The Cursed Castle

Chapter 12

Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business

courtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.

‘We are, dear Sirs, ‘Faithfully yours, ‘SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON.’

LETTER, MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON, TO MESSRS. BILLINGTON & SON, WHITBY.

21 August.

‘Dear Sirs,—‘We beg to acknowledge 10 pounds received

and to return cheque of 1 pound, 17s, 9d, amount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. Goods are

delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys

left in parcel in main hall, as directed.

‘We are, dear Sirs, ‘Yours respectfully, ‘Pro CARTER,

PATERSON & CO.’

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL.

18 August.—I am happy today, and write sitting on the

seat in the churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last

night she slept well all night, and did not disturb me once.

The roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though

she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she were in any

way anemic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in

gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid

reticence seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I needed any reminding, of that night, and

that it was here, on this very seat, I found her asleep.

As she told me she tapped playfully with the heel of her

boot on the stone slab and said,

‘My poor little feet didn’t make much noise then! I dare-say poor old Mr. Swales would have told me that it was

because I didn’t want to wake up Geordie.’

As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her

if she had dreamed at all that night.

Before she answered, that sweet, puckered look came

into her forehead, which Arthur, I call him Arthur from her

habit, says he loves, and indeed, I don’t wonder that he does.

Then she went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to herself.

‘I didn’t quite dream, but it all seemed to be real. I only

wanted to be here in this spot. I don’t know why, for I was

afraid of something, I don’t know what. I remember, though

I suppose I was asleep, passing through the streets and over

the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, and I leaned over to

look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling. The whole town

seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once, as

I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the

sunset, and something very sweet and very bitter all around

me at once. And then I seemed sinking into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have heard there

is to drowning men, and then everything seemed passing

away from me. My soul seemed to go out from my body

and float about the air. I seem to remember that once the

West Lighthouse was right under me, and then there was a

sort of agonizing feeling, as if I were in an earthquake, and

I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do

it before I felt you.’

Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and

thought it better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we

drifted on to another subject, and Lucy was like her old self

again. When we got home the fresh breeze had braced her

up, and her pale cheeks were really more rosy. Her mother

rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very happy

evening together.

19 August.—Joy, joy, joy! Although not all joy. At last,

news of Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill, that is why

he did not write. I am not afraid to think it or to say it, now

that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent me on the letter, and wrote

himself, oh so kindly. I am to leave in the morning and go

over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if necessary, and

to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad

thing if we were to be married out there. I have cried over

the good Sister’s letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom,

where it lies. It is of Jonathan, and must be near my heart,

for he is in my heart. My journey is all mapped out, and my

luggage ready. I am only taking one change of dress. Lucy

will bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for it,

for it may be that … I must write no more. I must keep it

to say to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen

and touched must comfort me till we meet.self not strong enough to write, though progressing well,

thanks to God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary. He has been

under our care for nearly six weeks, suffering from a violent

brain fever. He wishes me to convey his love, and to say that

by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins, Exeter, to

say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his delay,

and that all of his work is completed. He will require some

few weeks’ rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then

return. He wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money

with him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here,

so that others who need shall not be wanting for help.

Believe me,

Yours, with sympathy and all blessings. Sister Agatha.’

‘P.S.—My patient being asleep, I open this to let you

know something more. He has told me all about you, and

that you are shortly to be his wife. All blessings to you both!

He has had some fearful shock, so says our doctor, and in

his delirium his ravings have been dreadful, of wolves and

poison and blood, of ghosts and demons, and I fear to say

of what. Be careful of him always that there may be nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to come. The

traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away. We

should have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his

friends, and there was nothing on him, nothing that anyone

could understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg,

and the guard was told by the station master there that he

rushed into the station shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that he was English, they

gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thithethat the train reached.

‘Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts

by his sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well,

and I have no doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But

be careful of him for safety’s sake. There are, I pray God

and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many, many, happy years for

you both.’

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

19 August.—Strange and sudden change in Renfield last

night. About eight o’clock he began to get excited and sniff

about as a dog does when setting. The attendant was struck

by his manner, and knowing my interest in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to the attendant

and at times servile, but tonight, the man tells me, he was

quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at

all.

All he would say was, ‘I don’t want to talk to you. You

don’t count now. The master is at hand.’

The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has seized him. If so, we must look out

for squalls, for a strong man with homicidal and religious

mania at once might be dangerous. The combination is a

dreadful one.

At nine o’clock I visited him myself. His attitude to me

was the same as that to the attendant. In his sublime selffeeling the difference between myself and the attendant

seemed to him as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and

he will soon think that he himself is God.

These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves away! The real God taketh heed lest a

sparrow fall. But the God created from human vanity sees

no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh, if men

only knew!

For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in

greater and greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict observation all the same. All at

once that shifty look came into his eyes which we always see

when a madman has seized an idea, and with it the shifty

movement of the head and back which asylum attendants

come to know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and

sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space

with lack-luster eyes.

I thought I would find out if his apathy were real or only

assumed, and tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme

which had never failed to excite his attention.

At first he made no reply, but at length said testily, ‘Bother them all! I don’t care a pin about them.’

‘What’ I said. ‘You don’t mean to tell me you don’t care

about spiders?’ (Spiders at present are his hobby and the

notebook is filling up with columns of small figures.)

To this he answered enigmatically, ‘The Bride maidens

rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride. But when

the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the

eyes that are filled.’

He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately

seated on his bed all the time I remained with him.

I am weary tonight and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and how different things might have been. If I don’t

sleep at once, chloral, the modern Morpheus! I must be

careful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none

tonight! I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not dishonour

her by mixing the two. If need be, tonight shall be sleepless.

Later.—Glad I made the resolution, gladder that I kept to

it. I had lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike

only twice, when the night watchman came to me, sent up

from the ward, to say that Renfield had escaped. I threw on

my clothes and ran down at once. My patient is too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his might

work out dangerously with strangers.

The attendant was waiting for me. He said he had seen

him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his bed,

when he had looked through the observation trap in the

door. His attention was called by the sound of the window

being wrenched out. He ran back and saw his feet disappear

through the window, and had at once sent up for me. He

was only in his night gear, and cannot be far off.

The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch

where he should go than to follow him, as he might lose

sight of him whilst getting out of the building by the door.

He is a bulky man, and couldn’t get through the window.

I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost,

and as we were only a few feet above ground landed unhurt.

The attendant told me the patient had gone to the left,

and had taken a straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could.

As I got through the belt of trees I saw a white figure scale