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
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 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 straightforwardly. 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, 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 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 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, 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 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 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 or 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
