20 August.--The case of Renfield grows even more interesting.
He has now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation
from his passion. For the first week after his attack he was
perpetually violent. Then one night, just as the moon rose,
he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to himself. "Now I can wait.
Now I can wait."
The attendant came to tell me, so I ran down at once to have a look at him.
He was still in the strait waistcoat and in the padded room,
but the suffused look had gone from his face, and his eyes had something
of their old pleading. I might almost say, cringing, softness. I was
satisfied with his present condition, and directed him to be relieved.
The attendants hesitated, but finally carried out my wishes without protest.
It was a strange thing that the patient had humour enough to see
their distrust, for, coming close to me, he said in a whisper,
all the while looking furtively at them, "They think I could hurt you!
Fancy me hurting you! The fools!"
It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself
disassociated even in the mind of this poor madman from
the others, but all the same I do not follow his thought.
Am I to take it that I have anything in common with him, so that
we are, as it were, to stand together. Or has he to gain from me
some good so stupendous that my well being is needful to Him?
I must find out later on. Tonight he will not speak.
Even the offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will
not tempt him.
He will only say, "I don't take any stock in cats.
I have more to think of now, and I can wait. I can wait."
After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was quiet until
just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy, and at length violent,
until at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted him so that he swooned
into a sort of coma.
... Three nights has the same thing happened, violent all day then quiet
from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some clue to the cause.
It would almost seem as if there was some influence which came and went.
Happy thought! We shall tonight play sane wits against mad ones.
He escaped before without our help. Tonight he shall escape with it.
We shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in case
they are required.
23 August.--"The expected always happens." How well Disraeli knew life.
Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our
subtle arrangements were for nought. At any rate, we have proved
one thing, that the spells of quietness last a reasonable time.
We shall in future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours each day.
I have given orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in
the padded room, when once he is quiet, until the hour before sunrise.
The poor soul's body will enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot
appreciate it. Hark! The unexpected again! I am called.
The patient has once more escaped.
Later.--Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited
until the attendant was entering the room to inspect.
Then he dashed out past him and flew down the passage.
I sent word for the attendants to follow. Again he went
into the grounds of the deserted house, and we found him
in the same place, pressed against the old chapel door.
When he saw me he became furious, and had not the attendants
seized him in time, he would have tried to kill me.
As we sere holding him a strange thing happened.
He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then as suddenly grew calm.
I looked round instinctively, but could see nothing.
Then I caught the patient's eye and followed it, but could trace
nothing as it looked into the moonlight sky, except a big bat,
which was flapping its silent and ghostly way to the west.
Bats usually wheel about, but this one seemed to go straight on,
as if it knew where it was bound for or had some intention
of its own.
The patient grew calmer every instant, and presently said,
"You needn't tie me. I shall go quietly!" Without trouble,
we came back to the house. I feel there is something ominous
in his calm, and shall not forget this night.
LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY
Hillingham, 24 August.--I must imitate Mina, and keep writing things down.
Then we can have long talks when we do meet. I wonder when it
will be. I wish she were with me again, for I feel so unhappy.
Last night I seemed to be dreaming again just as I was at Whitby.
Perhaps it is the change of air, or getting home again.
It is all dark and horrid to me, for I can remember nothing.
But I am full of vague fear, and I feel so weak and worn out.
When Arthur came to lunch he looked quite grieved when he saw me,
and I hadn't the spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder if I could
sleep in mother's room tonight. I shall make an excuse to try.
25 August.--Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take to my proposal.
She seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears to worry me.
I tried to keep awake, and succeeded for a while, but when the clock struck
twelve it waked me from a doze, so I must have been falling asleep.
There was a sort of scratching or flapping at the window, but I did not
mind it, and as I remember no more, I suppose I must have fallen asleep.
More bad dreams. I wish I could remember them. This morning I am
horribly weak. My face is ghastly pale, and my throat pains me.
It must be something wrong with my lungs, for I don't seem to be getting
air enough. I shall try to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else I know
he will be miserable to see me so.