleep, and waiting for Jonathan to come back. I was very anxious
about him, and I was powerless to act, my feet, and my hands, and my brain were
weighted, so that nothing could proceed at the usual pace. And so I slept uneasily
and thought. Then it began to dawn upon me that the air was heavy, and dank, and
cold. I put back the clothes from my face, and found, to my surprise, that all
was dim around. The gaslight which I had left lit for Jonathan, but turned down,
came only like a tiny red spark through the fog, which had evidently grown thicker
and poured into the room. Then it occurred to me that I had shut the window before
I had come to bed. I would have got out to make certain on the point, but some
leaden lethargy seemed to chain my limbs and even my will. I lay still and endured,
that was all. I closed my eyes, but could still see through my eyelids. (It is
wonderful what tricks our dreams play us, and how conveniently we can imagine.)
The mist grew thicker and thicker and I could see now how it came in, for I could
see it like smoke, or with the white energy of boiling water, pouring in, not
through the window, but through the joinings of the door. It got thicker and thicker,
till it seemed as if it became concentrated into a sort of pillar of cloud in
the room, through the top of which I could see the light of the gas shining like
a red eye. Things began to whirl through my brain just as the cloudy column was
now whirling in the room, and through it all came the scriptural words "a
pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night." Was it indeed such spiritual
guidance that was coming to me in my sleep? But the pillar was composed of both
the day and the night guiding, for the fire was in the red eye, which at the thought
got a new fascination for me, till, as I looked, the fire divided, and seemed
to shine on me through the fog like two red eyes, such as Lucy told me of in her
momentary mental wandering when, on the cliff, the dying sunlight struck the windows
of St. Mary's Church. Suddenly the horror burst upon me that it was thus that
Jonathan had seen those awful women growing into reality through the whirling
mist in the moonlight, and in my dream I must have fainted, for all became black
darkness. The last conscious effort which imagination made was to show me a livid
white face bending over me out of the mist.
I must be careful of such dreams,
for they would unseat one's reason if there were too much of them. I would get
Dr. Van Helsing or Dr. Seward to prescribe something for me which would make me
sleep, only that I fear to alarm them. Such a dream at the present time would
become woven into their fears for me. Tonight I shall strive hard to sleep naturally.
If I do not, I shall tomorrow night get them to give me a dose of chloral, that
cannot hurt me for once, and it will give me a good night's sleep. Last night
tired me more than if I had not slept at all.