The Cursed Castle

Chapter 13

the high wall which separates our grounds from those of

the deserted house.

I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four

men immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax,

in case our friend might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall, dropped down on the other side.

I could see Renfield’s figure just disappearing behind the

angle of the house, so I ran after him. On the far side of the

house I found him pressed close against the old iron-bound

oak door of the chapel.

He was talking, apparently to some one, but I was afraid

to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest I might

frighten him, and he should run off.

Chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothing to following

a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him! After

a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not take note

of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to

him, the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and

were closing him in. I heard him say …

‘I am here to do your bidding, Master. I am your slave,

and you will reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped you long and afar off. Now that you are near, I await

your commands, and you will not pass me by, will you, dear

Master, in your distribution of good things?’

He is a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves

and fishes even when he believes his is in a real Presence.

His manias make a startling combination. When we closed

in on him he fought like a tiger. He is immensely strong, for

he was more like a wild beast than a man never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before,

and I hope I shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found

out his strength and his danger in good time. With strength

and determination like his, he might have done wild work

before he was caged.

He is safe now, at any rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn’t

get free from the strait waistcoat that keeps him restrained,

and he’s chained to the wall in the padded room.

His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow

are more deadly still, for he means murder in every turn

and movement.

Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time. ‘I

shall be patient, Master. It is coming, coming, coming!’

So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to

sleep, but this diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get

some sleep tonight.‘My dearest Lucy,

‘I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened

since we parted at the railway station at Whitby.

‘Well, my dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught the boat

to Hamburg, and then the train on here. I feel that I can

hardly recall anything of the journey, except that I knew

I was coming to Jonathan, and that as I should have to do

some nursing, I had better get all the sleep I could. I found

my dear one, oh, so thin and pale and weak-looking. All

the resolution has gone out of his dear eyes, and that quiet

dignity which I told you was in his face has vanished. He

is only a wreck of himself, and he does not remember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At least,

he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask.

‘He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might tax

his poor brain if he were to try to recall it. Sister Agatha,

who is a good creature and a born nurse, tells me that he

wanted her to tell me what they were, but she would only

cross herself, and say she would never tell. That the ravings of the sick were the secrets of God, and that if a nurse

through her vocation should hear them, she should respect

her trust.‘My dearest Lucy,

‘I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened

since we parted at the railway station at Whitby.

‘Well, my dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught the boat

to Hamburg, and then the train on here. I feel that I can

hardly recall anything of the journey, except that I knew

I was coming to Jonathan, and that as I should have to do

some nursing, I had better get all the sleep I could. I found

my dear one, oh, so thin and pale and weak-looking. All

the resolution has gone out of his dear eyes, and that quiet

dignity which I told you was in his face has vanished. He

is only a wreck of himself, and he does not remember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At least,

he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask.

‘He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might tax

his poor brain if he were to try to recall it. Sister Agatha,

who is a good creature and a born nurse, tells me that he

wanted her to tell me what they were, but she would only

cross herself, and say she would never tell. That the ravings of the sick were the secrets of God, and that if a nurse

through her vocation should hear them, she should respect

her trust.what it is I feel my head spin round, and I do not know if

it was real of the dreaming of a madman. You know I had

brain fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I

do not want to know it. I want to take up my life here, with

our marriage.’ For, my dear, we had decided to be married

as soon as the formalities are complete. ‘Are you willing,

Wilhelmina, to share my ignorance? Here is the book. Take

it and keep it, read it if you will, but never let me know unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me to

go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad,

recorded here.’ He fell back exhausted, and I put the book

under his pillow, and kissed him. I have asked Sister Agatha

to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this afternoon,

and am waiting her reply …’

‘She has come and told me that the Chaplain of the English mission church has been sent for. We are to be married

in an hour, or as soon after as Jonathan awakes.’

‘Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but

very, very happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and

all was ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows.

He answered his ‘I will’ firmly and strong. I could hardly

speak. My heart was so full that even those words seemed

to choke me.

‘The dear sisters were so kind. Please, God, I shall never,

never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities I

have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present.

When the chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with

my husband—oh, Lucy, it is the first time I have written the

words ‘my husband’—left me alone with my husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped it up in white

paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue ribbon which

was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with sealing

wax, and for my seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed

it and showed it to my husband, and told him that I would

keep it so, and then it would be an outward and visible sign

for us all our lives that we trusted each other, that I would

never open it unless it were for his own dear sake or for the

sake of some stern duty. Then he took my hand in his, and

oh, Lucy, it was the first time he took his wife’s hand, and

said that it was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and

that he would go through all the past again to win it, if need

be. The poor dear meant to have said a part of the past, but

he cannot think of time yet, and I shall not wonder if at first

he mixes up not only the month, but the year.

‘Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him

that I was the happiest woman in all the wide world, and

that I had nothing to give him except myself, my life, and

my trust, and that with these went my love and duty for all

the days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me, and

drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a solemn pledge between us.

‘Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not

only because it is all sweet to me, but because you have been,

and are, very dear to me. It was my privilege to be your

friend and guide when you came from the schoolroom to

prepare for the world of life. I want you to see now, and with

the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty has led me, so

that in your own married life you too may be all happy, as am. My dear, please Almighty God, your life may be all it

promises, a long day of sunshine, with no harsh wind, no

forgetting duty, no distrust. I must not wish you no pain,

for that can never be, but I do hope you will be always as

happy as I am now. Goodbye, my dear. I shall post this at

once, and perhaps, write you very soon again. I must stop,

for Jonathan is waking. I must attend my husband!

‘Your ever-loving ‘Mina Harker.’

LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA HARKER.

Whitby, 30 August.

‘My dearest Mina,

‘Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon

be in your own home with your husband. I wish you were

coming home soon enough to stay with us here. The strong

air would soon restore Jonathan. It has quite restored me. I

have an appetite like a cormorant, am full of life, and sleep

well. You will be glad to know that I have quite given up

walking in my sleep. I think I have not stirred out of my

bed for a week, that is when I once got into it at night. Arthur says I am getting fat. By the way, I forgot to tell you

that Arthur is here. We have such walks and drives, and

rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing together, and I

love him more than ever. He tells me that he loves me more,

but I doubt that, for at first he told me that he couldn’t love

me more than he did then. But this is nonsense. There he is,

calling to me. So no more just at present from your loving,

‘Lucy.

‘P.S.—Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor

dear.August.—The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has now so far quieted that there are spells of

cessation from his passion. For the first week after his attack

he was perpetually violent. Then one night, just as the moon

rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to himself. ‘Now I

can wait. Now I can wait.’

The attendant came to tell me, so I ran down at once to

have a look at him. He was still in the strait waistcoat and

in the padded room, but the suffused look had gone from

his face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading. I might almost say, cringing, softness. I was satisfied

with his present condition, and directed him to be relieved.

The attendants hesitated, but finally carried out my wishes

without protest.

It was a strange thing that the patient had humour

enough to see their distrust, for, coming close to me, he said

in a whisper, all the while looking furtively at them, ‘They

think I could hurt you! Fancy me hurting you! The fools!’

It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself

disassociated even in the mind of this poor madman from

the others, but all the same I do not follow his thought. Am

I to take it that I have anything in common with him, so

that we are, as it were, to stand together. Or has he to gain

from me some good so stupendous that my well being is

needful to Him? I must find out later on. Tonight he will

not speak. Even the offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat

will not tempt him