Atlas Nightshade

Day 60

_1 October._--It is strange to me to be kept in the dark as I am to-day;

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 to-day. I suppose it is the reaction from the terrible

excitement.

Last night 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 there 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 to-day. 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 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 recognise 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 realise 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.

I 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 some 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. To-night I shall strive hard to sleep naturally. If I do

not, I shall to-morrow 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.

* * * * *

_2 October 10 p. m._--Last night I slept, but did not dream. I must have

slept soundly, for I was not waked by Jonathan coming to bed; but the

sleep has not refreshed me, for to-day I feel terribly weak and

spiritless. I spent all yesterday trying to read, or lying down dozing.

In the afternoon Mr. Renfield asked if he might see me. Poor man, he was

very gentle, and when I came away he kissed my hand and bade God bless

me. Some way it affected me much; I am crying when I think of him. This

is a new weakness, of which I must be careful. Jonathan would be

miserable if he knew I had been crying. He and the others were out till

dinner-time, and they all came in tired. I did what I could to brighten

them up, and I suppose that the effort did me good, for I forgot how

tired I was. After dinner they sent me to bed, and all went off to smoke

together, as they said, but I knew that they wanted to tell each other

of what had occurred to each during the day; I could see from Jonathan's

manner that he had something important to communicate. I was not so

sleepy as I should have been; so before they went I asked Dr. Seward to

give me a little opiate of some kind, as I had not slept well the night

before. He very kindly made me up a sleeping draught, which he gave to

me, telling me that it would do me no harm, as it was very mild.... I

have taken it, and am waiting for sleep, which still keeps aloof. I hope

I have not done wrong, for as sleep begins to flirt with me, a new fear

comes: that I may have been foolish in thus depriving myself of the

power of waking. I might want it. Here comes sleep. Good-night.

CHAPTER XX

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

_1 October, evening._--I found Thomas Snelling in his house at Bethnal

Green, but unhappily he was not in a condition to remember anything. The

very prospect of beer which my expected coming had opened to him had

proved too much, and he had begun too early on his expected debauch. I

learned, however, from his wife, who seemed a decent, poor soul, that he

was only the assistant to Smollet, who of the two mates was the

responsible person. So off I drove to Walworth, and found Mr. Joseph

Smollet at home and in his shirtsleeves, taking a late tea out of a

saucer. He is a decent, intelligent fellow, distinctly a good, reliable

type of workman, and with a headpiece of his own. He remembered all

about the incident of the boxes, and from a wonderful dog's-eared

notebook, which he produced from some mysterious receptacle about the

seat of his trousers, and which had hieroglyphical entries in thick,

half-obliterated pencil, he gave me the destinations of the boxes. There

were, he said, six in the cartload which he took from Carfax and left at

197, Chicksand Street, Mile End New Town, and another six which he

deposited at Jamaica Lane, Bermondsey. If then the Count meant to

scatter these ghastly refuges of his over London, these places were

chosen as the first of delivery, so that later he might distribute more

fully. The systematic manner in which this was done made me think that

he could not mean to confine himself to two sides of London. He was now

fixed on the far east of the northern shore, on the east of the southern

shore, and on the south. The north and west were surely never meant to

be left out of his diabolical scheme--let alone the City itself and the

very heart of fashionable London in the south-west and west. I went back

to Smollet, and asked him if he could tell us if any other boxes had

been taken from Carfax.

He replied:--

"Well, guv'nor, you've treated me wery 'an'some"--I had given him half a

sovereign--"an' I'll tell yer all I know. I heard a man by the name of

Bloxam say four nights ago in the 'Are an' 'Ounds, in Pincher's Alley,

as 'ow he an' his mate 'ad 'ad a rare dusty job in a old 'ouse at

Purfect. There ain't a-many such jobs as this 'ere, an' I'm thinkin'

that maybe Sam Bloxam could tell ye summut." I asked if he could tell me

where to find him. I told him that if he could get me the address it

would be worth another half-sovereign to him. So he gulped down the rest

of his tea and stood up, saying that he was going to begin the search

then and there. At the door he stopped, and said:--