Part Nineteen
Vespertine
Part Nineteen
August 5, 1912
My dear friends,
I have been, these last seven days, in the throws of some madness whose transformation of me may only be likened to the lazy, unhurried river that, at last, meets the torrent of some sharp precipice and become the white water of the falls. Thus have I been in turmoil, my once tranquil inner core churned by worry and doubt.
Today was the first day I ventured into London since my return. I took a late supper with some friends, the Hancocks-I believe you know them, and it was upon my return to these dwellings that I at once perceived the change here. How shall I describe it to you? What manner of likeness could convey the funeral of these hours after dusk?
London has ceased breathing.
I can think of no other way to put it. After sundown, there is a pall over these streets, robbing them of their life and their light in a way that the Ripper never could. For it has been some days now since any of England's children have fallen prey to that madman. Yes, quite a few. Shall I tell you how many? Can you guess? You need only look so far as the night before Mina's departure to find your answer.
Did I tell you I was mad? Did I not warn you that a fever had o'ertaken my brain, and that the last rational shred of thought had perished in those white-water delusions? Oh, friends, I am drowning in my doubts.
It cannot be so. It cannot. But I have reread that lady's last letter, imploring us to believe that the safety of these denizens could somehow rest with her, and now, beyond belief, there is the seeming proof of it. What horrors could so fine a lady be hostess to? You know her but a little better than I, I should think, and so I beg you-send me some word of reason that may shake me from the foul hour of this humor. Write some line or harsh note that will appear to my eyes like a lighthouse on the shores of sanity.
But for all this, for all the phantom reasons and ghastly conclusions to which I may come, I am not imagining the breathlessness of London. It pauses, unblinking, as if waiting. As if some creak on its attic stairs has roused it from a slumber in the middle of the night, and now it sits still in the darkness, waiting for some sign of further trouble.
Oh, friends, be glad that you have the happier climes of Paris. London has not been a home to me in too long, and I find this an ill omen for a welcoming.
But now... now at last, I must ask you-have you received no further word from her? I have given over a letter to her remaining servant, and though she professes to have no address to send it to, I found that I could not do otherwise but write it. What other action could I take? I fear for the safety of that lady, as I know you do, and I shan't have a decent night's sleep until I have some proof of her well-being.
Oh, I am mad, and I know it. I have allowed this letter to go on longer than was proper, but you are my friends, my excellent good friends, and this is the very coinage of my brain. Do not think too poorly of me for my worry, and send some happy news that I may use it in the service of London; that I may elicit an exhale at last.
Do tell me how you are when you respond. I have been an abysmal host for not having asked sooner, or done more to see to your comfort. Please do not hesitate, as I bid you before my departure, to think of my house as your home. All that I have is yours, but most of all my love.
Humbly yours,
Charles
* * *
August 10, 1912
Charles,
There there, old friend. If my memory serves me well enough, there's a fine brandy on that cart in your study. Pour yourself a snifter of that, light a fine cigar, and obfuscate your troubles for a few hours. If all things are as you fear, you'll need your wits about you, so no time like the present to gather them.
I've taken it upon myself to deny the existence of your last letter to Margaret. She is rather frail these days, suffering a bit from the same malady as you, walking the house at all hours, and I did not think it wise to rattle her more. You must trust me on this point, and make no mention of that missive in any further correspondence. We're all at the end of our ropes, chap, but your end is a bit more frayed than is necessary I think.
Put this letter down for a few moments and pour yourself that brandy. Think, as the gentle warmth of it seeps down your chest, at how preposterous it all sounds. Is it your contention that our dear Mrs. Harker's guest was none other than Red Jack himself? Ludicrous, to say the least! She was a banker's wife, man, and a widow. Surely you don't think she is, even at this very moment, sitting across from the London Scourge and chatting about murder as they take their tea, do you?
We are, all of us, nearly frantic with worry, chum. No sense in borrowing trouble from fairy tales and bad dreams. She'll write as she's able-and yes, by that I do mean to say that we have yet to receive any further word from her.
You're doing yourself no good there, Charles. Come back to Paris and live out the rest of the summer with Maggie and I. Pack your bags tonight and have your driver set out in the morning. With any luck, there will be a letter from her waiting for you upon your arrival. In fact, I'd wager on it.
Oh, and one last word: I was glad to hear that you ended your self-imposed exile long enough to share a meal with the Hancocks. They're a fine couple, and their children are well-mannered enough to go unseen. We've known them for years, of course, and if you're fool enough to stay in London then I'll leave you with this small word of caution: Hancock cheats at cards.
Looking forward to seeing you again.
Very truly yours,
Henry, Lord Baltimore
Part Nineteen
August 5, 1912
My dear friends,
I have been, these last seven days, in the throws of some madness whose transformation of me may only be likened to the lazy, unhurried river that, at last, meets the torrent of some sharp precipice and become the white water of the falls. Thus have I been in turmoil, my once tranquil inner core churned by worry and doubt.
Today was the first day I ventured into London since my return. I took a late supper with some friends, the Hancocks-I believe you know them, and it was upon my return to these dwellings that I at once perceived the change here. How shall I describe it to you? What manner of likeness could convey the funeral of these hours after dusk?
London has ceased breathing.
I can think of no other way to put it. After sundown, there is a pall over these streets, robbing them of their life and their light in a way that the Ripper never could. For it has been some days now since any of England's children have fallen prey to that madman. Yes, quite a few. Shall I tell you how many? Can you guess? You need only look so far as the night before Mina's departure to find your answer.
Did I tell you I was mad? Did I not warn you that a fever had o'ertaken my brain, and that the last rational shred of thought had perished in those white-water delusions? Oh, friends, I am drowning in my doubts.
It cannot be so. It cannot. But I have reread that lady's last letter, imploring us to believe that the safety of these denizens could somehow rest with her, and now, beyond belief, there is the seeming proof of it. What horrors could so fine a lady be hostess to? You know her but a little better than I, I should think, and so I beg you-send me some word of reason that may shake me from the foul hour of this humor. Write some line or harsh note that will appear to my eyes like a lighthouse on the shores of sanity.
But for all this, for all the phantom reasons and ghastly conclusions to which I may come, I am not imagining the breathlessness of London. It pauses, unblinking, as if waiting. As if some creak on its attic stairs has roused it from a slumber in the middle of the night, and now it sits still in the darkness, waiting for some sign of further trouble.
Oh, friends, be glad that you have the happier climes of Paris. London has not been a home to me in too long, and I find this an ill omen for a welcoming.
But now... now at last, I must ask you-have you received no further word from her? I have given over a letter to her remaining servant, and though she professes to have no address to send it to, I found that I could not do otherwise but write it. What other action could I take? I fear for the safety of that lady, as I know you do, and I shan't have a decent night's sleep until I have some proof of her well-being.
Oh, I am mad, and I know it. I have allowed this letter to go on longer than was proper, but you are my friends, my excellent good friends, and this is the very coinage of my brain. Do not think too poorly of me for my worry, and send some happy news that I may use it in the service of London; that I may elicit an exhale at last.
Do tell me how you are when you respond. I have been an abysmal host for not having asked sooner, or done more to see to your comfort. Please do not hesitate, as I bid you before my departure, to think of my house as your home. All that I have is yours, but most of all my love.
Humbly yours,
Charles
* * *
August 10, 1912
Charles,
There there, old friend. If my memory serves me well enough, there's a fine brandy on that cart in your study. Pour yourself a snifter of that, light a fine cigar, and obfuscate your troubles for a few hours. If all things are as you fear, you'll need your wits about you, so no time like the present to gather them.
I've taken it upon myself to deny the existence of your last letter to Margaret. She is rather frail these days, suffering a bit from the same malady as you, walking the house at all hours, and I did not think it wise to rattle her more. You must trust me on this point, and make no mention of that missive in any further correspondence. We're all at the end of our ropes, chap, but your end is a bit more frayed than is necessary I think.
Put this letter down for a few moments and pour yourself that brandy. Think, as the gentle warmth of it seeps down your chest, at how preposterous it all sounds. Is it your contention that our dear Mrs. Harker's guest was none other than Red Jack himself? Ludicrous, to say the least! She was a banker's wife, man, and a widow. Surely you don't think she is, even at this very moment, sitting across from the London Scourge and chatting about murder as they take their tea, do you?
We are, all of us, nearly frantic with worry, chum. No sense in borrowing trouble from fairy tales and bad dreams. She'll write as she's able-and yes, by that I do mean to say that we have yet to receive any further word from her.
You're doing yourself no good there, Charles. Come back to Paris and live out the rest of the summer with Maggie and I. Pack your bags tonight and have your driver set out in the morning. With any luck, there will be a letter from her waiting for you upon your arrival. In fact, I'd wager on it.
Oh, and one last word: I was glad to hear that you ended your self-imposed exile long enough to share a meal with the Hancocks. They're a fine couple, and their children are well-mannered enough to go unseen. We've known them for years, of course, and if you're fool enough to stay in London then I'll leave you with this small word of caution: Hancock cheats at cards.
Looking forward to seeing you again.
Very truly yours,
Henry, Lord Baltimore