Dr.
Seward's Diary22 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 to Amsterdam
tonight, but says he returns tomorrow 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 humor 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, "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 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 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 you, friend John, for we are more level
in experiences than father and son, yet even at such a 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 labor, 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 expression 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 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". |
