Atlas Nightshade

Day 43

"I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to begin

to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that you were

with her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary--you need not look

surprised, Madam Mina; it was begun after you had left, and was in

imitation of you--and in that diary she traces by inference certain

things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her. In

great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your so much

kindness to tell me all of it that you can remember."

"I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it."

"Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? It is not always

so with young ladies."

"No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it to you

if you like."

"Oh, Madam Mina, I will be grateful; you will do me much favour." I

could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit--I suppose it is

some of the taste of the original apple that remains still in our

mouths--so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with a grateful

bow, and said:--

"May I read it?"

"If you wish," I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and for

an instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.

"Oh, you so clever woman!" he said. "I knew long that Mr. Jonathan was a

man of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good things.

And will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for me?

Alas! I know not the shorthand." By this time my little joke was over,

and I was almost ashamed; so I took the typewritten copy from my

workbasket and handed it to him.

"Forgive me," I said: "I could not help it; but I had been thinking that

it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not

have time to wait--not on my account, but because I know your time must

be precious--I have written it out on the typewriter for you."

He took it and his eyes glistened. "You are so good," he said. "And may

I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have read."

"By all means," I said, "read it over whilst I order lunch; and then you

can ask me questions whilst we eat." He bowed and settled himself in a

chair with his back to the light, and became absorbed in the papers,

whilst I went to see after lunch chiefly in order that he might not be

disturbed. When I came back, I found him walking hurriedly up and down

the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and

took me by both hands.

"Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "how can I say what I owe to you? This paper

is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am daze, I am dazzle, with so

much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that

you do not, cannot, comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so

clever woman. Madam"--he said this very solemnly--"if ever Abraham Van

Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know.

It will be pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend; as a

friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you

and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights;

you are one of the lights. You will have happy life and good life, and

your husband will be blessed in you."

"But, doctor, you praise me too much, and--and you do not know me."

"Not know you--I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and

women; I, who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to

him and all that follow from him! And I have read your diary that you

have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in every

line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your

marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good women tell

all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that

angels can read; and we men who wish to know have in us something of

angels' eyes. Your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for

you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your

husband--tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone, and

is he strong and hearty?" I saw here an opening to ask him about

Jonathan, so I said:--

"He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins's

death." He interrupted:--

"Oh, yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters." I went

on:--

"I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday last he

had a sort of shock."

"A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That was not good. What kind of

a shock was it?"

"He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something

which led to his brain fever." And here the whole thing seemed to

overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he

experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that

has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose I

was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to

him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He took my hands

and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my

hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:--

"My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not

had much time for friendships; but since I have been summoned to here by

my friend John Seward I have known so many good people and seen such

nobility that I feel more than ever--and it has grown with my advancing

years--the loneliness of my life. Believe, me, then, that I come here

full of respect for you, and you have given me hope--hope, not in what I

am seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life

happy--good women, whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for

the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some

use to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my

study and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do _all_ for him

that I can--all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy

one. Now you must eat. You are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious.

Husband Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like not

where he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you must eat

and smile. You have told me all about Lucy, and so now we shall not

speak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in Exeter to-night, for I

want to think much over what you have told me, and when I have thought I

will ask you questions, if I may. And then, too, you will tell me of

husband Jonathan's trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat

now; afterwards you shall tell me all."

After lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he said to me:--

"And now tell me all about him." When it came to speaking to this great

learned man, I began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and

Jonathan a madman--that journal is all so strange--and I hesitated to go

on. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I

trusted him, so I said:--

"Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must not

laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a sort of

fever of doubt; you must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that I

have even half believed some very strange things." He reassured me by

his manner as well as his words when he said:--

"Oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding which

I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think little

of any one's belief, no matter how strange it be. I have tried to keep

an open mind; and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close

it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that

make one doubt if they be mad or sane."