Bram Stoker

But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things

What I saw was the Count’s head com­ing out from the win­dow. I did not

I was not alone. The room was the same, un­changed in any way since I came into it; I could see along the floor, in the bril­liant moon­light, my own foot­step

Good night, every­body.

Later.—How strange it all is. I sat watch­ing Mina’s happy sleep, and came as near to be­ing happy my­self as I sup­pose I shall ever be. As the even­ing drew on, and the earth took its shad­ows from the sun sink­ing lower, the si­lence of the room grew more and more sol­emn to me. All at once Mina opened her eyes, and look­ing at me ten­derly, said:―

“Jonathan, I want you to prom­ise me some­thing on your word of hon­our. A prom­ise made to me, but made holily in God’s hear­ing, and not to be broken though I should go down on my knees and im­plore you with bit­ter tears. Quick, you must make it to me at once.”

“Mina,” I said, “a prom­ise like that, I can­not make at once. I may have no right to make it.”

“But, dear one,” she said, with such spir­itual in­tens­ity that her eyes were like pole stars, “it is I who wish it; and it is not for my­self. You can ask Dr. Van Helsing if I am not right; if he dis­agrees you may do as you will. Nay, more, if you all agree, later, you are ab­solved from the prom­ise.”

“I prom­ise!” I said, and for a mo­ment she looked su­premely happy; though to me all hap­pi­ness for her was denied by the red scar on her fore­head. She said:―

“Prom­ise me that you will not tell me any­thing of the plans formed for the cam­paign against the Count. Not by word, or in­fer­ence, or im­plic­a­tion; not at any time whilst this re­mains to me!” and she sol­emnly poin­ted to the scar. I saw that she was in earn­est, and said sol­emnly:―

“I prom­ise!” and as I said it I felt that from that in­stant a door had been shut between us.

“You must take me with you. I am safer with you, and you shall be safer, too.”

“But why, dear Madam Mina? You know that your safety is our sol­em­nest duty. We go into danger, to which you are, or may be, more li­able than any of us from—from cir­cum­stances—things that have been.” He paused, em­bar­rassed.

As she replied, she raised her fin­ger and poin­ted to her fore­head:―

“I know. That is why I must go. I can tell you now, whilst the sun is com­ing up; I may not be able again. I know that when the Count wills me I must go. I know that if he tells me to come in secret, I must come by wile; by any device to hood­wink—even Jonathan.” God saw the look that she turned on me as she spoke, and if there be in­deed a Re­cord­ing An­gel that look is noted to her ever­last­ing hon­our. I could only clasp her hand. I could not speak; my emo­tion was too great for even the re­lief of tears.

“This is what I can give into the hotch-pot.” I could not but note the quaint legal phrase which she used in such a place, and with all ser­i­ous­ness. “What will each of you give? Your lives I know,” she went on quickly, “that is easy for brave men. Your lives are God’s, and you can give them back to Him; but what will you give to me?” She looked again ques­tion­ingly, but this time avoided her hus­band’s face. Quin­cey seemed to un­der­stand; he nod­ded, and her face lit up. “Then I shall tell you plainly what I want, for there must be no doubt­ful mat­ter in this con­nec­tion between us now. You must prom­ise me, one and all—even you, my be­loved hus­band—that, should the time come, you will kill me.”

“What is that time?” The voice was Quin­cey’s, but it was low and strained.

“When you shall be con­vinced that I am so changed that it is bet­ter that I die that I may live. When I am thus dead in the flesh, then you will, without a mo­ment’s delay, drive a stake through me and cut off my head; or do whatever else may be want­ing to give me rest!”

Quin­cey was the first to rise after the pause. He knelt down be­fore her and tak­ing her hand in his said sol­emnly:―

“I’m only a rough fel­low, who hasn’t, per­haps, lived as a man should to win such a dis­tinc­tion, but I swear to you by all that I hold sac­red and dear that, should the time ever come, I shall not flinch from the duty that you have set us. And I prom­ise you, too, that I shall make all cer­tain, for if I am only doubt­ful I shall take it that the time has come!”

“My true friend!” was all she could say amid her fast-fall­ing tears, as, bend­ing over, she kissed his hand.

“I swear the same, my dear Madam Mina!” said Van Helsing.

“And I!” said Lord Godalm­ing, each of them in turn kneel­ing to her to take the oath. I fol­lowed, my­self. Then her hus­band turned to her wan-eyed and with a green­ish pal­lor which sub­dued the snowy white­ness of his hair, and asked:―

“And must I, too, make such a prom­ise, oh, my wife?”

We think that we shall not have much trouble with of­fi­cials or the sea­men. Thank God! this is the coun­try where bribery can do any­thing, and we are well sup­plied with money. We have only to make sure that the ship can­not come into port between sun­set and sun­rise without our be­ing warned, and we shall be safe. Judge Money­bag will settle this case, I think!

Van Helsing ex­am­ines, he tells me, her teeth very care­fully, whilst she is in the hyp­notic con­di­tion, for he says that so long as they do not be­gin to sharpen there is no act­ive danger of a change in her. If this change should come, it would be ne­ces­sary to take steps! … We both know what those steps would have to be, though we do not men­tion our thoughts to each other. We should neither of us shrink from the task—aw­ful though it be to con­tem­plate. “Euthanasia” is an ex­cel­lent and a com­fort­ing word! I am grate­ful to who­ever in­ven­ted it.

“You too, my dearest,” she said, with in­fin­ite yearn­ing of pity in her voice and eyes. “You must not shrink. You are nearest and dearest and all the world to me; our souls are knit into one, for all life and all time. Think, dear, that there have been times when brave men have killed their wives and their wo­men­kind, to keep them from fall­ing into the hands of the en­emy. Their hands did not fal­ter any the more be­cause those that they loved im­plored them to slay them. It is men’s duty to­wards those whom they love, in such times of sore trial! And oh, my dear, if it is to be that I must meet death at any hand, let it be at the hand of him that loves me best. Dr. Van Helsing, I have not for­got­ten your mercy in poor Lucy’s case to him who loved”—she stopped with a fly­ing blush, and changed her phrase—“to him who had best right to give her peace. If that time shall come again, I look to you to make it a happy memory of my hus­band’s life that it was his lov­ing hand which set me free from the aw­ful thrall upon me.”

“Again I swear!” came the Pro­fessor’s res­on­ant voice. Mrs. Harker smiled, pos­it­ively smiled, as with a sigh of re­lief she leaned back and said:―

“And now one word of warn­ing, a warn­ing which you must never for­get: this time, if it ever come, may come quickly and un­ex­pec­tedly, and in such case you must lose no time in us­ing your op­por­tun­ity. At such a time I my­self might be—nay! if the time ever comes, shall be—leagued with your en­emy against you.”

“One more re­quest;” she be­came very sol­emn as she said this, “it is not vi­tal and ne­ces­sary like the other, but I want you to do one thing for me, if you will.” We all ac­qui­esced, but no one spoke; there was no need to speak:―

“I want you to read the Burial Ser­vice.” She was in­ter­rup­ted by a deep groan from her hus­band; tak­ing his hand in hers, she held it over her heart, and con­tin­ued: “You must read it over me some day. Whatever may be the is­sue of all this fear­ful state of things, it will be a sweet thought to all or some of us. You, my dearest, will I hope read it, for then it will be in your voice in my memory forever—come what may!”

“But oh, my dear one,” he pleaded, “death is afar off from you.”

“Nay,” she said, hold­ing up a warn­ing hand. “I am deeper in death at this mo­ment than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me!”

“Oh, my wife, must I read it?” he said, be­fore he began.

“It would com­fort me, my hus­band!” was all she said; and he began to read when she had got the book ready.