Dracula. Bram Stoker

would have written. I look at that

      last letter of his, but somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not

      read like him, and yet it is his writing. There is no mistake of

      that. Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but

      Mina Murray’s Journal 69

      there is an odd concentration about her which I do not under-

      stand; even in her sleep she seems to be watching me. She tries

      the door, and finding it locked, goes about the room searching for

      the key.

      6 August. Another three days, and no news. This suspense

      is getting dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to

      go to, I should feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jona-

      than since that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience.

      Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night

      was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a

      storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs. To-day

      is a grey day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds,

      high over Kettleness. Everything is grey except the green grass,

      which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey

      clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the

      grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers.

      The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with

      a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost

      in a grey mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant

      rocks, and there is a «brool» over the sea that sounds like some

      presage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and there,

      sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem «men like trees

      walking.» The fishing-boats are racing for home, and rise and

      dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending

      to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making straight

      for me, and I can see, by the way he lif ts his hat, that he wants to

      talk

      I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man.

      When he sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way:

      «I want to say something to you, miss.» I could see he was

      not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and

      asked him to speak fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:

      «I’m afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all

      the wicked things I’ve been sayin’ about the dead, and such like,

      for weeks past; but I didn’t mean them, and I want ye to remem-

      ber that when I’m gone. We aud folks that be daffled, and with

      one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don’t altogether like to think of it,

      and we don’t want to feel scart of it; an’ that’s why I’ve took to

      makin’ light of it, so that I’d cheer up my own heart a bit. But,

      Lord love ye, miss, I ain’t afraid of dyin’, not a bit; only I don’t

      want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now,

      for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to

      70 Dracula

      expect; and I’m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin’

      his scythe. Ye see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it

      all at once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon

      the Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don’t ye

      dooal an’ greet, my deary!» for he saw that I was crying

      «if he should come this very night I’d not refuse to answer his

      call. For life be, after all, only a waitin’ for somethin’ else than

      what we’re doin '; and death be all that we can rightly depend on.

      But I’m content, for it’s comin’ to me, my deary, and comin’

      quick. It may be comin’ while we be lookin’ and wonderin’.

      Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea that’s bringin’ with it

      loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!» he

      cried suddenly. «There’s something in that wind and in the hoast

      beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death.

      It’s in the air; I feel it comin’. Lord, make me answer cheerful

      when my call comes!» He held up his arms devoutly, and raised

      his hat. His mouth moved as though he were praying. After a

      few minutes’ silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed

      me, and said good-bye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and

      upset me very much.

      I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass

      under his arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does,

      but all the time kept looking at a strange ship.

      «I can’t make her out,» he said; «she’s a Russian, by the look

      of her; but she’s knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn’t

      know her mind a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can’t

      decide whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here.

      Look there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn’t

      mind the hand on the wheel; changes about with every puff of

      wind. We’ll hear more of her before this time to-morrow.»

      CHAPTER VII

      CUTTING FROM «THE DAILYGRATH,» 8 AUGUST

      (Pasted in Mina Murray ’s Journal.)

      From a Correspondent.

      Whitby.

      ONE of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been

      experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The

      weather had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree un-

      common in the month of August. Saturday evening was as fine as

      was ever known, and the great body of holiday-makers laid out

      yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood’s Bay, Rig

      Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips hi the neighbour-

      hood of Whitby. The steamers Emma and Scarborough made

      trips up and down the coast, and there was an unusual amount

      of «tripping» both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually

      fine