CHAPTER 5. THE LETTER

"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 practising 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 practising 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 otherpeople; 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 so

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. Good-bye.

"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 to 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 good deal to picture-galleriesand 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.

Some one 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 excellent 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 says 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 allout. 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; 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, I must stop. Good-night. Bless me in your

prayers; and, Mina, pray for my happiness.

"LUCY.

"P.S.—I need not tell you this is a secret. Good-night 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 to-day I have 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

straightforwardly. He told me how dear I was to him, though hehad 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 that 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 quite 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 Ican go on telling you about the day. Well, my dear, number Two

came after lunch. He is such a nice fellow, an 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 had

such adventures. I sympathise with poor Desdemona when she

had such a dangerous 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. Quincey 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 thathe 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 alongside of me and let

us go down the long road together, driving in double harness?'

"Well, he did look so good-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,

an occasion for him, I would forgive him. He really did look

serious when he was saying it, and I couldn't help feeling a bit

serious too—I know, Mina, you will think me a horrid flirt—

though 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 love-making,

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 forif 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's 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 hishappiness, 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 unselfish 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—he must be a good

fellow, my dear, and a fine 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 good-bye.' 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.

"Good-bye."

Dr. Seward's Diary. (Kept in phonograph)

25 May.—Ebb tide in appetite to-day. 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 down 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. To-day 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—athing 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 Romæ venalia sunt. Hell has its price! verb. sap. 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, ætat 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 or a series of accidents can balance it.

Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.

"25 May.

"My dear Art,—

"We've told yarns by the camp-fire 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 camp- fire to-

morrow 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 the 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."