Dracula by Scarlett Parrish
Author:Scarlett Parrish [Parrish, Bram Stoker & Scarlett]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Totally Entwined Group Ltd
Published: 2012-11-01T00:00:00+00:00
Dr Sewardâs Diary
26 September
Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a week since I said âFinisâ, and yet here I am starting fresh again, or rather going on with the record.
Until this afternoon I had no cause to think of what is done. Renfield had become, to all intents, as sane as he ever was. He was already well ahead with his fly business, and he had just started in the spider line also, so he had not been of any trouble to me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sunday, and from it I gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well. Quincey Morris is with him, and that is much of a help, for he himself is a bubbling well of good spirits. Quincey wrote me a line too, and from him I hear that Arthur is beginning to recover something of his old buoyancy, so as to them all my mind is at rest. As for myself, I was settling down to my work with the enthusiasm which I used to have for it, so that I might fairly have said that the wound which poor Lucy left on me was becoming cicatrised.
Everything is, however, now reopened, and what is to be the end God only knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows, too, but he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. He went to Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. Today he came back, and almost bounded into the room at about half-past five oâclock, and thrust last nightâs Westminster Gazette into my hand.
âWhat do you think of that?â he asked as he stood back and folded his arms.
I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant, but he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being decoyed away at Hampstead. It did not convey much to me, until I reached a passage where it described small puncture wounds on their throats. An idea struck me, and I looked up.
âWell?â he said.
âIt is like poor Lucyâs.â
âAnd what do you make of it?â
âSimply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it was that injured her has injured them.â
I did not quite understand his answer. âThat is true indirectly, but not directly.â
âHow do you mean, Professor?â I asked. I was a little inclined to take his seriousness lightly, for, after all, four days of rest and freedom from burning, harrowing, anxiety does help to restore oneâs spirits, but when I saw his face, it sobered me. Never, even in the midst of our despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more stern.
âTell me!â I said. âI can hazard no opinion. I do not know what to think, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture.â
âDo you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to what poor Lucy died of, not after all the hints given, not only by events, but by me?â
âOf nervous prostration following a great loss or waste of blood.
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