CHAPTER 9. LETTER

"Buda-Pesth, 24 August. "My dearest Lucy,—

"I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since

we parted

at the railway station at Whitby. Well, my dear, I got to Hull all

right, and caught the boat to Hamburg, and then the train on

here. I feel that I can hardly recall anything of the journey,

except that I knew I was coming to Jonathan, and, that as I

should have to do some nursing, I had better get all the sleep I

could.... I found my dear one, oh, so thin and pale and weak-

looking. All the resolution has gone out of his dear eyes, and

that quiet dignity which I told you was in his face has vanished.

He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not remember

anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At

least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask. He has

had some terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his poor brain if

he were to try to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a good creature

and a born nurse, tells me that he raved of dreadful things

whilst he was off his head. I wanted her to tell me what they

were; but she would only cross herself, and say she would nevertell; that the ravings of the sick were the secrets of God, and

that if a nurse through her vocation should hear them, she

should respect her trust. She is a sweet, good soul, and the next

day, when she saw I was troubled, she opened up the subject

again, and after saying that she could never mention what my

poor dear raved about, added: 'I can tell you this much, my

dear: that it was not about anything which he has done wrong

himself; and you, as his wife to be, have no cause to be

concerned. He has not forgotten you or what he owes to you.

His fear was of great and terrible things, which no mortal can

treat of.' I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous

lest my poor dear should have fallen in love with any other girl.

The idea of my being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear,

let me whisper, I felt a thrill of joy through me when I knew that

no other woman was a cause of trouble. I am now sitting by his

bedside, where I can see his face while he sleeps. He is

waking!...

"When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get

something from the pocket; I asked Sister Agatha, and she

brought all his things. I saw that amongst them was his note-

book, and was going to ask him to let me look at it—for I knew

then that I might find some clue to his trouble—but I suppose

he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent me over to

the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone for a moment.

Then he called me back, and when I came he had his hand over

the note-book, and he said to me very solemnly:—" 'Wilhelmina'—I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he

has never called me by that name since he asked me to marry

him—'you know, dear, my ideas of the trust between husband

and wife: there should be no secret, no concealment. I have had

a great shock, and when I try to think of what it is I feel my

head spin round, and I do not know if it was all real or the

dreaming of a madman. You know I have had brain fever, and

that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want to know

it. I want to take up my life here, with our marriage.' For, my

dear, we had decided to be married as soon

as the formalities are complete. 'Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to

share my ignorance? Here is the book. Take it and keep it, read

it if you will, but never let me know; unless, indeed, some solemn

duty should come upon me to go back to the bitter hours,

asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.' He fell back

exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and kissed him.

I have asked Sister Agatha to beg the Superior to let our

wedding be this afternoon, and am waiting her reply....

"She has come and told me that the chaplain of the English

mission church has been sent for. We are to be married in an

hour, or as soon after as Jonathan awakes....

"Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very,

very happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was

ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. Heanswered his 'I will' firmly and strongly. I could hardly speak;

my heart was so full that even those words seemed to choke

me. The dear sisters were so kind. Please God, I shall never,

never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities I

have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present.

When the chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my

husband—oh, Lucy, it is the first time I have written the words

'my husband'—left me alone with my husband, I took the book

from under his pillow, and wrapped it up in white paper, and

tied it with a little bit of pale blue ribbon which was round my

neck, and sealed it over the knot with sealing-wax, and for my

seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it to

my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it

would be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that we

trusted each other; that I would never open it unless it were for

his own dear sake or for the sake of some stern duty. Then he

took my hand in his, and oh, Lucy, it was the first time he took

his wife's hand, and said that it was the dearest thing in all the

wide world, and that he would go through all the past again to

win it, if need be. The poor dear meant to have said a part of

the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I shall not wonder

if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the year.

"Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him that I was

the happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had

nothing to give him except myself, my life, and my trust, and

that with these went my love and duty for all the days of my life.And, my dear, when he kissed me, and drew me to him with his

poor weak hands, it was like a very solemn pledge between us....

"Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only

because it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and

are, very dear to me. It was my privilege to be your friend and

guide when you came from the schoolroom to prepare for the

world of life. I want you to see now, and with the eyes of a

very happy wife, whither duty has led me; so that in your own

married life you too may be all happy as I am. My dear, please

Almighty God, your life may be all it promises: a long day of

sunshine, with no harsh wind, no forgetting duty, no distrust. I

must not wish you no pain, for that can never be; but I do hope

you will be always as happy as I am now. Good-bye, my dear. I

shall post this at once, and, perhaps, write you very soon again.

I must stop, for Jonathan is waking—I must attend to my

husband!

"Your ever-loving "Mina Harker."

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Harker. "Whitby, 30 August.

"My dearest Mina,—

"Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in

your own home with your husband. I wish you could be coming

home soon enough to stay with us here. The strong air would

soon restore Jonathan; it has quite restored me. I have anappetite like a cormorant, am full of life, and sleep well. You will

be glad to know that I have quite given up walking in my sleep.

I think I have not stirred out of my bed for a week, that is when

I once got into it at night. Arthur says I am getting fat. By the

way, I forgot to tell you that Arthur is here. We have such walks

and drives, and rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing

together; and I love him more than ever. He tells me that he

loves me more, but I doubt that, for at first he told me that he

couldn't love me more than he did then. But this is nonsense.

There he is, calling to me. So no more just at present from your

loving

"Lucy.

"P. S.—Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear. "P.

P. S.—We are to be married on 28 September."

Dr. Seward's Diary.

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 hispresent 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

dissociated 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. To-night 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 someinfluence which came and went. Happy thought! We shall to-

night play sane wits against mad ones. He escaped before

without our help; to-night 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 unexpected 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 an 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 were holding him a strange thing

happened. He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then as

suddenly grew calm. I looked round instinctively, but could seenothing. Then I caught the patient's eye and followed it, but

could trace nothing as it looked into the moonlit sky except a

big bat, which was

flapping its silent and ghostly way to the west. Bats usually

wheel and flit 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 to- night. I shall make

an excuse and try.

25 August.—Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take to

my proposal. She seems not too well herself, and doubtless shefears 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 then 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 ever to get air enough. I shall try to cheer up when

Arthur comes, or else I know he will be miserable to see me so.

Letter, Arthur Holmwood to Dr. Seward. "Albemarle Hotel, 31

August.

"My dear Jack,—

"I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill; that is, she has no

special disease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse every

day. I have asked her if there is any cause; I do not dare to ask

her mother, for to disturb the poor lady's mind about her

daughter in her present state of health would be fatal. Mrs.

Westenra has confided to me that her doom is spoken—disease

of the heart—though poor Lucy does not know it yet. I am sure

that there is something preying on my dear girl's mind. I am

almost distracted when I think of her; to look at her gives me a

pang. I told her I should ask you to see her, and though she

demurred at first—I know why, old fellow—she finallyconsented. It will be a painful task for you, I know, old friend,

but it is for her sake, and I must not hesitate to ask, or you to

act. You are to come to lunch at Hillingham to-morrow, two

o'clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in Mrs. Westenra, and

after lunch Lucy will take an opportunity of being alone with

you. I shall come in for tea, and we can go away together; I am

filled with anxiety, and want to consult with you alone as soon

as I can after you have seen her. Do not fail!

"Arthur."

Telegram, Arthur Holmwood to Seward. "1 September.

"Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am writing.

Write me fully by to-night's post to Ring. Wire me if necessary."

Letter from Dr. Seward to Arthur Holmwood. "2 September.

"My dear old fellow,—

"With regard to Miss Westenra's health I hasten to let you know

at once that in my opinion there is not any functional

disturbance or any malady that I know of. At the same time, I

am not by any means satisfied with her appearance; she is

woefully different from what she was when I saw her last. Of

course you must bear in mind that I did not have full

opportunity of examination such as I should wish; our very

friendship makes a little difficulty which not even medical

science or custom can bridge over. I had better tell you exactly

what happened, leaving you to draw, in a measure, your ownconclusions. I shall then say what I have done and propose

doing.

"I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother

was present, and in a few seconds I made up my mind that she

was trying all she knew to mislead her mother and prevent her

from being anxious. I have no doubt she guesses, if she does

not know, what need of caution there is. We lunched alone, and

as we all exerted ourselves to be cheerful, we got, as some kind

of reward for our labours, some real cheerfulness amongst us.

Then Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and Lucy was left with me.

We went into her boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety

remained, for the servants were coming and going. As soon as

the door was closed, however, the mask fell from her face, and

she sank down into a chair with a great sigh, and hid her eyes

with her hand. When I saw that her high spirits had failed, I at

once took advantage of her reaction to make a diagnosis. She

said to me very sweetly:—

" 'I cannot tell you how I loathe talking about myself.' I

reminded her that a doctor's confidence was sacred, but that

you were grievously anxious about

her. She caught on to my meaning at once, and settled that

matter in a word. 'Tell Arthur everything you choose. I do not

care for myself, but all for him!' So I am quite free."I could easily see that she is somewhat bloodless, but I could

not see the usual anæmic signs, and by a chance I was actually

able to test the quality of her blood, for in opening a window

which was stiff a cord gave way, and she cut her hand slightly

with broken glass. It was a slight matter in itself, but it gave me

an evident chance, and I secured a few drops of the blood and

have analysed them. The qualitative analysis gives a quite

normal condition, and shows, I should infer, in itself a vigorous

state of health. In other physical matters I was quite satisfied

that there is no need for anxiety; but as there must be a cause

somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that it must be

something mental. She complains of difficulty in breathing

satisfactorily at times, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with

dreams that frighten her, but regarding which she can

remember nothing. She says that as a child she used to walk in

her sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit came back, and

that once she walked out in the night and went to East Cliff,

where Miss Murray found her; but she assures me that of late

the habit has not returned. I am in doubt, and so have done the

best thing I know of; I have written to my old friend and master,

Professor Van Helsing, of Amsterdam, who knows as much

about obscure diseases as any one in the world. I have asked

him to come over, and as you told me that all things were to be

at your charge, I have mentioned to him who you are and your

relations to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow, is in obedience

to your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy to do

anything I can for her. Van Helsing would, I know, do anythingfor me for a personal reason, so, no matter on what ground he

comes, we must accept his wishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary

man, but this is because he knows what he is talking about

better than any one else. He is a philosopher and a

metaphysician, and one of the most advanced scientists of his

day; and he has, I believe, an absolutely open mind. This, with

an iron nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, an indomitable

resolution, self-command, and toleration exalted from virtues to

blessings, and the kindliest and truest heart that beats—these

form his equipment for the noble work that he is doing for

mankind—work both in theory and practice, for his views are as

wide as his all-embracing sympathy. I tell you these facts that

you may know why I have such confidence in him. I have asked

him to come at once. I shall see Miss Westenra to-morrow

again. She is to meet me at the Stores, so that I may not alarm

her mother by too early a repetition of my call.

"Yours always, "John Seward."

Letter, Abraham Van Helsing, M. D., D. Ph., D. Lit., etc., etc., to

Dr.

Seward.

"2 September.

"My good Friend,—"When I have received your letter I am already coming to you.

By good fortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to any

of those who have trusted me. Were fortune other, then it were

bad for those who have trusted, for I come to my friend when

he call me to aid those he holds dear. Tell your friend that when

that time you suck from my wound so swiftly the poison of the

gangrene from that knife that our other friend, too nervous, let

slip, you did more for him when he wants my aids and you call

for them than all his great fortune could do. But it is pleasure

added to do for him, your friend; it is to you that I come. Have

then rooms for me at the Great Eastern Hotel, so that I may be

near to hand, and please it so arrange that we may see the

young lady not too late on to-morrow, for it is likely that I may

have to return here that night. But if need be I shall come again

in three days, and stay longer if it must. Till then good-bye, my

friend John.

"Van Helsing."

Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood. "3 September.

"My dear Art,—

"Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to

Hillingham, and found that, by Lucy's discretion, her mother was

lunching out, so that we were alone with her. Van Helsing made

a very careful examination of the patient. He is to report to me,

and I shall advise you, for of course I was not present all the

time. He is, I fear, much concerned, but says he must think.When I told him of our friendship and how you trust to me in the

matter, he said: 'You must tell him all you think. Tell him what I

think, if you can guess it, if you will. Nay, I am not jesting. This is

no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.' I asked what he

meant by that, for he was very serious. This was when we had

come back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before

starting on his return to Amsterdam. He would not give me any

further clue. You must not be angry with me, Art, because his

very reticence means that all his brains are working for her

good. He will speak plainly enough when the time comes, be

sure. So I told him I would simply write an account of our visit,

just as if I were doing a descriptive special article for The Daily

Telegraph. He seemed not to notice, but remarked that the

smuts in London were not quite so bad as they used to be when

he was a student here. I am to get his report to-morrow if he

can possibly make it. In any case I am to have a letter.

"Well, as to the visit. Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I

first saw her, and certainly looked better. She had lost

something of the ghastly look that so upset you, and her

breathing was normal. She was very sweet to the professor (as

she always is), and tried to make him feel at ease; though I

could see that the poor girl was making a hard struggle for it. I

believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick look under

his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of all

things except ourselves and diseases and with such an infinitegeniality that I could see poor Lucy's pretense of animation

merge into reality. Then, without any seeming change, he

brought the conversation gently round to his visit, and suavely

said:—

" 'My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because

you are so much beloved. That is much, my dear, ever were

there that which I do not see. They told me you were down in

the spirit, and that you were of a ghastly pale. To them I say:

"Pouf!" ' And he snapped his fingers at me and went on: 'But

you and I shall show them how wrong they are. How can he'—

and he pointed at me with the same look and gesture as that

with which once he pointed me out to his class, on, or rather

after, a particular occasion which he never fails to remind me

of—'know anything of a young ladies? He has his madams to

play with, and to bring them back to happiness, and to those

that love them. It is much to do, and, oh, but there are rewards,

in that we can bestow such happiness. But the young ladies! He

has no wife nor daughter, and the young do not tell themselves

to the young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many

sorrows and the causes of them. So, my dear, we will send him

away to smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you and I

have little talk all to ourselves.' I took the hint, and strolled

about, and presently the professor came to the window and

called me in. He looked grave, but said: 'I have made careful

examination, but there is no functional cause. With you I agree

that there has been much blood lost; it has been, but is not. Butthe conditions of her are in no way anæmic. I have asked her to

send me her maid, that I may ask just one or two question, that

so I may not chance to miss nothing. I know well what she will

say. And yet there is cause; there is always cause for everything.

I must go back home and think. You must send to me the

telegram every day; and if there be cause I shall come again.

The disease—for not to be all well is a disease—interest me, and

the sweet young dear, she interest me too. She charm me, and

for her, if not for you or disease, I come.'

"As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we

were alone. And so now, Art, you know all I know. I shall keep

stern watch. I trust your poor father is rallying. It must be a

terrible thing to you, my dear old fellow, to be placed in such a

position between two people who are both so dear to you. I

know your idea of duty to your father, and you are right to stick

to it; but, if need be, I shall send you word to come at once to

Lucy; so do not be over- anxious unless you hear from me."

Dr. Seward's Diary.

4 September.—Zoöphagous patient still keeps up our interest in

him. He had only one outburst and that was yesterday at an

unusual time. Just before the stroke of noon he began to grow

restless. The attendant knew the symptoms, and at once

summoned aid. Fortunately the men came at a run, and were

just in time, for at the stroke of noon he became so violent thatit took all their strength to hold him. In about five minutes,

however, he began to get more and more quiet, and finally sank

into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has remained up to

now. The attendant tells me that his screams whilst in the

paroxysm were really appalling; I found my hands full when I

got in, attending to some of the other patients who were

frightened by him. Indeed, I can quite understand the effect, for

the sounds disturbed even me, though I was some distance

away. It is now after the dinner-hour of the asylum, and as yet

my patient sits in a corner brooding, with a dull, sullen, woe-

begone look in his face, which seems rather to indicate than to

show something directly. I cannot quite understand it.

Later.—Another change in my patient. At five o'clock I looked in

on him, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he

used to be. He was catching flies and eating them, and was

keeping note of his capture by making nail-marks on the edge

of the door between the ridges of padding. When he saw me, he

came over and apologised for his bad conduct, and asked me in

a very humble, cringing way to be led back to his own room and

to have his note-book again. I thought it well to humour him: so

he is back in his room with the window open. He has the sugar

of his tea spread out on the window- sill, and is reaping quite a

harvest of flies. He is not now eating them, but putting them

into a box, as of old, and is already examining the corners of his

room to find a spider. I tried to get him to talk about the past

few days, for any clue to his thoughts would be of immense helpto me; but he would not rise. For a moment or two he looked

very sad, and said in a sort of far-away voice, as though saying

it rather to himself than to me:—

"All over! all over! He has deserted me. No hope for me now

unless I do it for myself!" Then suddenly turning to me in a

resolute way, he said: "Doctor, won't you be very good to me

and let me have a little more sugar? I think it would be good for

me."

"And the flies?" I said.

"Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies; therefore I like it."

And there are people who know so little as to think that

madmen do not argue. I procured him a double supply, and left

him as happy a man as, I suppose, any in the world. I wish I

could fathom his mind.

Midnight.—Another change in him. I had been to see Miss

Westenra,

whom I found much better, and had just returned, and was

standing at our own gate looking at the sunset, when once more

I heard him yelling. As his room is on this side of the house, I

could hear it better than in the morning. It was a shock to me to

turn from the wonderful smoky beauty of a sunset over London,

with its lurid lights and inky shadows and all the marvellous tints

that come on foul clouds even as on foul water, and to realise

all the grim sternness of my own cold stone building, with itswealth of breathing misery, and my own desolate heart to

endure it all. I reached him just as the sun was going down, and

from his window saw the red disc sink. As it sank he became

less and less frenzied; and just as it dipped he slid from the

hands that held him, an inert mass, on the floor. It is wonderful,

however, what intellectual recuperative power lunatics have, for

within a few minutes he stood up quite calmly and looked

around him. I signalled to the attendants not to hold him, for I

was anxious to see what he would do. He went straight over to

the window and brushed out the crumbs of sugar; then he took

his fly-box, and emptied it outside, and threw away the box;

then he shut the window, and crossing over, sat down on his

bed. All this surprised me, so I asked him: "Are you not going to

keep flies any more?"

"No," said he; "I am sick of all that rubbish!" He certainly is a

wonderfully interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse

of his mind or of the cause of his sudden passion. Stop; there

may be a clue after all, if we can find why to-day his paroxysms

came on at high noon and at sunset. Can it be that there is a

malign influence of the sun at periods which affects certain

natures—as at times the moon does others? We shall see.

Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam. "4

September.—Patient still better to-day."

Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam."5 September.—Patient greatly improved. Good appetite; sleeps

naturally; good spirits; colour coming back."

Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam.

"6 September.—Terrible change for the worse. Come at once; do

not lose an hour. I hold over telegram to Holmwood till have

seen you."