CHAPTER 13
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY--cont.
The funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucas and his mother might be buried together. I attended to all the ghastly formalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that her staff was afflicted, or blessed, with something of her own obsequious suavity. Even the man who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when he had come out from the death chamber,
'He makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It's quite a privilege to attend on him. It's not too much to say that he will do credit to our establishment!'
I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible from the disordered state of things in the household. There were no relatives at hand, and as Artemis had to be back the next day to attend at her mother's funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should have been bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it upon ourselves to examine papers, etc. She insisted upon looking over Lucas's papers herself. I asked her why, for I feared that she, being a foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble.
She answered me, 'I know, I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor. But this is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided the coroner. I have more than her to avoid. There may be papers more, such as this.'
As she spoke she took from her pocket book the memorandum which had been in Lucas's breast, and which he had torn in his sleep.
'When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Westenra, seal all his papers, and write her tonight. For me, I watch here in the room and in Mister Lucas's old room all night, and I myself search for what may be. It is not well that his very thoughts go into the hands of strangers.'
I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found the name and address of Westenra's solicitor and had written to her. All the poor lady's papers were in order. Explicit directions regarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly sealed the letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room, saying,
'Can I help you friend Joan? I am free, and if I may, my service is to you.'
'Have you got what you looked for?’ I asked.
To which she replied, 'I did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to find, and find I have, all that there was, only some letters and a few memoranda, and a diary new begun. But I have them here, and we shall for the present say nothing of them. I shall see that poor lass tomorrow evening, and, with her sanction, I shall use some.'
When we had finished the work in hand, she said to me, ‘and now, friend Joan, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you and I, and rest to recuperate. Tomorrow we shall have much to do, but for the tonight there is no need of us. Alas!'
Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucas. The undertaker had certainly done her work well, for the room was turned into a small chapelle ardente. There was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers, and death was made as little repulsive as might be. The end of the winding sheet was laid over the face. When the Professor bent over and turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us. The tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. All Lucas's loveliness had come back to his in death, and the hours that had passed, instead of leaving traces of 'decay's effacing fingers', had but restored the beauty of life, till positively I could not believe my eyes that I was looking at a corpse.
The Professor looked sternly grave. She had not loved his as I had, and there was no need for tears in her eyes. She said to me, 'Remain till I return,’ and left the room. She came back with a handful of wild garlic from the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been opened, and placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the bed. Then she took from her neck, inside her collar, a little gold crucifix, and placed it over the mouth. She restored the sheet to its place, and we came away.
I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the door, she entered, and at once began to speak.
'Tomorrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem knives.'
'Must we make an autopsy?’ I asked.
'Yes and no. I want to operate, but not what you think. Let me tell you now, but not a word to another. I want to cut off his head and take out his heart. Ah! You a surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I have seen with no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life and death that make the rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my dear friend Joan, that you loved him, and I have not forgotten it for is I that shall operate, and you must not help. I would like to do it tonight, but for Artemis I must not. She will be free after her mother's funeral tomorrow, and she will want to see him, to see it. Then, when he is coffined ready for the next day, you and I shall come when all sleep. We shall unscrew the coffin lid, and shall do our operation, and then replace all, so that none know, save we alone.'
'But why do it at all? The boy is dead. Why mutilate his poor body without need? And if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and nothing to gain by it, no good to him, to us, to science, to human knowledge, why do it? Without such it is monstrous.'
For answer she put her hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite tenderness, 'Friend Joan, I pity your poor bleeding heart, and I love you the more because it does so bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burden that you do bear. But there are things that you know not, but that you shall know, and bless me for knowing, though they are not pleasant things. Joan, my child, you have been my friend now many years, and yet did you ever know me to do any without good cause? I may err, I am but woman, but I believe in all I do. Was it not for these causes that you send for me when the great trouble came? Yes! Were you not amazed, nay horrified, when I would not let Artemis kiss her love, though he was dying, and snatched her away by all my strength? Yes! And yet you saw how he thanked me, with his so beautiful dying eyes, his voice, too, so weak, and he kiss my rough old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not hear me swear promise to him, that so he closed his eyes grateful? Yes!
'Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have for many years trust me. You have believe me weeks past, when there be things so strange that you might have well doubt. Believe me yet a little, friend Joan. If you trust me not, then I must tell what I think, and that is not perhaps well. And if I work, as work I shall, no matter trust or no trust, without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy heart and feel oh so lonely when I want all help and courage that may be!’ she paused a moment and went on solemnly, 'Friend Joan, there are strange and terrible days before us. Let us not be two, but one, that so we work to a good end. Will you not have faith in me?'
I took her hand, and promised her. I held my door open as she went away, and watched her go to her room and close the door. As I stood without moving, I saw one of the pages pass silently along the passage, he had his back to me, so did not see me, and go into the room where Lucas lay. The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are so grateful to those who show it unasked to those we love. Here was a poor boy putting aside the terrors which he naturally had of death to go watch alone by the bier of the master whom he loved, so that the poor clay might not be lonely till laid to eternal rest.
I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when Van Helsing waked me by coming into my room. She came over to my bedside and said, 'You need not trouble about the knives. We shall not do it.'
'Why not?’ I asked. For her solemnity of the night before had greatly impressed me.
'Because,’ she said sternly, 'it is too late, or too early. See!'Here she held up the little golden crucifix.
'This was stolen in the night.'
'How stolen,’ I asked in wonder, 'since you have it now?'
'Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from the man who robbed the dead and the living. His punishment will surely come, but not through me. He knew not altogether what he
did, and thus unknowing, he only stole. Now we must wait.'She went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of, a new puzzle to grapple with.
The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came, Ms. Marquand, of Wholeman, Daughters, Marquand & Lidderdale. She was very genial and very appreciative of what we had done, and took off our hands all cares as to details. During lunch she told us that Westenra had for some time expected sudden death from his heart, and had put his affairs in absolute order. She informed us that, with the exception of a certain entailed property of Lucas's mother which now, in default of direct issue, went back to a distant branch of the family, the whole estate, real and personal, was left absolutely to Artemis Holmwood. When she had told us so much she went on,
'Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, and pointed out certain contingencies that might leave his son either penniless or not so free as he should be to act regarding a matrimonial alliance. Indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we almost came into collision, for he asked us if we were or were not prepared to carry out his wishes. Of course, we had then no alternative but to accept. We were right in principle, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred we should have proved, by the logic of events, the accuracy of our judgment.
'Frankly, however, I must admit that in this case any other form of disposition would have rendered impossible the carrying out of his wishes. For by his predeceasing his son the latter would have come into possession of the property, and, even had he only survived his mother by five minutes, his property would, in case there were no will, and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case, have been treated at his decease as under intestacy. In which case Lady Godalming, though so dear a friend, would have had no claim in the world. And the inheritors, being remote, would not be likely to abandon their just rights, for sentimental reasons regarding an entire stranger. I assure you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result, perfectly rejoiced.'
She was a good fellow, but her rejoicing at the one little part, in which she was officially interested, of so great a tragedy, was an object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding.
She did not remain long, but said she would look in later in the day and see Lady Godalming. Her coming, however, had been a certain comfort to us, since it assured us that we should not have to dread hostile criticism as to any of our acts. Artemis was expected at five o'clock, so a little before that time we visited the death chamber. It was so in very truth, for now both mother and son lay in it. The undertaker, true to her craft, had made the best display she could of her goods, and there was a mortuary air about the place that lowered our spirits at once.
Van Helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to, explaining that, as Lady Godalming was coming very soon, it would be less harrowing to her feelings to see all that was left of her fiancee quite alone.
The undertaker seemed shocked at her own stupidity and exerted herself to restore things to the condition in which we left them the night before, so that when Artemis came such shocks to her feelings as we could avoid were saved.
Poor fellow! She looked desperately sad and broken. Even her stalwart womanhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of her much-tried emotions. She had, I knew, been very genuinely and devotedly attached to her mother, and to lose her, and at such a time, was a bitter blow to her. With me she was warm as ever, and to Van Helsing she was sweetly courteous. But I could not help seeing that there was some constraint with her. The professor noticed it too, and motioned me to bring her upstairs. I did so, and left her at the door of the room, as I felt she would like to be quite alone with him, but she took my arm and led me in, saying huskily,
'You loved his too, old fellow. He told me all about it, and there was no friend had a closer place in his heart than you. I don't know how to thank you for all you have done for him. I can't think yet . . .'
Here she suddenly broke down, and threw her arms round my shoulders and laid her head on my breast, crying, 'Oh, Jacky! Jacky! What shall I do? The whole of life seems gone from me all at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for me to live for.'
I comforted her as well as I could. In such cases women do not need much expression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a woman's heart. I stood still and silent till her sobs died away, and then I said softly to her, 'Come and look at him.'
Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from his face. God! How beautiful he was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing his loveliness. It frightened and amazed me somewhat. And as for Artemis, she fell to trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. At last, after a long pause, she said to me in a faint whisper, 'Jacky, is he really dead?'
I assured her sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest, for I felt that such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer than I could help, that it often happened that after death faces become softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty, that this was especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged suffering. I seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and after kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at his lovingly and long, she turned aside. I told her that that must be goodbye, as the coffin had to be prepared, so she went back and took his dead hand in her and kissed it, and bent over and kissed his forehead. She came away, fondly looking back over her shoulder at his as she came.
I left her in the drawing room, and told Van Helsing that she had said goodbye, so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker's women to proceed with the preparations and to screw up the coffin. When she came out of the room again I told her of Artemis's question, and she replied, 'I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment myself!'
We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to make the best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner time, but when we had lit our cigars she said, 'Lady . . .'but Artemis interrupted her.
'No, no, not that, for God's sake! Not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir. I did not mean to speak offensively. It is only because my loss is so recent.'
The Professor answered very sweetly, 'I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you 'Mr.' and I have grown to love you, yes, my dear girl, to love you, as Artemis.'
Artemis held out her hand, and took the old woman's warmly. 'Call me what you will,’ she said. 'I hope I may always have the title of a friend. And let me say that I am at a loss for words to thank you for your goodness to my poor dear.'She paused a moment, and went on, 'I know that he understood your goodness even better than I do. And if I was rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted so, you remember'--the Professor nodded--'you must forgive me.'
She answered with a grave kindness, 'I know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to trust such violence needs to understand, and I take it that you do not, that you cannot, trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there may be more times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot, and may not, and must not yet understand. But the time will come when your trust shall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand as though the sunlight herself shone through. Then you shall bless me from first to last for your own sake, and for the sake of others, and for his dear sake to whom I swore to protect.'
‘and indeed, indeed, sir,’ said Artemis warmly. 'I shall in all ways trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are Jacky's friend, and you were his. You shall do what you like.'
The Professor cleared her throat a couple of times, as though about to speak, and finally said, 'May I ask you something now?'
'Certainly.'
'You know that Westenra left you all his property?'
'No, poor dear. I never thought of it.'
‘and as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I want you to give me permission to read all Mister Lucas's papers a
nd letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which, be sure, he would have approved. I have them all here. I took them before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch them, no strange eye look through words into his soul. I shall keep them, if I may. Even you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them safe. No word shall be lost, and in the good time I shall give them back to you. It is a hard thing that I ask, but you will do it, will you not, for Lucas's sake?'
Artemis spoke out heartily, like her old self, 'Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I am doing what my dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you with questions till the time comes.'
The old Professor stood up as she said solemnly, ‘and you are right. There will be pain for us all, but it will not be all pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you too, you most of all, dear girl, will have to pass through the bitter water before we reach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our duty, and all will be well!'
I slept on a sofa in Artemis's room that night. Van Helsing did not go to bed at all. She went to and fro, as if patroling the house, and was never out of sight of the room where Lucas lay in his coffin, strewn with the wild garlic flowers, which sent through the odour of lily and rose, a heavy, overpowering smell into the night.
MINAS HARKER'S JOURNAL
22 September.--In the train to Exeter. Joanna sleeping. It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between then, in Whitby and all the world before me, Joanna away and no news of her, and now, married to Joanna, Joanna a solicitor, a partner, rich, mistress of her business, Ms. Hawkins dead and buried, and Joanna with another attack that may harm her. Some day she may ask me about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand, see what unexpected prosperity does for us, so it may be as well to freshen it up again with an exercise anyhow.
The service was very simple and very solemn. There were only ourselves and the servants there, one or two old friends of her from Exeter, her London agent, and a gentlewoman representing Lady Joan Paxton, the President of the Incorporated Law Society. Joanna and I stood hand in hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was gone from us.
We came back to town quietly, taking a bus to Hyde Park Corner. Joanna thought it would interest me to go into the Row for a while, so we sat down. But there were very few people there, and it was sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs. It made us think of the empty chair at home. So we got up and walked down Piccadilly. Joanna was holding me by the arm, the way she used to in the old days before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for you can't go on for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other girls without the pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit. But it was Joanna, and she was my wife, and we didn't know anybody who saw us, and we didn't care if they did, so on we walked. I was looking at a very beautiful boy, in a big cart-wheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside Guiliano's, when I felt Joanna clutch my arm so tight that she hurt me, and she said under her breath, 'My God!'
I am always anxious about Joanna, for I fear that some nervous fit may upset her again. So I turned to her quickly, and asked her what it was that disturbed her.
She was very pale, and her eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and half in amazement, she gazed at a tall, thin woman, with a beaky nose and black moustache and pointed locks, who was also observing the pretty boy. She was looking at his so hard that she did not see either of us, and so I had a good view of her. Her face was not a good face. It was hard, and cruel, and sensual, and big white teeth, that looked all the whiter because her lips were so red, were pointed like an animal's. Joanna kept staring at her, till I was afraid she would notice. I feared she might take it ill, she looked so fierce and nasty. I asked Joanna why she was disturbed, and she answered, evidently thinking that I knew as much about it as she did, 'Do you see who it is?'
'No, dear,’ I said. 'I don't know her, who is it?’ Her answer seemed to shock and thrill me, for it was said as if she did not know that it was me, Minas, to whom she was speaking. 'It is the woman herself!'
The poor dear was evidently terrified at something, very greatly terrified. I do believe that if she had not had me to lean on and to support her she would have sunk down. She kept staring. A woman came out of the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the sir, who then drove off. The dark woman kept her eyes fixed on him, and when the carriage moved up Piccadilly she followed in the same direction, and hailed a hansom. Joanna kept looking after her, and said, as if to herself,
'I believe it is the Countess, but she has grown young. My God, if this be so! Oh, my God! My God! If only I knew! If only I knew!’ she was distressing herself so much that I feared to keep her mind on the subject by asking her any questions, so I remained silent. I drew away quietly, and she, holding my arm, came easily. We walked a little further, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park. It was a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady place. After a few minutes' staring at nothing, Joanna's eyes closed, and she went quickly into a sleep, with her head on my shoulder. I thought it was the best thing for her, so did not disturb her. In about twenty minutes she woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully,
'Why, Minas, have I been asleep! Oh, do forgive me for being so rude. Come, and we'll have a cup of tea somewhere.'
She had evidently forgotten all about the dark stranger, as in her illness she had forgotten all that this episode had reminded her of. I don't like this lapsing into forgetfulness. It may make or continue some injury to the brain. I must not ask her, for fear I shall do more harm than good, but I must somehow learn the facts of her journey abroad. The time is come, I fear, when I must open the parcel, and know what is written. Oh, Joanna, you will, I know, forgive me if I do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake.
Later.--A sad homecoming in every way, the house empty of the dear soul who was so good to us. Joanna still pale and dizzy under a slight relapse of her malady, and now a telegram from Van Helsing, whoever she may be. 'You will be grieved to hear that Westenra died five days ago, and that Lucas died the day before yesterday. They were both buried today.'
Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Westenra! Poor Lucas! Gone, gone, never to return to us! And poor, poor Artemis, to have lost such a sweetness out of her life! God help us all to bear our troubles.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY-CONT.
22 September.--It is all over. Artemis has gone back to Ring, and has taken Quincy Morris with her. What a fine fellow is Quincy! I believe in my heart of hearts that she suffered as much about Lucas's death as any of us, but she bore herself through it like a moral Viking. If America can go on breeding women like that, he will be a power in the world indeed. Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory to her journey. She goes to Amsterdam tonight, but says she returns tomorrow night, that she only wants to make some arrangements which can only be made personally. She is to stop with me then, if she can. She says she has work to do in London which may take her some time. Poor old fellow! I fear that the strain of the past week has broken down even her iron strength. All the time of the burial she was, I could see, putting some terrible restraint on herself. When it was all over, we were standing beside Artemis, who, poor fellow, was speaking of her part in the operation where her blood had been transfused to her Lucas's veins. I could see Van Helsing's face grow white and purple by turns. Artemis was saying that she felt since then as if they two had been really married, and that he was her husband in the sight of God. None of us said a word of the other operations, and none of us ever shall. Artemis and Quincy went away together to the station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The moment we were alone in the carriage she gave way to a regular fit of hysterics. She has denied to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted that it was only her sense of humor asserting itself under very terrible conditions. She laughed till she cried, and I had to draw down the blinds lest any one should see us
and misjudge. And then she cried, till she laughed again, and laughed and cried together, just as a man does. I tried to be stern with her, as one is to a man under the circumstances, but it had no effect. Women and men are so different in manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then when her face grew grave and stern again I asked her why her mirth, and why at such a time. Her reply was in a way characteristic of her, for it was logical and forceful and mysterious. She said,
'Ah, you don't comprehend, friend Joan. Do not think that I am not sad, though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh she come just the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your door and say, 'May I come in?' is not true laughter. No! She is a queen, and she come when and how she like. She ask no person, she choose no time of suitability. She say, 'I am here.' Behold, in example I grieve my heart out for that so sweet young boy. I give my blood for him, though I am old and worn. I give my time, my skill, my sleep. I let my other sufferers want that he may have all. And yet I can laugh at his very grave, laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon his coffin and say 'Thud, thud!' to my heart, till it send back the blood from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor girl, that dear girl, so of the age of mine own girl had I been so blessed that she live, and with her hair and eyes the same.
'There, you know now why I love her so. And yet when she say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my father-heart yearn to her as to no other woman, not even you, friend Joan, for we are more level in experiences than mother and daughter, yet even at such a moment Queen Laugh she come to me and shout and bellow in my ear, 'Here I am! Here I am!' till the blood come dance back and bring some of the sunshine that she carry with her to my cheek. Oh, friend Joan, it is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles. And yet when Queen Laugh come, she make them all dance to the tune she play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall, all dance together to the music that she make with that smileless mouth of her. And believe me, friend Joan, that she is good to come, and kind. Ah, we women and men are like ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come, and like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain become too great, and we break. But Queen Laugh she come like the sunshine, and she ease off the strain again, and we bear to go on with our labor, what it may be.'
I did not like to wound her by pretending not to see her idea, but as I did not yet understand the cause of her laughter, I asked her. As she answered me her face grew stern, and she said in quite a different tone,
'Oh, it was the grim irony of it all, this so lovely sir garlanded with flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered if he were truly dead, he laid in that so fine marble house in that lonely churchyard, where rest so many of his kin, laid there with the mother who loved him, and whom he loved, and that sacred bell going 'Toll! Toll! Toll!' so sad and slow, and those holy women, with the white garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time their eyes never on the maid, and all of us with the bowed head. And all for what? He is dead, so! Is it not?'
'Well, for the life of me, Professor,’ I said, 'I can't see anything to laugh at in all that. Why, your expression makes it a harder puzzle than before. But even if the burial service was comic, what about poor Art and her trouble? Why her heart was simply breaking.'
'Just so. Said she not that the transfusion of her blood to his veins had made his truly her bride?'
'Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for her.'
'Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend Joan. If so that, then what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet page is a polyandrist, and me, with my poor husband dead to me, but alive by Church's law, though no wits, all gone, even I, who am faithful wife to this now-no-wife, am bigamist.'
'I don't see where the joke comes in there either!'I said, and I did not feel particularly pleased with her for saying such things. She laid her hand on my arm, and said,
'Friend Joan, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust. If you could have looked into my heart then when I want to laugh, if you could have done so when the laugh arrived, if you could do so now, when Queen Laugh have pack up her crown, and all that is to her, for she go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time, maybe you would perhaps pity me the most of all.'
I was touched by the tenderness of her tone, and asked why.
'Because I know!'
And now we are all scattered, and for many a long day loneliness will sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucas lies in the tomb of his kin, a lordly death house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming London, where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill, and where wild flowers grow of their own accord.
So I can finish this diary, and God only knows if I shall ever begin another. If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to deal with different people and different themes, for here at the end, where the romance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of my life-work, I say sadly and without hope, 'FINIS'.
THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
The neighborhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a series of events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of what was known to the writers of headlines as 'The Kensington Horror,'or 'The Stabbing Man,'or 'The Man in Black.'During the past two or three days several cases have occurred of young children straying from home or neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath. In all these cases the children were too young to give any properly intelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of their excuses is that they had been with a 'bloofer bloke.'It has always been late in the evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions the children have not been found until early in the following morning. It is generally supposed in the neighborhood that, as the first child missed gave as her reason for being away that a 'bloofer bloke'had asked her to come for a walk, the others had picked up the phrase and used it as occasion served. This is the more natural as the favourite game of the little ones at present is luring each other away by wiles. A correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending to be the 'bloofer bloke'is supremely funny. Some of our caricaturists might, she says, take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing the reality and the picture. It is only in accordance with general principles of human nature that the 'bloofer bloke'should be the popular role at these al fresco performances. Our correspondent naively says that even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly attractive as some of these grubby-faced little children pretend, and even imagine themselves, to be.
There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some of the children, indeed all who have been missed at night, have been slightly torn or wounded in the throat. The wounds seem such as might be made by a rat or a small dog, and although of not much importance individually, would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has a system or method of its own. The police of the division have been instructed to keep a sharp lookout for straying children, especially when very young, in and around Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog which may be about.
THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER EXTRA SPECIAL
THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR
ANOTHER CHILD INJURED
THE 'BLOOFER LADY'
We have just received intelligence that another child, missed last night, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at the Shooter's Hill side of Hampstead Heath, which is perhaps, less frequented than the other parts. It has the same tiny wound in the throat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the common story to tell of being lured away by the 'bloofer bloke'.
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