"And now, friend John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both youand I, and rest to recuperate. To-morrow we shall have much to do, butfor the to-night there is no need of us. Alas!"
Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker hadcertainly done his 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 thewinding-sheet was laid over the face; when the Professor bent overand turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us,the tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. AllLucy's loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that hadpassed, instead of leaving traces of "decay's effacing fingers," had butrestored the beauty of life, till positively I could not believe my eyesthat I was looking at a corpse.
The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had, andthere was no need for tears in his eyes. He said to me: "Remain till Ireturn," and left the room. He came back with a handful of wild garlicfrom the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been opened, andplaced the flowers amongst the others on and around the bed. Then hetook from his neck, inside his collar, a little golden crucifix, andplaced it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its place, and wecame away.
I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at thedoor, he entered, and at once began to speak:--
"To-morrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortemknives."
"Must we make an autopsy?" I asked.
"Yes, and no. I want to operate, but not as you think. Let me tell younow, but not a word to another. I want to cut off her head and take outher heart. Ah! you a surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I have seenwith no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life and death thatmake the rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my dear friend John,that you loved her; and I have not forgotten it, for it is I that shalloperate, and you must only help. I would like to do it to-night, but forArthur I must not; he will be free after his father's funeral to-morrow,and he will want to see her--to see _it_. Then, when she is coffinedready for the next day, you and I shall come when all sleep. We shallunscrew the coffin-lid, and shall do our operation; and then replaceall, so that none know, save we alone."
"But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her poor bodywithout need? And if there is no necessity for a post-mortem andnothing to gain by it--no good to her, to us, to science, to humanknowledge--why do it? Without such it is monstrous."
For answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinitetenderness:--
"Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart; and I love you the morebecause it does so bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burdenthat you do bear. But there are things that you know not, but that youshall know, and bless me for knowing, though they are not pleasantthings. John, my child, you have been my friend now many years, and yetdid you ever know me to do any without good cause? I may err--I am butman; but I believe in all I do. Was it not for these causes that yousend for me when the great trouble came? Yes! Were you not amazed, nayhorrified, when I would not let Arthur kiss his love--though she wasdying--and snatched him away by all my strength? Yes! And yet you sawhow she thanked me, with her so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, soweak, and she kiss my rough old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you nothear me swear promise to her, that so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes!
"Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have for manyyears trust me; you have believe me weeks past, when there be things sostrange that you might have well doubt. Believe me yet a little, friendJohn. If you trust me not, then I must tell what I think; and that isnot perhaps well. And if I work--as work I shall, no matter trust or notrust--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!" He pauseda moment, and went on solemnly: "Friend John, there are strange andterrible days before us. Let us not be two, but one, that so we work toa good end. Will you not have faith in me?"
I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open as he went away,and watched him go into his room and close the door. As I stood withoutmoving, I saw one of the maids pass silently along the passage--she hadher back towards me, so did not see me--and go into the room where Lucylay. The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are so gratefulto those who show it unasked to those we love. Here was a poor girlputting aside the terrors which she naturally had of death to go watchalone by the bier of the mistress whom she loved, so that the poor claymight not be lonely till laid to eternal rest....
I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when VanHelsing waked me by coming into my room. He came over to my bedside andsaid:--
"You need not trouble about the knives; we shall not do it."
"Why not?" I asked. For his solemnity of the night before had greatlyimpressed me.
"Because," he said sternly, "it is too late--or too early. See!" Here heheld 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 thewoman who robbed the dead and the living. Her punishment will surelycome, but not through me; she knew not altogether what she did,
and thusunknowing, she only stole. Now we must wait."
He went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of, anew puzzle to grapple with.
The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came: Mr.Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & Lidderdale. He was very genialand very appreciative of what we had done, and took off our hands allcares as to details. During lunch he told us that Mrs. Westenra had forsome time expected sudden death from her heart, and had put her affairsin absolute order; he informed us that, with the exception of a certainentailed property of Lucy's father which now, in default of directissue, went back to a distant branch of the family, the whole estate,real and personal, was left absolutely to Arthur Holmwood. When he hadtold us so much he went on:--
"Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, andpointed out certain contingencies that might leave her daughter eitherpenniless or not so free as she should be to act regarding a matrimonialalliance. Indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we almost came intocollision, for she asked us if we were or were not prepared to carryout her wishes. Of course, we had then no alternative but to accept.We were right in principle, and ninety-nine times out of a hundredwe should have proved, by the logic of events, the accuracy of ourjudgment. Frankly, however, I must admit that in this case any otherform of disposition would have rendered impossible the carrying out ofher wishes. For by her predeceasing her daughter the latter would havecome into possession of the property, and, even had she only survivedher mother by five minutes, her property would, in case there were nowill--and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case--havebeen treated at her decease as under intestacy. In which case, LordGodalming, though so dear a friend, would have had no claim in theworld; and the inheritors, being remote, would not be likely to abandontheir just rights for sentimental reasons regarding an entire stranger.I assure you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result, perfectlyrejoiced."
He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part--in whichhe was officially interested--of so great a tragedy was an object-lessonin the limitations of sympathetic understanding.
He did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day andsee Lord Godalming. His coming, however, had been a certain comfortto us, since it assured us that we should not have to dread hostilecriticism as to any of our acts. Arthur was expected at five o'clock,so a little before that time we visited the death-chamber. It was so invery truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it. The undertaker,true to his craft, had made the best display he could of his goods,and there was a mortuary air about the place that lowered our spiritsat once. Van Helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to,explaining that, as Lord Godalming was coming very soon, it would beless harrowing to his feelings to see all that was left of his _fiancee_quite alone. The undertaker seemed shocked at his own stupidity, andexerted himself to restore things to the condition in which we left themthe night before, so that when Arthur came such shocks to his feelingsas we could avoid were saved.
Poor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken; even his stalwartmanhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of hismuch-tried emotions. He had, I knew, been very genuinely and devotedlyattached to his father; and to lose him, and at such a time, was abitter blow to him. With me he was warm as ever, and to Van Helsing hewas sweetly courteous; but I could not help seeing that there was someconstraint with him. The Professor noticed it, too, and motioned me tobring him upstairs. I did so, and left him at the door of the room, asI felt he would like to be quite alone with her; but he took my arm andled me in, saying huskily:--
"You loved her too, old fellow; she told me all about it, and there wasno friend had a closer place in her heart than you. I don't know how tothank you for all you have done for her. I can't think yet...."
Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders andlaid his head on my breast, crying:--
"Oh, Jack! Jack! What shall I do? The whole of life seems gone from meall at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for me to live for."
I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need muchexpression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over theshoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man'sheart. I stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and then I saidsoftly to him:--
"Come and look at her."