LETTER FROM MISS MINA MURRAY
TO MISS LUCY WESTENRA
9 May.
My dearest Lucy,
Forgive my long delay in writing,
but I have been simply overwhelmed
with work. The life of an assistant
schoolmistress is sometimes trying.
I am longing to be with you,
and by the sea, where we can
talk together freely and build
our castles in the air. I have
been working very hard lately,
because I want to keep up with
Jonathan's studies, and I have
been practicing shorthand very
assiduously. When we are married
I shall be able to be useful
to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph
well enough I can take down what
he wants to say in this way and
write it out for him on the typewriter,
at which also I am practicing
very hard.
He and I sometimes write letters
in shorthand, and he is keeping
a stenographic journal of his
travels abroad. When I am with
you I shall keep a diary in the
same way. I don't mean one of
those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner
diaries, but a sort of journal
which I can write in whenever
I feel inclined.
I do not suppose there will
be much of interest to other
people, but it is not intended
for them. I may show it to Jonathan
some day if there is in it anything
worth sharing, but it is really
an exercise book. I shall try
to do what I see lady journalists
do, interviewing and writing
descriptions and trying to remember
conversations. I am told that,
with a little practice, one can
remember all that goes on or
that one hears said during a
day.
However, we shall see. I will
tell you of my little plans when
we meet. I have just had a few
hurried lines from Jonathan from
Transylvania. He is well, and
will be returning in about a
week. I am longing to hear all
his news. It must be nice to
see strange countries. I wonder
if we, I mean Jonathan and I,
shall ever see them together.
There is the ten o'clock bell
ringing. Goodbye. Your loving
Mina
Tell me all the news when you
write. You have not told me anything
for a long time. I hear rumours,
and especially of a tall, handsome,
curly-haired man.???
LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA
MURRAY
17, Chatham Street
Wednesday
My dearest Mina,
I must say you tax me very
unfairly with being a bad correspondent.
I wrote you twice since we parted,
and your last letter was only
your second. Besides, I have
nothing to tell you. There is
really nothing to interest you.
Town is very pleasant just
now, and we go a great deal to
picture-galleries and for walks
and rides in the park. As to
the tall, curly-haired man, I
suppose it was the one who was
with me at the last Pop. Someone
has evidently been telling tales.
That was Mr. Holmwood. He often
comes to see us, and he and Mamma
get on very well together, they
have so many things to talk about
in common.
We met some time ago a man
that would just do for you, if
you were not already engaged
to Jonathan. He is an excellant
parti, being handsome, well off,
and of good birth. He is a doctor
and really clever. Just fancy!
He is only nine-and twenty, and
he has an immense lunatic asylum
all under his own care. Mr. Holmwood
introduced him to me, and he
called here to see us, and often
comes now. I think he is one
of the most resolute men I ever
saw, and yet the most calm. He
seems absolutely imperturbable.
I can fancy what a wonderful
power he must have over his patients.
He has a curious habit of looking
one straight in the face, as
if trying to read one's thoughts.
He tries this on very much with
me, but I flatter myself he has
got a tough nut to crack. I know
that from my glass.
Do you ever try to read your
own face? I do, and I can tell
you it is not a bad study, and
gives you more trouble than you
can well fancy if you have never
tried it.
He say that I afford him a
curious psychological study,
and I humbly think I do. I do
not, as you know, take sufficient
interest in dress to be able
to describe the new fashions.
Dress is a bore. That is slang
again, but never mind. Arthur
says that every day.
There, it is all out, Mina,
we have told all our secrets
to each other since we were children.
We have slept together and eaten
together, and laughed and cried
together, and now, though I have
spoken, I would like to speak
more. Oh, Mina, couldn't you
guess? I love him. I am blushing
as I write, for although I think
he loves me, he has not told
me so in words. But, oh, Mina,
I love him. I love him! There,
that does me good.
I wish I were with you, dear,
sitting by the fire undressing,
as we used to sit, and I would
try to tell you what I feel.
I do not know how I am writing
this even to you. I am afraid
to stop, or I should tear up
the letter, and I don't want
to stop, for I do so want to
tell you all. Let me hear from
you at once, and tell me all
that you think about it. Mina,
pray for my happiness.
Lucy
P. S.--I need not tell you
this is a secret. Goodnight again.
L.
LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA
MURRAY
24 May
My dearest Mina,
Thanks, and thanks, and thanks
again for your sweet letter.
It was so nice to be able to
tell you and to have your sympathy.
My dear, it never rains but it
pours. How true the old proverbs
are. Here am I, who shall be
twenty in September, and yet
I never had a proposal till today,
not a real proposal, and today
I had three. Just fancy! Three
proposals in one day! Isn't it
awful! I feel sorry, really and
truly sorry, for two of the poor
fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so happy
that I don't know what to do
with myself. And three proposals!
But, for goodness' sake, don't
tell any of the girls, or they
would be getting all sorts of
extravagant ideas, and imagining
themselves injured and slighted
if in their very first day at
home they did not get six at
least. Some girls are so vain!
You and I, Mina dear, who are
engaged and are going to settle
down soon soberly into old married
women, can despise vanity. Well,
I must tell you about the three,
but you must keep it a secret,
dear, from every one except,
of course, Jonathan. You will
tell him, because I would, if
I were in your place, certainly
tell Arthur. A woman ought to
tell her husband everything.
Don't you think so, dear? And
I must be fair. Men like women,
certainly their wives, to be
quite as fair as they are. And
women, I am afraid, are not always
quite as fair as they should
be.
Well, my dear, number One came
just before lunch. I told you
of him, Dr. John Seward, the
lunatic asylum man, with the
strong jaw and the good forehead.
He was very cool outwardly, but
was nervous all the same. He
had evidently been schooling
himself as to all sorts of little
things, and remembered them,
but he almost managed to sit
down on his silk hat, which men
don't generally do when they
are cool, and then when he wanted
to appear at ease he kept playing
with a lancet in a way that made
me nearly scream. He spoke to
me, Mina, very straightfordwardly.
He told me how dear I was to
him, though he had known me so
little, and what his life would
be with me to help and cheer
him. He was going to tell me
how unhappy he would be if I
did not care for him, but when
he saw me cry he said he was
a brute and would not add to
my present trouble. Then he broke
off and asked if I could love
him in time, and when I shook
my head his hands trembled, and
then with some hesitation he
asked me if I cared already for
any one else. He put it very
nicely, saying that he did not
want to wring my confidence from
me, but only to know, because
if a woman's heart was free a
man might have hope. And then,
Mina, I felt a sort of duty to
tell him that there was some
one. I only told him that much,
and then he stood up, and he
looked very strong and very grave
as he took both my hands in his
and said he hoped I would be
happy, and that If I ever wanted
a friend I must count him one
of my best.
Oh, Mina dear, I can't help
crying, and you must excuse this
letter being all blotted. Being
proposed to is all very nice
and all that sort of thing, but
it isn't at all a happy thing
when you have to see a poor fellow,
whom you know loves you honestly,
going away and looking all broken
hearted, and to know that, no
matter what he may say at the
moment, you are passing out of
his life. My dear, I must stop
here at present, I feel so miserable,
though I am so happy.
Evening.
Arthur has just gone, and I
feel in better spirits than when
I left off, so I can go on telling
you about the day.
Well, my dear, number Two came
after lunch. He is such a nice
fellow, and American from Texas,
and he looks so young and so
fresh that it seems almost impossible
that he has been to so many places
and has such adventures. I sympathize
with poor Desdemona when she
had such a stream poured in her
ear, even by a black man. I suppose
that we women are such cowards
that we think a man will save
us from fears, and we marry him.
I know now what I would do if
I were a man and wanted to make
a girl love me. No, I don't,
for there was Mr. Morris telling
us his stories, and Arthur never
told any, and yet . . .
My dear, I am somewhat previous.
Mr. Quincy P. Morris found me
alone. It seems that a man always
does find a girl alone. No, he
doesn't, for Arthur tried twice
to make a chance, and I helping
him all I could, I am not ashamed
to say it now. I must tell you
beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn't
always speak slang, that is to
say, he never does so to strangers
or before them, for he is really
well educated and has exquisite
manners, but he found out that
it amused me to hear him talk
American slang, and whenever
I was present, and there was
no one to be shocked, he said
such funny things. I am afraid,
my dear, he has to invent it
all, for it fits exactly into
whatever else he has to say.
But this is a way slang has.
I do not know myself if I shall
ever speak slang. I do not know
if Arthur likes it, as I have
never heard him use any as yet.
Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside
me and looked as happy and jolly
as he could, but I could see
all the same that he was very
nervous. He took my hand in his,
and said ever so sweetly . .
.
"Miss Lucy,
I know I ain't good enough
to regulate the fixin's
of your little shoes, but I guess
if you wait till you find a man
that is you will go join them
seven young women with the lamps
when you quit. Won't you just
hitch up along-side of me and
let us go down the long road
together, driving in double harness?"
Well, he did look so hood humoured
and so jolly that it didn't seem
half so hard to refuse him as
it did poor Dr. Seward. So I
said, as lightly as I could,
that I did not know anything
of hitching, and that I wasn't
broken to harness at all yet.
Then he said that he had spoken
in a light manner, and he hoped
that if he had made a mistake
in doing so on so grave, so momentous,
and occasion for him, I would
forgive him. He really did look
serious when he was saying it,
and I couldn't help feeling a
sort of exultation that he was
number Two in one day. And then,
my dear, before I could say a
word he began pouring out a perfect
torrent of lovemaking, laying
his very heart and soul at my
feet. He looked so earnest over
it that I shall never again think
that a man must be playful always,
and never earnest, because he
is merry at times. I suppose
he saw something in my face which
checked him, for he suddenly
stopped, and said with a sort
of manly fervour that I could
have loved him for if I had been
free . . .
"Lucy, you
are an honest hearted girl,
I know. I should not be
here speaking to you as I am
now if I did not believe you
clean grit, right through to
the very depths of your soul.
Tell me, like one good fellow
to another, is there any one
else that you care for? And if
there is I'll never trouble you
a hair's breadth again, but will
be, if you will let me, a very
faithful friend."
My dear Mina, why are men so
noble when we women are so little
worthy of them? Here was I almost
making fun of this great hearted,
true gentleman. I burst into
tears, I am afraid, my dear,
you will think this a very sloppy
letter in more ways than one,
and I really felt very badly.
Why can't they let a girl marry
three men, or as many as want
her, and save all this trouble?
But this is heresy, and I must
not say it. I am glad to say
that, though I was crying, I
was able to look into Mr. Morris'
brave eyes, and I told him out
straight . . .
"Yes, there is some one I love,
though he has not told me yet
that he even loves me." I was
right to speak to him so frankly,
for quite a light came into his
face, and he put out both his
hands and took mine, I think
I put them into his, and said
in a hearty way . . .
"That's my
brave girl. It's better worth
being late for a
chance of winning you than being
in time for any other girl in
the world. Don't cry, my dear.
If it's for me, I'm a hard nut
to crack, and I take it standing
up. If that other fellow doesn't
know his happiness, well, he'd
better look for it soon, or he'll
have to deal with me. Little
girl, your honesty and pluck
have made me a friend, and that's
rarer than a lover, it's more
selfish anyhow. My dear, I'm
going to have a pretty lonely
walk between this and Kingdom
Come. Won't you give me one kiss?
It'll be something to keep off
the darkness now and then. You
can, you know, if you like, for
that other good fellow, or you
could not love him, hasn't spoken
yet."
That quite won me, Mina, for
it was brave and sweet of him,
and noble too, to a rival, wasn't
it? And he so sad, so I leant
over and kissed him.
He stood up
with my two hands in his, and
as he looked down
into my face, I am afraid I was
blushing very much, he said, "Little
girl, I hold your hand, and you've
kissed me, and if these things
don't make us friends nothing
ever will. Thank you for your
sweet honesty to me, and goodbye." He
wrung my hand, and taking up
his hat, went straight out of
the room without looking back,
without a tear or a quiver or
a pause, and I am crying like
a baby.
Oh, why must a man like that
be made unhappy when there are
lots of girls about who would
worship the very ground he trod
on? I know I would if I were
free, only I don't want to be
free My dear, this quite upset
me, and I feel I cannot write
of happiness just at once, after
telling you of it, and I don't
wish to tell of the number Three
until it can be all happy. Ever
your loving . . . Lucy
P. S.--Oh, about number Three,
I needn't tell you of number
Three, need I? Besides, it was
all so confused. It seemed only
a moment from his coming into
the room till both his arms were
round me, and he was kissing
me. I am very, very happy, and
I don't know what I have done
to deserve it. I must only try
in the future to show that I
am not ungrateful to God for
all His goodness to me in sending
to me such a lover, such a husband,
and such a friend.
Goodbye.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY (Kept in
phonograph)
25 May.--Ebb tide in appetite
today. Cannot eat, cannot rest,
so diary instead. since my rebuff
of yesterday I have a sort of
empty feeling. Nothing in the
world seems of sufficient importance
to be worth the doing. As I knew
that the only cure for this sort
of thing was work, I went amongst
the patients. I picked out one
who has afforded me a study of
much interest. He is so quaint
that I am determined to understand
him as well as I can. Today I
seemed to get nearer than ever
before to the heart of his mystery.
I questioned him more fully
than I had ever done, with a
view to making myself master
of the facts of his hallucination.
In my manner of doing it there
was, I now see, something of
cruelty. I seemed to wish to
keep him to the point of his
madness, a thing which I avoid
with the patients as I would
the mouth of hell.
(Mem., Under what circumstances
would I not avoid the pit of
hell?) Omnia Romae venalia sunt.
Hell has its price! If there
be anything behind this instinct
it will be valuable to trace
it afterwards accurately, so
I had better commence to do so,
therefore . . .
R. M, Renfield, age 59. Sanguine
temperament, great physical strength,
morbidly excitable, periods of
gloom, ending in some fixed idea
which I cannot make out. I presume
that the sanguine temperament
itself and the disturbing influence
end in a mentally-accomplished
finish, a possibly dangerous
man, probably dangerous if unselfish.
In selfish men caution is as
secure an armour for their foes
as for themselves. What I think
of on this point is, when self
is the fixed point the centripetal
force is balanced with the centrifugal.
When duty, a cause, etc., is
the fixed point, the latter force
is paramount, and only accident
of a series of accidents can
balance it.
LETTER, QUINCEY P. MORRIS TO
HON. ARTHUR HOLMOOD
25 May.
My dear Art,
We've told yarns by the campfire
in the prairies, and dressed
one another's wounds after trying
a landing at the Marquesas, and
drunk healths on the shore of
Titicaca. There are more yarns
to be told, and other wounds
to be healed, and another health
to be drunk. Won't you let this
be at my campfire tomorrow night?
I have no hesitation in asking
you, as I know a certain lady
is engaged to a certain dinner
party, and that you are free.
There will only be one other,
our old pal at the Korea, Jack
Seward. He's coming, too, and
we both want to mingle our weeps
over the wine cup, and to drink
a health with all our hearts
to the happiest man in all the
wide world, who has won the noblest
heart that God has made and best
worth winning. We promise you
a hearty welcome, and a loving
greeting, and a health as true
as your own right hand. We shall
both swear to leave you at home
if you drink too deep to a certain
pair of eyes. Come!
Yours, as ever and always,
Quincey P. Morris
TELEGRAM FROM ARTHUR HOLMWOOD
TO QUINCEY P. MORRIS
26 May
Count me in every time. I bear
messages which will make both
your ears tingle. Art |