Reading Help DRACULA by Bram Stoker Ch.1-12
with dreaming. I should be quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan . . . `
` God bless and keep him. `
` `
` `
` 11 August.--Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write. I am `
` too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an `
` agonizing experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary. `
` . . . Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense `
` of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room `
` was dark, so I could not see Lucy's bed. I stole across and felt for `
` her. The bed was empty. I lit a match and found that she was not in `
` the room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared `
` to wake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw `
` on some clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the `
` room it struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to `
` her dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house, dress outside. `
` Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. "Thank God," I said `
` to myself, "she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress." `
` `
` I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting room. Not there! Then I `
` looked in all the other rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear `
` chilling my heart. Finally, I came to the hall door and found it open. `
` It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The `
` people of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I `
` feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to `
` think of what might happen. A vague over-mastering fear obscured all `
` details. `
` `
` I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I `
` was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along `
` the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I `
` expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across `
` the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or fear, I don't know which, `
` of seeing Lucy in our favourite seat. `
` `
` There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which `
` threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as `
` they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the `
` shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary's Church and all around it. Then `
` as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into `
` view, and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as a sword-cut `
` moved along, the church and churchyard became gradually visible. `
` Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for there, on our `
` favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining `
` figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to `
` see much, for shadow shut down on light almost immediately, but it `
` seemed to me as though something dark stood behind the seat where the `
` white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was, whether man or `
` beast, I could not tell. `
` `
` I did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep steps `
` to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which was the `
` only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a `
` soul did I see. I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted no witness of `
` poor Lucy's condition. The time and distance seemed endless, and my `
` knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I toiled up the endless `
` steps to the abbey. I must have gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as `
` if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in my `
` body were rusty. `
` `
` When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, `
` for I was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of `
` shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over `
` the half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy!" `
` and something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white `
` face and red, gleaming eyes. `
` `
` Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the churchyard. `
` As I entered, the church was between me and the seat, and for a minute `
` or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view again the cloud had `
` passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly that I could see Lucy `
` half reclining with her head lying over the back of the seat. She was `
` quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living thing about. `
` `
` When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips `
` were parted, and she was breathing, not softly as usual with her, but `
` in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every `
` breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled `
` the collar of her nightdress close around her, as though she felt the `
` cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight around `
` her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the `
` night air, unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in `
` order to have my hands free to help her, I fastened the shawl at her `
` throat with a big safety pin. But I must have been clumsy in my `
` anxiety and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her `
` breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and `
` moaned. When I had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her `
` feet, and then began very gently to wake her. `
` `
` At first she did not respond, but gradually she became more and more `
` uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At last, as `
` time was passing fast, and for many other reasons, I wished to get her `
` home at once, I shook her forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes `
` and awoke. She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she `
` did not realize all at once where she was. `
` `
` Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must `
` have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking `
` unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She `
` trembled a little, and clung to me. When I told her to come at once `
` with me home, she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. `
` As we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. `
` She stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes, but I would `
` not. However, when we got to the pathway outside the chruchyard, where `
` there was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet `
` with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went `
` home, no one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare `
` feet. `
` `
` Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we `
` saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front `
` of us. But we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such `
` as there are here, steep little closes, or 'wynds', as they call them `
` in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time sometimes I thought I `
` should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her `
` health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her `
` reputation in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had `
` washed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I `
` tucked her into bed. Before falling asleep she asked, even implored, `
` me not to say a word to any one, even her mother, about her `
` sleep-walking adventure. `
` `
` I hesitated at first, to promise, but on thinking of the state of her `
` mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her, `
` and think too, of how such a story might become distorted, nay, `
` infallibly would, in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do `
` so. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied `
` to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is `
` sleeping soundly. The reflex of the dawn is high and far over the `
` sea . . . `
` `
` `
` Same day, noon.--All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed `
` not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does not `
` seem to have harmed her, on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she `
` looks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to `
` notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it `
` might have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I `
` must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for `
` there are two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her `
` nightdress was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned `
` about it, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. `
` Fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny. `
` `
` `
` Same day, night.--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the `
` sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave `
` Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the `
` cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself, `
` for I could not but feel how absolutely happy it would have been had `
` Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the `
` evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by `
` Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful `
` than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock `
` the door and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect `
` any trouble tonight. `
` `
` `
` 12 August.--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I `
` was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, `
` to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed `
` under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds `
` chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and I was glad to see, `
` was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of `
` manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me `
` and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about `
` Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded `
` somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can make them more `
` bearable. `
` `
` `
` 13 August.--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as `
` before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed, `
` still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling `
` aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft `
` effect of the light over the sea and sky, merged together in one great `
` silent mystery, was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the `
` moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling `
` circles. Once or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, `
` frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards `
` the abbey. When I came back from the window Lucy had lain down again, `
` and was sleeping peacefully. She did not stir again all night. `
` `
` `
` 14 August.--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems `
` to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to `
` get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or `
` dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home `
` for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier `
` and stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, `
` low down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness. The red `
` light was thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed `
` to bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a `
` while, and suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself . . . `
` `
` "His red eyes again! They are just the same." It was such an odd `
` expression, coming apropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. I `
` slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare `
` at her, and saw that she was in a half dreamy state, with an odd look `
` on her face that I could not quite make out, so I said nothing, but `
` followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat, `
`
` God bless and keep him. `
` `
` `
` 11 August.--Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write. I am `
` too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an `
` agonizing experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary. `
` . . . Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense `
` of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room `
` was dark, so I could not see Lucy's bed. I stole across and felt for `
` her. The bed was empty. I lit a match and found that she was not in `
` the room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared `
` to wake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw `
` on some clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the `
` room it struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to `
` her dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house, dress outside. `
` Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. "Thank God," I said `
` to myself, "she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress." `
` `
` I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting room. Not there! Then I `
` looked in all the other rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear `
` chilling my heart. Finally, I came to the hall door and found it open. `
` It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The `
` people of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I `
` feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to `
` think of what might happen. A vague over-mastering fear obscured all `
` details. `
` `
` I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I `
` was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along `
` the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I `
` expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across `
` the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or fear, I don't know which, `
` of seeing Lucy in our favourite seat. `
` `
` There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which `
` threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as `
` they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the `
` shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary's Church and all around it. Then `
` as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into `
` view, and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as a sword-cut `
` moved along, the church and churchyard became gradually visible. `
` Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for there, on our `
` favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining `
` figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to `
` see much, for shadow shut down on light almost immediately, but it `
` seemed to me as though something dark stood behind the seat where the `
` white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was, whether man or `
` beast, I could not tell. `
` `
` I did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep steps `
` to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which was the `
` only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a `
` soul did I see. I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted no witness of `
` poor Lucy's condition. The time and distance seemed endless, and my `
` knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I toiled up the endless `
` steps to the abbey. I must have gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as `
` if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in my `
` body were rusty. `
` `
` When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, `
` for I was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of `
` shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over `
` the half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy!" `
` and something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white `
` face and red, gleaming eyes. `
` `
` Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the churchyard. `
` As I entered, the church was between me and the seat, and for a minute `
` or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view again the cloud had `
` passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly that I could see Lucy `
` half reclining with her head lying over the back of the seat. She was `
` quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living thing about. `
` `
` When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips `
` were parted, and she was breathing, not softly as usual with her, but `
` in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every `
` breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled `
` the collar of her nightdress close around her, as though she felt the `
` cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight around `
` her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the `
` night air, unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in `
` order to have my hands free to help her, I fastened the shawl at her `
` throat with a big safety pin. But I must have been clumsy in my `
` anxiety and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her `
` breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and `
` moaned. When I had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her `
` feet, and then began very gently to wake her. `
` `
` At first she did not respond, but gradually she became more and more `
` uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At last, as `
` time was passing fast, and for many other reasons, I wished to get her `
` home at once, I shook her forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes `
` and awoke. She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she `
` did not realize all at once where she was. `
` `
` Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must `
` have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking `
` unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She `
` trembled a little, and clung to me. When I told her to come at once `
` with me home, she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. `
` As we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. `
` She stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes, but I would `
` not. However, when we got to the pathway outside the chruchyard, where `
` there was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet `
` with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went `
` home, no one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare `
` feet. `
` `
` Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we `
` saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front `
` of us. But we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such `
` as there are here, steep little closes, or 'wynds', as they call them `
` in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time sometimes I thought I `
` should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her `
` health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her `
` reputation in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had `
` washed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I `
` tucked her into bed. Before falling asleep she asked, even implored, `
` me not to say a word to any one, even her mother, about her `
` sleep-walking adventure. `
` `
` I hesitated at first, to promise, but on thinking of the state of her `
` mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her, `
` and think too, of how such a story might become distorted, nay, `
` infallibly would, in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do `
` so. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied `
` to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is `
` sleeping soundly. The reflex of the dawn is high and far over the `
` sea . . . `
` `
` `
` Same day, noon.--All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed `
` not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does not `
` seem to have harmed her, on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she `
` looks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to `
` notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it `
` might have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I `
` must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for `
` there are two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her `
` nightdress was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned `
` about it, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. `
` Fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny. `
` `
` `
` Same day, night.--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the `
` sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave `
` Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the `
` cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself, `
` for I could not but feel how absolutely happy it would have been had `
` Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the `
` evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by `
` Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful `
` than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock `
` the door and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect `
` any trouble tonight. `
` `
` `
` 12 August.--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I `
` was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, `
` to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed `
` under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds `
` chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and I was glad to see, `
` was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of `
` manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me `
` and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about `
` Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded `
` somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can make them more `
` bearable. `
` `
` `
` 13 August.--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as `
` before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed, `
` still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling `
` aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft `
` effect of the light over the sea and sky, merged together in one great `
` silent mystery, was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the `
` moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling `
` circles. Once or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, `
` frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards `
` the abbey. When I came back from the window Lucy had lain down again, `
` and was sleeping peacefully. She did not stir again all night. `
` `
` `
` 14 August.--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems `
` to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to `
` get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or `
` dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home `
` for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier `
` and stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, `
` low down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness. The red `
` light was thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed `
` to bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a `
` while, and suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself . . . `
` `
` "His red eyes again! They are just the same." It was such an odd `
` expression, coming apropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. I `
` slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare `
` at her, and saw that she was in a half dreamy state, with an odd look `
` on her face that I could not quite make out, so I said nothing, but `
` followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat, `
`