DR. SEWARD'S DIARY--cont.
The funeral was arranged for
the next succeeding day, so that
Lucy and her mother might be
buried together. I attended to
all the ghastly formalities,
and the urbane undertaker proved
that his staff was afflicted,
or blessed, with something of
his own obsequious suavity. Even
the woman who performed the last
offices for the dead remarked
to me, in a confidential, brother-professional
way, when she had come out from
the death chamber,
"She makes
a very beautiful corpse, sir.
It's quite a privilege
to attend on her. It's not too
much to say that she will do
credit to our establishment!"
I noticed that Van Helsing
never kept far away. This was
possible from the disordered
state of things in the household.
There were no relatives at hand,
and as Arthur had to be back
the next day to attend at his
father's funeral, we were unable
to notify any one who should
have been bidden. Under the circumstances,
Van Helsing and I took it upon
ourselves to examine papers,
etc. He insisted upon looking
over Lucy's papers himself. I
asked him why, for I feared that
he, being a foreigner, might
not be quite aware of English
legal requirements, and so might
in ignorance make some unnecessary
trouble.
He answered
me, "I know, I
know. You forget that I am a
lawyer as well as a doctor. But
this is not altogether for the
law. You knew that, when you
avoided the coroner. I have more
than him to avoid. There may
be papers more, such as this."
As he spoke he took from his
pocket book the memorandum which
had been in Lucy's breast, and
which she had torn in her sleep.
"When you find
anything of the solicitor who
is for the
late Mrs. Westenra, seal all
her papers, and write him tonight.
For me, I watch here in the room
and in Miss Lucy's old room all
night, and I myself search for
what may be. It is not well that
her very thoughts go into the
hands of strangers."
I went on with my part of the
work, and in another half hour
had found the name and address
of Mrs. Westenra's solicitor
and had written to him. All the
poor lady's papers were in order.
Explicit directions regarding
the place of burial were given.
I had hardly sealed the letter,
when, to my surprise, Van Helsing
walked into the room, saying,
"Can I help
you friend John? I am free,
and if I may, my service
is to you."
"Have you got what you looked
for?" I asked.
To which he
replied, "I did
not look for any specific thing.
I only hoped to find, and find
I have, all that there was, only
some letters and a few memoranda,
and a diary new begun. But I
have them here, and we shall
for the present say nothing of
them. I shall see that poor lad
tomorrow evening, and, with his
sanction, I shall use some."
When we had
finished the work in hand,
he said to me, "And
now, friend John, I think we
may to bed. We want sleep, both
you and I, and rest to recuperate.
Tomorrow we shall have much to
do, but for the tonight there
is no need of us. Alas!"
Before turning in we went to
look at poor Lucy. The undertaker
had certainly done his work well,
for the room was turned into
a small chapelle ardente. There
was a wilderness of beautiful
white flowers, and death was
made as little repulsive as might
be. The end of the winding sheet
was laid over the face. When
the Professor bent over and turned
it gently back, we both started
at the beauty before us. The
tall wax candles showing a sufficient
light to note it well. All Lucy's
loveliness had come back to her
in death, and the hours that
had passed, instead of leaving
traces of `decay's effacing fingers',
had but restored the beauty of
life, till positively I could
not believe my eyes that I was
looking at a corpse.
The Professor
looked sternly grave. He had
not loved her as
I had, and there was no need
for tears in his eyes. He said
to me, "Remain till I return," and
left the room. He came back with
a handful of wild garlic from
the box waiting in the hall,
but which had not been opened,
and placed the flowers amongst
the others on and around the
bed. Then he took from his neck,
inside his collar, a little gold
crucifix, and placed it over
the mouth. He restored the sheet
to its place, and we came away.
I was undressing in my own
room, when, with a premonitory
tap at the door, he entered,
and at once began to speak.
"Tomorrow I
want you to bring me, before
night, a set of post-mortem
knives."
"Must we make an autopsy?" I
asked.
"Yes and no.
I want to operate, but not
what you think. Let me
tell you now, but not a word
to another. I want to cut off
her head and take out her heart.
Ah! You a surgeon, and so shocked!
You, whom I have seen with no
tremble of hand or heart, do
operations of life and death
that make the rest shudder. Oh,
but I must not forget, my dear
friend John, that you loved her,
and I have not forgotten it for
is I that shall operate, and
you must not help. I would like
to do it tonight, but for Arthur
I must not. He will be free after
his father's funeral tomorrow,
and he will want to see her,
to see it. Then, when she is
coffined ready for the next day,
you and I shall come when all
sleep. We shall unscrew the coffin
lid, and shall do our operation,
and then replace all, so that
none know, save we alone."
"But why do
it at all? The girl is dead.
Why mutilate her
poor body without need? And if
there is no necessity for a post-mortem
and nothing to gain by it, no
good to her, to us, to science,
to human knowledge, why do it?
Without such it is monstrous."
For answer
he put his hand on my shoulder,
and said, with
infinite tenderness, "Friend
John, I pity your poor bleeding
heart, and I love you the more
because it does so bleed. If
I could, I would take on myself
the burden that you do bear.
But there are things that you
know not, but that you shall
know, and bless me for knowing,
though they are not pleasant
things. John, my child, you have
been my friend now many years,
and yet did you ever know me
to do any without good cause?
I may err, I am but man, but
I believe in all I do. Was it
not for these causes that you
send for me when the great trouble
came? Yes! Were you not amazed,
nay horrified, when I would not
let Arthur kiss his love, though
she was dying, and snatched him
away by all my strength? Yes!
And yet you saw how she thanked
me, with her so beautiful dying
eyes, her voice, too, so weak,
and she kiss my rough old hand
and bless me? Yes! And did you
not hear me swear promise to
her, that so she closed her eyes
grateful? Yes!
"Well, I have good reason now
for all I want to do. You have
for many years trust me. You
have believe me weeks past, when
there be things so strange that
you might have well doubt. Believe
me yet a little, friend John.
If you trust me not, then I must
tell what I think, and that is
not perhaps well. And if I work,
as work I shall, no matter trust
or no trust, without my friend
trust in me, I work with heavy
heart and feel, oh so lonely
when I want all help and courage
that may be!" He paused a moment
and went on solemnly, "Friend
John, there are strange and terrible
days before us. Let us not be
two, but one, that so we work
to a good end. Will you not have
faith in me?"
I took his hand, and promised
him. I held my door open as he
went away, and watched him go
to his room and close the door.
As I stood without moving, I
saw one of the maids pass silently
along the passage, she had her
back to me, so did not see me,
and go into the room where Lucy
lay. The sight touched me. Devotion
is so rare, and we are so grateful
to those who show it unasked
to those we love. Here was a
poor girl putting aside the terrors
which she naturally had of death
to go watch alone by the bier
of the mistress whom she loved,
so that the poor clay might not
be lonely till laid to eternal
rest.
I must have
slept long and soundly, for
it was broad daylight
when Van Helsing waked me by
coming into my room. He came
over to my bedside and said, "You
need not trouble about the knives.
We shall not do it."
"Why not?" I
asked. For his solemnity of
the night before
had greatly impressed me.
"Because," he said sternly, "it
is too late, or too early. See!" Here
he held up the little golden
crucifix.
"This was stolen
in the night."
"How stolen,"I asked in wonder,"since
you have it now?"
"Because I get it back from
the worthless wretch who stole
it, from the woman who robbed
the dead and the living. Her
punishment will surely come,
but not through me. She knew
not altogether what she did,
and thus unknowing, she only
stole. Now we must wait." He
went away on the word, leaving
me with a new mystery to think
of, a new puzzle to grapple with.
The forenoon
was a dreary time, but at noon
the solicitor came,
Mr. Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons,
Marquand & Lidderdale. He was
very genial and very appreciative
of what we had done, and took
off our hands all cares as to
details. During lunch he told
us that Mrs. Westenra had for
some time expected sudden death
from her heart, and had put her
affairs in absolute order. He
informed us that, with the exception
of a certain entailed property
of Lucy's father which now, in
default of direct issue, went
back to a distant branch of the
family, the whole estate, real
and personal, was left absolutely
to Arthur Holmwood. When he had
told us so much he went on,
"Frankly we
did our best to prevent such
a testamentary disposition,
and pointed out certain contingencies
that might leave her daughter
either penniless or not so free
as she should be to act regarding
a matrimonial alliance. Indeed,
we pressed the matter so far
that we almost came into collision,
for she asked us if we were or
were not prepared to carry out
her wishes. Of course, we had
then no alternative but to accept.
We were right in principle, and
ninety-nine times out of a hundred
we should have proved, by the
logic of events, the accuracy
of our judgment.
"Frankly, however,
I must admit that in this case
any other form
of disposition would have rendered
impossible the carrying out of
her wishes. For by her predeceasing
her daughter the latter would
have come into possession of
the property, and, even had she
only survived her mother by five
minutes, her property would,
in case there were no will, and
a will was a practical impossibility
in such a case, have been treated
at her decease as under intestacy.
In which case Lord Godalming,
though so dear a friend, would
have had no claim in the world.
And the inheritors, being remote,
would not be likely to abandon
their just rights, for sentimental
reasons regarding an entire stranger.
I assure you, my dear sirs, I
am rejoiced at the result,perfectly
rejoiced."
He was a good fellow, but his
rejoicing at the one little part,
in which he was officially interested,
of so great a tragedy, was an
object-lesson in the limitations
of sympathetic understanding.
He did not remain long, but
said he would look in later in
the day and see Lord Godalming.
His coming, however, had been
a certain comfort to us, since
it assured us that we should
not have to dread hostile criticism
as to any of our acts. Arthur
was expected at five o'clock,
so a little before that time
we visited the death chamber.
It was so in very truth, for
now both mother and daughter
lay in it. The undertaker, true
to his craft, had made the best
display he could of his goods,
and there was a mortuary air
about the place that lowered
our spirits at once.
Van Helsing ordered the former
arrangement to be adhered to,
explaining that, as Lord Godalming
was coming very soon, it would
be less harrowing to his feelings
to see all that was left of his
fiancee quite alone.
The undertaker seemed shocked
at his own stupidity and exerted
himself to restore things to
the condition in which we left
them the night before, so that
when Arthur came such shocks
to his feelings as we could avoid
were saved.
Poor fellow! He looked desperately
sad and broken. Even his stalwart
manhood seemed to have shrunk
somewhat under the strain of
his much-tried emotions. He had,
I knew, been very genuinely and
devotedly attached to his father,
and to lose him, and at such
a time, was a bitter blow to
him. With me he was warm as ever,
and to Van Helsing he was sweetly
courteous. But I could not help
seeing that there was some constraint
with him. The professor noticed
it too, and motioned me to bring
him upstairs. I did so, and left
him at the door of the room,
as I felt he would like to be
quite alone with her, but he
took my arm and led me in, saying
huskily,
"You loved
her too, old fellow. She told
me all about it, and
there was no friend had a closer
place in her heart than you.
I don't know how to thank you
for all you have done for her.
I can't think yet . . ."
Here he suddenly
broke down, and threw his arms
round my shoulders
and laid his head on my breast,
crying, "Oh, Jack! Jack! What
shall I do? The whole of life
seems gone from me all at once,
and there is nothing in the wide
world for me to live for."
I comforted
him as well as I could. In
such cases men do
not need much expression. A grip
of the hand, the tightening of
an arm over the shoulder, a sob
in unison, are expressions of
sympathy dear to a man's heart.
I stood still and silent till
his sobs died away, and then
I said softly to him, "Come and
look at her."
Together we
moved over to the bed, and
I lifted the lawn from
her face. God! How beautiful
she was. Every hour seemed to
be enhancing her loveliness.
It frightened and amazed me somewhat.
And as for Arthur, he fell to
trembling, and finally was shaken
with doubt as with an ague. At
last, after a long pause, he
said to me in a faint whisper,"Jack,
is she really dead?"
I assured him sadly that it
was so, and went on to suggest,
for I felt that such a horrible
doubt should not have life for
a moment longer than I could
help, that it often happened
that after death faces become
softened and even resolved into
their youthful beauty, that this
was especially so when death
had been preceded by any acute
or prolonged suffering. I seemed
to quite do away with any doubt,
and after kneeling beside the
couch for a while and looking
at her lovingly and long, he
turned aside. I told him that
that must be goodbye, as the
coffin had to be prepared, so
he went back and took her dead
hand in his and kissed it, and
bent over and kissed her forehead.
He came away, fondly looking
back over his shoulder at her
as he came.
I left him
in the drawing room, and told
Van Helsing that he
had said goodbye, so the latter
went to the kitchen to tell the
undertaker's men to proceed with
the preperations and to screw
up the coffin. When he came out
of the room again I told him
of Arthur's question, and he
replied, "I am not surprised.
Just now I doubted for a moment
myself!"
We all dined
together, and I could see that
poor Art was
trying to make the best of things.
Van Helsing had been silent all
dinner time, but when we had
lit our cigars he said, "Lord
. . ., but Arthur interrupted
him.
"No, no, not
that, for God's sake! Not yet
at any rate. Forgive
me, sir. I did not mean to speak
offensively. It is only because
my loss is so recent."
The Professor
answered very sweetly, "I only
used that name because I was
in doubt. I must
not call you `Mr.' and I have
grown to love you, yes, my dear
boy, to love you, as Arthur."
Arthur held
out his hand, and took the
old man's warmly. "Call
me what you will," he said. "I
hope I may always have the title
of a friend. And let me say that
I am at a loss for words to thank
you for your goodness to my poor
dear." He paused a moment, and
went on, "I know that she understood
your goodness even better than
I do. And if I was rude or in
any way wanting at that time
you acted so, you remember,"--
the Professor nodded--"You must
forgive me."
He answered
with a grave kindness, "I
know it was hard for you to quite
trust me then, for to trust such
violence needs to understand,
and I take it that you do not,
that you cannot, trust me now,
for you do not yet understand.
And there may be more times when
I shall want you to trust when
you cannot, and may not, and
must not yet understand. But
the time will come when your
trust shall be whole and complete
in me, and when you shall understand
as though the sunlight himself
shone through. Then you shall
bless me from first to last for
your own sake, and for the sake
of others, and for her dear sake
to whom I swore to protect."
"And indeed, indeed, sir," said
Arthur warmly. "I shall in all
ways trust you. I know and believe
you have a very noble heart,
and you are Jack's friend, and
you were hers. You shall do what
you like."
The Professor
cleared his throat a couple
of times, as though
about to speak, and finally said, "May
I ask you something now?"
"Certainly."
"You know that
Mrs. Westenra left you all
her property?"
"No, poor dear.
I never thought of it."
"And as it
is all yours, you have a right
to deal with it
as you will. I want you to give
me permission to read all Miss
Lucy's papers and letters. Believe
me, it is no idle curiosity.
I have a motive of which, be
sure, she would have approved.
I have them all here. I took
them before we knew that all
was yours, so that no strange
hand might touch them, no strange
eye look through words into her
soul. I shall keep them, if I
may. Even you may not see them
yet, but I shall keep them safe.
No word shall be lost, and in
the good time I shall give them
back to you. It is a hard thing
that I ask, but you will do it,
will you not, for Lucy's sake?"
Arthur spoke
out heartily, like his old
self, "Dr. Van Helsing,
you may do what you will. I feel
that in saying this I am doing
what my dear one would have approved.
I shall not trouble you with
questions till the time comes."
The old Professor
stood up as he said solemnly,"And
you are right. There will be
pain
for us all, but it will not be
all pain, nor will this pain
be the last. We and you too,
you most of all, dear boy, will
have to pass through the bitter
water before we reach the sweet.
But we must be brave of heart
and unselfish, and do our duty,
and all will be well!"
I slept on a sofa in Arthur's
room that night. Van Helsing
did not go to bed at all. He
went to and fro, as if patroling
the house, and was never out
of sight of the room where Lucy
lay in her coffin, strewn with
the wild garlic flowers, which
sent through the odor of lily
and rose, a heavy, overpowering
smell into the night.
MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL
22 September.--In the train
to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping.
It seems only yesterday that
the last entry was made, and
yet how much between then, in
Whitby and all the world before
me, Jonathan away and no news
of him, and now, married to Jonathan,
Jonathan a solicitor, a partner,
rich, master of his business,
Mr. Hawkins dead and buried,
and Jonathan with another attack
that may harm him. Some day he
may ask me about it. Down it
all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand,
see what unexpected prosperity
does for us, so it may be as
well to freshen it up again with
an exercise anyhow.
The service was very simple
and very solemn. There were only
ourselves and the servants there,
one or two old friends of his
from Exeter, his London agent,
and a gentleman representing
Sir John Paxton, the President
of the Incorporated Law Society.
Jonathan and I stood hand in
hand, and we felt that our best
and dearest friend was gone from
us.
We came back
to town quietly, taking a bus
to Hyde Park Corner.
Jonathan thought it would interest
me to go into the Row for a while,
so we sat down. But there were
very few people there, and it
was sad-looking and desolate
to see so many empty chairs.
It made us think of the empty
chair at home. So we got up and
walked down Piccadilly. Jonathan
was holding me by the arm, the
way he used to in the old days
before I went to school. I felt
it very improper, for you can't
go on for some years teaching
etiquette and decorum to other
girls without the pedantry of
it biting into yourself a bit.
But it was Jonathan, and he was
my husband, and we didn't know
anybody who saw us, and we didn't
care if they did, so on we walked.
I was looking at a very beautiful
girl, in a big cart-wheel hat,
sitting in a victoria outside
Guiliano's, when I felt Jonathan
clutch my arm so tight that he
hurt me, and he said under his
breath, "My God!"
I am always anxious about Jonathan,
for I fear that some nervous
fit may upset him again. So I
turned to him quickly, and asked
him what it was that disturbed
him.
He was very
pale, and his eyes seemed bulging
out as, half in
terror and half in amazement,
he gazed at a tall, thin man,
with a beaky nose and black moustache
and pointed beard, who was also
observing the pretty girl. He
was looking at her so hard that
he did not see either of us,
and so I had a good view of him.
His face was not a good face.
It was hard, and cruel, and sensual,and
big white teeth, that looked
all the whiter because his lips
were so red, were pointed like
an animal's. Jonathan kept staring
at him, till I was afraid he
would notice. I feared he might
take it ill, he looked so fierce
and nasty. I asked Jonathan why
he was disturbed, and he answered,
evidently thinking that I knew
as much about it as he did, "Do
you see who it is?"
"No, dear," I said. "I don't
know him, who is it?" His answer
seemed to shock and thrill me,
for it was said as if he did
not know that it was me, Mina,
to whom he was speaking. "It
is the man himself!"
The poor dear was evidently
terrified at something, very
greatly terrified. I do believe
that if he had not had me to
lean on and to support him he
would have sunk down. He kept
staring. A man came out of the
shop with a small parcel, and
gave it to the lady, who then
drove off. Th e dark man kept
his eyes fixed on her, and when
the carriage moved up Piccadilly
he followed in the same direction,
and hailed a hansom. Jonathan
kept looking after him, and said,
as if to himself,
"I believe it is the Count,
but he has grown young. My God,
if this be so! Oh, my God! My
God! If only I knew! If only
I knew!" He was distressing himself
so much that I feared to keep
his mind on the subject by asking
him any questions, so I remained
silent. I drew away quietly,
and he, holding my arm, came
easily. We walked a little further,
and then went in and sat for
a while in the Green Park. It
was a hot day for autumn, and
there was a comfortable seat
in a shady place. After a few
minutes' staring at nothing,
Jonathan's eyes closed, and he
went quickly into a sleep, with
his head on my shoulder. I thought
it was the best thing for him,
so did not disturb him. In about
twenty minutes he woke up, and
said to me quite cheerfully,
"Why, Mina,
have I been asleep! Oh, do
forgive me for being so
rude. Come, and we'll have a
cup of tea somewhere."
He had evidently forgotten
all about the dark stranger,
as in his illness he had forgotten
all that this episode had reminded
him of. I don't like this lapsing
into forgetfulness. It may make
or continue some injury to the
brain. I must not ask him, for
fear I shall do more harm than
good, but I must somehow learn
the facts of his journey abroad.
The time is come, I fear, when
I must open the parcel, and know
what is written. Oh, Jonathan,
you will, I know, forgive me
if I do wrong, but it is for
your own dear sake.
Later.--A sad
home-coming in every way, the
house empty of
the dear soul who was so good
to us. Jonathan still pale and
dizzy under a slight relapse
of his malady, and now a telegram
from Van Helsing, whoever he
may be. "You will be grieved
to hear that Mrs. Westenra died
five days ago, and that Lucy
died the day before yesterday.
They were both buried today."
Oh, what a wealth of sorrow
in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra!
Poor Lucy! Gone, gone, never
to return to us! And poor, poor
Arthur, to have lost such a sweetness
out of his life! God help us
all to bear our troubles.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY-CONT.
22 September.--It is all over.
Arthur has gone back to Ring,
and has taken Quincey Morris
with him. What a fine fellow
is Quincey! I believe in my heart
of hearts that he suffered as
much about Lucy's death as any
of us, but he bore himself through
it like a moral Viking. If America
can go on breeding men like that,
she will be a power in the world
indeed. Van Helsing is lying
down, having a rest preparatory
to his journey. He goes to Amsterdam
tonight, but says he returns
tomorrow night, that he only
wants to make some arrangements
which can only be made personally.
He is to stop with me then, if
he can. He says he has work to
do in London which may take him
some time. Poor old fellow! I
fear that the strain of the past
week has broken down even his
iron strength. All the time of
the burial he was, I could see,
putting some terrible restraint
on himself. When it was all over,
we were standing beside Arthur,
who, poor fellow, was speaking
of his part in the operation
where his blood had been transfused
to his Lucy's veins. I could
see Van Helsing's face grow white
and purple by turns. Arthur was
saying that he felt since then
as if they two had been really
married, and that she was his
wife in the sight of God. None
of us said a word of the other
operations, and none of us ever
shall. Arthur and Quincey went
away together to the station,
and Van Helsing and I came on
here. The moment we were alone
in the carriage he gave way to
a regular fit of hysterics. He
has denied to me since that it
was hysterics, and insisted that
it was only his sense of humor
asserting itself under very terrible
conditions. He laughed till he
cried, and I had to draw down
the blinds lest any one should
see us and misjudge. And then
he cried, till he laughed again,
and laughed and cried together,
just as a woman does. I tried
to be stern with him, as one
is to a woman under the circumstances,
but it had no effect. Men and
women are so different in manifestations
of nervous strength or weakness!
Then when his face grew grave
and stern again I asked him why
his mirth, and why at such a
time. His reply was in a way
characteristic of him, for it
was logical and forceful and
mysterious. He said,
"Ah, you don't
comprehend, friend John. Do
not think that
I am not sad, though I laugh.
See, I have cried even when the
laugh did choke me. But no more
think that I am all sorry when
I cry, for the laugh he come
just the same. Keep it always
with you that laughter who knock
at your door and say, `May I
come in?' is not true laughter.
No! He is a king, and he come
when and how he like. He ask
no person, he choose no time
of suitability. He say, `I am
here.' Behold, in example I grieve
my heart out for that so sweet
young girl. I give my blood for
her, though I am old and worn.
I give my time, my skill, my
sleep. I let my other sufferers
want that she may have all. And
yet I can laugh at her very grave,
laugh when the clay from the
spade of the sexton drop upon
her coffin and say `Thud, thud!'
to my heart, till it send back
the blood from my cheek. My heart
bleed for that poor boy, that
dear boy, so of the age of mine
own boy had I been so blessed
that he live, and with his hair
and eyes the same.
"There, you
know now why I love him so.
And yet when he
say things that touch my husband-heart
to the quick, and make my father-heart
yearn to him as to no other man,
not even you, friend John, for
we are more level in experiences
than father and son, yet even
at such a moment King Laugh he
come to me and shout and bellow
in my ear,`Here I am! Here I
am!' till the blood come dance
back and bring some of the sunshine
that he carry with him to my
cheek. Oh, friend John, it is
a strange world, a sad world,
a world full of miseries, and
woes, and troubles. And yet when
King Laugh come, he make them
all dance to the tune he play.
Bleeding hearts, and dry bones
of the churchyard, and tears
that burn as they fall, all dance
together to the music that he
make with that smileless mouth
of him. And believe me, friend
John, that he is good to come,
and kind. Ah, we men and women
are like ropes drawn tight with
strain that pull us different
ways. Then tears come, and like
the rain on the ropes, they brace
us up, until perhaps the strain
become too great, and we break.
But King Laugh he come like the
sunshine, and he ease off the
strain again, and we bear to
go on with our labor, what it
may be."
I did not like to wound him
by pretending not to see his
idea, but as I did not yet understand
the cause of his laughter, I
asked him. As he answered me
his face grew stern, and he said
in quite a different tone,
"Oh, it was the grim irony
of it all,this so lovely lady
garlanded with flowers, that
looked so fair as life, till
one by one we wondered if she
were truly dead, she laid in
that so fine marble house in
that lonely churchyard, where
rest so many of her kin, laid
there with the mother who loved
her, and whom she loved, and
that sacred bell going "Toll!
Toll! Toll!' so sad and slow,
and those holy men, with the
white garments of the angel,
pretending to read books, and
yet all the time their eyes never
on the page, and all of us with
the bowed head. And all for what?
She is dead, so! Is it not?"
"Well, for the life of me,
Professor," I said, "I can't
see anything to laugh at in all
that. Why, your expression makes
it a harder puzzle than before.
But even if the burial service
was comic, what about poor Art
and his trouble? Why his heart
was simply breaking."
"Just so. Said
he not that the transfusion
of his blood
to her veins had made her truly
his bride?"
"Yes, and it
was a sweet and comforting
idea for him."
"Quite so.
But there was a difficulty,
friend John. If so
that, then what about the others?
Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid
is a polyandrist, and me,with
my poor wife dead to me, but
alive by Church's law, though
no wits, all gone, even I, who
am faithful husband to this now-no-wife,
am bigamist."
"I don't see where the joke
comes in there either!" I said,
and I did not feel particularly
pleased with him for saying such
things. He laid his hand on my
arm, and said,
"Friend John,
forgive me if I pain. I showed
not my feeling
to others when it would wound,
but only to you, my old friend,
whom I can trust. If you could
have looked into my heart then
when I want to laugh, if you
could have done so when the laugh
arrived, if you could do so now,
when King Laugh have pack up
his crown, and all that is to
him, for he go far, far away
from me, and for a long, long
time, maybe you would perhaps
pity me the most of all."
I was touched by the tenderness
of his tone, and asked why.
"Because I
know!"
And now we are all scattered,
and for many a long day loneliness
will sit over our roofs with
brooding wings. Lucy lies in
the tomb of her kin, a lordly
death house in a lonely churchyard,
away from teeming London, where
the air is fresh, and the sun
rises over Hampstead Hill, and
where wild flowers grow of their
own accord.
So I can finish
this diary, and God only knows
if I shall
ever begin another. If I do,
or if I even open this again,
it will be to deal with different
people and different themes,
for here at the end, where the
romance of my life is told, ere
I go back to take up the thread
of my life-work, I say sadly
and without hope, "FINIS".
THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25
SEPTEMBER A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
The neighborhood
of Hampstead is just at present
exercised
with a series of events which
seem to run on lines parallel
to those of what was known to
the writers of headlines and "The
Kensington Horror," or "The Stabbing
Woman," or "The Woman in Black." During
the past two or three days several
cases have occurred of young
children straying from home or
neglecting to return from their
playing on the Heath. In all
these cases the children were
too young to give any properly
intelligible account of themselves,
but the consensus of their excuses
is that they had been with a "bloofer
lady." It has always been late
in the evening when they have
been missed, and on two occasions
the children have not been found
until early in the following
morning. It is generally supposed
in the neighborhood that, as
the first child missed gave as
his reason for being away that
a "bloofer lady" had asked him
to come for a walk, the others
had picked up the phrase and
used it as occasion served. This
is the more natural as the favorite
game of the little ones at present
is luring each other away by
wiles. A correspondent writes
us that to see some of the tiny
tots pretending to be the "bloofer
lady" is supremely funny. Some
of our caricaturists might, he
says, take a lesson in the irony
of grotesque by comparing the
reality and the picture. It is
only in accordance with general
principles of human nature that
the "bloofer lady" should be
the popular role at these al
fresco performances. Our correspondent
naively says that even Ellen
Terry could not be so winningly
attractive as some of these grubby-faced
little children pretend, and
even imagine themselves, to be.
There is, however, possibly
a serious side to the question,
for some of the children, indeed
all who have been missed at night,
have been slightly torn or wounded
in the throat. The wounds seem
such as might be made by a rat
or a small dog, and although
of not much importance individually,
would tend to show that whatever
animal inflicts them has a system
or method of its own. The police
of the division have been instructed
to keep a sharp lookout for straying
children, especially when very
young, in and around Hampstead
Heath, and for any stray dog
which may be about.
THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25
SEPTEMBER EXTRA SPECIAL
THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR
ANOTHER CHILD INJURED
THE "BLOOFER
LADY"
We have just
received intelligence that
another child, missed last
night, was only discovered late
in the morning under a furze
bush at the Shooter's Hill side
of Hampstead Heath, which is
perhaps, less frequented than
the other parts. It has the same
tiny wound in the throat as has
been noticed in other cases.
It was terribly weak, and looked
quite emaciated. It too, when
partially restored, had the common
story to tell of being lured
away by the "bloofer lady". |