The Lady of the Shroud, Bram Stoker [most life changing books .txt] 📗

grille,

and threw open the French window. I noticed that she shivered and

trembled as the glass door fell open. Indeed, she seemed so overcome

with cold as to seem almost unable to move. In the sense of her

helplessness all idea of the strangeness of the situation entirely

disappeared. It was not as if my first idea of death taken from her

cerements was negatived. It was simply that I did not think of it at

all; I was content to accept things as they were—she was a woman,

and in some dreadful trouble; that was enough.

 

I am thus particular about my own emotions, as I may have to refer to

them again in matters of comprehension or comparison. The whole

thing is so vastly strange and abnormal that the least thing may

afterwards give some guiding light or clue to something otherwise not

understandable. I have always found that in recondite matters first

impressions are of more real value than later conclusions. We humans

place far too little reliance on instinct as against reason; and yet

instinct is the great gift of Nature to all animals for their

protection and the fulfilment of their functions generally.

 

When I stepped out on the balcony, not thinking of my costume, I

found that the woman was benumbed and hardly able to move. Even when

I asked her to enter, and supplemented my words with gestures in case

she should not understand my language, she stood stock-still, only

rocking slightly to and fro as though she had just strength enough

left to balance herself on her feet. I was afraid, from the

condition in which she was, that she might drop down dead at any

moment. So I took her by the hand to lead her in. But she seemed

too weak to even make the attempt. When I pulled her slightly

forward, thinking to help her, she tottered, and would have fallen

had I not caught her in my arms. Then, half lifting her, I moved her

forwards. Her feet, relieved of her weight, now seemed able to make

the necessary effort; and so, I almost carrying her, we moved into

the room. She was at the very end of her strength; I had to lift her

over the sill. In obedience to her motion, I closed the French

window and bolted it. I supposed the warmth of the room—though

cool, it was warmer than the damp air without—affected her quickly,

for on the instant she seemed to begin to recover herself. In a few

seconds, as though she had reacquired her strength, she herself

pulled the heavy curtain across the window. This left us in

darkness, through which I heard her say in English:

 

“Light. Get a light!”

 

I found matches, and at once lit a candle. As the wick flared, she

moved over to the door of the room, and tried if the lock and bolt

were fastened. Satisfied as to this, she moved towards me, her wet

shroud leaving a trail of moisture on the green carpet. By this time

the wax of the candle had melted sufficiently to let me see her

clearly. She was shaking and quivering as though in an ague; she

drew the wet shroud around her piteously. Instinctively I spoke:

 

“Can I do anything for you?”

 

She answered, still in English, and in a voice of thrilling, almost

piercing sweetness, which seemed somehow to go straight to my heart,

and affected me strangely: “Give me warmth.”

 

I hurried to the fireplace. It was empty; there was no fire laid. I

turned to her, and said:

 

“Wait just a few minutes here. I shall call someone, and get help—

and fire.”

 

Her voice seemed to ring with intensity as she answered without a

pause:

 

“No, no! Rather would I be”—here she hesitated for an instant, but

as she caught sight of her cerements went on hurriedly—“as I am. I

trust you—not others; and you must not betray my trust.” Almost

instantly she fell into a frightful fit of shivering, drawing again

her death-clothes close to her, so piteously that it wrung my heart.

I suppose I am a practical man. At any rate, I am accustomed to

action. I took from its place beside my bed a thick Jaeger dressing-gown of dark brown—it was, of course, of extra length—and held it

out to her as I said:

 

“Put that on. It is the only warm thing here which would be

suitable. Stay; you must remove that wet—wet”—I stumbled about for

a word that would not be offensive—“that frock—dress—costume—

whatever it is.” I pointed to where, in the corner of the room,

stood a chintz-covered folding-screen which fences in my cold sponge

bath, which is laid ready for me overnight, as I am an early riser.

 

She bowed gravely, and taking the dressing-gown in a long, white,

finely-shaped hand, bore it behind the screen. There was a slight

rustle, and then a hollow “flop” as the wet garment fell on the

floor; more rustling and rubbing, and a minute later she emerged

wrapped from head to foot in the long Jaeger garment, which trailed

on the floor behind her, though she was a tall woman. She was still

shivering painfully, however. I took a flask of brandy and a glass

from a cupboard, and offered her some; but with a motion of her hand

she refused it, though she moaned grievously.

 

“Oh, I am so cold—so cold!” Her teeth were chattering. I was

pained at her sad condition, and said despairingly, for I was at my

wits’ end to know what to do:

 

“Tell me anything that I can do to help you, and I will do it. I may

not call help; there is no fire—nothing to make it with; you will

not take some brandy. What on earth can I do to give you warmth?”

 

Her answer certainly surprised me when it came, though it was

practical enough—so practical that I should not have dared to say

it. She looked me straight in the face for a few seconds before

speaking. Then, with an air of girlish innocence which disarmed

suspicion and convinced me at once of her simple faith, she said in a

voice that at once thrilled me and evoked all my pity:

 

“Let me rest for a while, and cover me up with rugs. That may give

me warmth. I am dying of cold. And I have a deadly fear upon me—a

deadly fear. Sit by me, and let me hold your hand. You are big and

strong, and you look brave. It will reassure me. I am not myself a

coward, but to-night fear has got me by the throat. I can hardly

breathe. Do let me stay till I am warm. If you only knew what I

have gone through, and have to go through still, I am sure you would

pity me and help me.”

 

To say that I was astonished would be a mild description of my

feelings. I was not shocked. The life which I have led was not one

which makes for prudery. To travel in strange places amongst strange

peoples with strange views of their own is to have odd experiences

and peculiar adventures now and again; a man without human passions

is not the type necessary for an adventurous life, such as I myself

have had. But even a man of passions and experiences can, when he

respects a woman, be shocked—even prudish—where his own opinion of

her is concerned. Such must bring to her guarding any generosity

which he has, and any self-restraint also. Even should she place

herself in a doubtful position, her honour calls to his honour. This

is a call which may not be—MUST not be—unanswered. Even passion

must pause for at least a while at sound of such a trumpet-call.

 

This woman I did respect—much respect. Her youth and beauty; her

manifest ignorance of evil; her superb disdain of convention, which

could only come through hereditary dignity; her terrible fear and

suffering—for there must be more in her unhappy condition than meets

the eye—would all demand respect, even if one did not hasten to

yield it. Nevertheless, I thought it necessary to enter a protest

against her embarrassing suggestion. I certainly did feel a fool

when making it, also a cad. I can truly say it was made only for her

good, and out of the best of me, such as I am. I felt impossibly

awkward; and stuttered and stumbled before I spoke:

 

“But surely—the convenances! Your being here alone at night! Mrs.

Grundy—convention—the—”

 

She interrupted me with an incomparable dignity—a dignity which had

the effect of shutting me up like a clasp-knife and making me feel a

decided inferior—and a poor show at that. There was such a gracious

simplicity and honesty in it, too, such self-respecting knowledge of

herself and her position, that I could be neither angry nor hurt. I

could only feel ashamed of myself, and of my own littleness of mind

and morals. She seemed in her icy coldness—now spiritual as well as

bodily—like an incarnate figure of Pride as she answered:

 

“What are convenances or conventions to me! If you only knew where I

have come from—the existence (if it can be called so) which I have

had—the loneliness—the horror! And besides, it is for me to MAKE

conventions, not to yield my personal freedom of action to them.

Even as I am—even here and in this garb—I am above convention.

Convenances do not trouble me or hamper me. That, at least, I have

won by what I have gone through, even if it had never come to me

through any other way. Let me stay.” She said the last words, in

spite of all her pride, appealingly. But still, there was a note of

high pride in all this—in all she said and did, in her attitude and

movement, in the tones of her voice, in the loftiness of her carriage

and the steadfast look of her open, starlit eyes. Altogether, there

was something so rarely lofty in herself and all that clad her that,

face to face with it and with her, my feeble attempt at moral

precaution seemed puny, ridiculous, and out of place. Without a word

in the doing, I took from an old chiffonier chest an armful of

blankets, several of which I threw over her as she lay, for in the

meantime, having replaced the coverlet, she had lain down at length

on the bed. I took a chair, and sat down beside her. When she

stretched out her hand from beneath the pile of wraps, I took it in

mine, saying:

 

“Get warm and rest. Sleep if you can. You need not fear; I shall

guard you with my life.”

 

She looked at me gratefully, her starry eyes taking a new light more

full of illumination than was afforded by the wax candle, which was

shaded from her by my body … She was horribly cold, and her teeth

chattered so violently that I feared lest she should have incurred

some dangerous evil from her wetting and the cold that followed it.

I felt, however, so awkward that I could find no words to express my

fears; moreover, I hardly dared say anything at all regarding herself

after the haughty way in which she had received my well-meant

protest. Manifestly I was but to her as a sort of refuge and

provider of heat, altogether impersonal, and not to be regarded in

any degree as an individual. In these humiliating circumstances what

could I do but sit quiet—and wait developments?

 

Little by little the fierce chattering of her teeth began to abate as

the warmth of her surroundings stole through her. I also felt, even

in this