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

comes alone from true love, as though it were a

necessary emanation from that delightful and overwhelming and

commanding passion. In her presence there seemed to surge up within

me that which forbade speech. Speech under present conditions would

have seemed to me unnecessary, imperfect, and even vulgarly overt.

She, too, was silent. But now that I am alone, and memory is alone

with me, I am convinced that she also had been happy. No, not that

exactly. “Happiness” is not the word to describe either her feeling

or my own. Happiness is more active, a more conscious enjoyment. We

had been content. That expresses our condition perfectly; and now

that I can analyze my own feeling, and understand what the word

implies, I am satisfied of its accuracy. “Content” has both a

positive and negative meaning or antecedent condition. It implies an

absence of disturbing conditions as well as of wants; also it implies

something positive which has been won or achieved, or which has

accrued. In our state of mind—for though it may be presumption on

my part, I am satisfied that our ideas were mutual—it meant that we

had reached an understanding whence all that might come must be for

good. God grant that it may be so!

 

As we sat silent, looking into each other’s eyes, and whilst the

stars in hers were now full of latent fire, perhaps from the

reflection of the flames, she suddenly sprang to her feet,

instinctively drawing the horrible shroud round her as she rose to

her full height in a voice full of lingering emotion, as of one who

is acting under spiritual compulsion rather than personal will, she

said in a whisper:

 

“I must go at once. I feel the morning drawing nigh. I must be in

my place when the light of day comes.”

 

She was so earnest that I felt I must not oppose her wish; so I, too,

sprang to my feet and ran towards the window. I pulled the curtain

aside sufficiently far for me to press back the grille and reach the

glass door, the latch of which I opened. I passed behind the curtain

again, and held the edge of it back so that she could go through.

For an instant she stopped as she broke the long silence:

 

“You are a true gentleman, and my friend. You understand all I wish.

Out of the depth of my heart I thank you.” She held out her

beautiful high-bred hand. I took it in both mine as I fell on my

knees, and raised it to my lips. Its touch made me quiver. She,

too, trembled as she looked down at me with a glance which seemed to

search my very soul. The stars in her eyes, now that the firelight

was no longer on them, had gone back to their own mysterious silver.

Then she drew her hand from mine very, very gently, as though it

would fain linger; and she passed out behind the curtain with a

gentle, sweet, dignified little bow which left me on my knees.

 

When I heard the glass door pulled-to gently behind her, I rose from

my knees and hurried without the curtain, just in time to watch her

pass down the steps. I wanted to see her as long as I could. The

grey of morning was just beginning to war with the night gloom, and

by the faint uncertain light I could see dimly the white figure flit

between shrub and statue till finally it merged in the far darkness.

 

I stood for a long time on the terrace, sometimes looking into the

darkness in front of me, in case I might be blessed with another

glimpse of her; sometimes with my eyes closed, so that I might recall

and hold in my mind her passage down the steps. For the first time

since I had met her she had thrown back at me a glance as she stepped

on the white path below the terrace. With the glamour over me of

that look, which was all love and enticement, I could have dared all

the powers that be.

 

When the grey dawn was becoming apparent through the lightening of

the sky I returned to my room. In a dazed condition—half hypnotized

by love—I went to bed, and in dreams continued to think, all

happily, of my Lady of the Shroud.

 

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

May 27, 1907.

 

A whole week has gone since I saw my Love! There it is; no doubt

whatever is left in my mind about it now! Since I saw her my passion

has grown and grown by leaps and bounds, as novelists put it. It has

now become so vast as to overwhelm me, to wipe out all thought of

doubt or difficulty. I suppose it must be what men suffered—

suffering need not mean pain—under enchantments in old times. I am

but as a straw whirled in the resistless eddies of a whirlpool. I

feel that I MUST see her again, even if it be but in her tomb in the

crypt. I must, I suppose, prepare myself for the venture, for many

things have to be thought of. The visit must not be at night, for in

such case I might miss her, did she come to me again here …

 

The morning came and went, but my wish and intention still remained;

and so in the full tide of noon, with the sun in all its fiery force,

I set out for the old church of St. Sava. I carried with me a

lantern with powerful lens. I had wrapped it up secretly, for I had

a feeling that I should not like anyone to know that I had such a

thing with me.

 

On this occasion I had no misgivings. On the former visit I had for

a moment been overwhelmed at the unexpected sight of the body of the

woman I thought I loved—I knew it now—lying in her tomb. But now I

knew all, and it was to see this woman, though in her tomb, that I

came.

 

When I had lit my lantern, which I did as soon as I had pushed open

the great door, which was once again unlocked, I turned my steps to

the steps of the crypt, which lay behind the richly carven wood

screen. This I could see, with the better light, was a noble piece

of work of priceless beauty and worth. I tried to keep my heart in

full courage with thoughts of my Lady, and of the sweetness and

dignity of our last meeting; but, despite all, it sank down, down,

and turned to water as I passed with uncertain feet down the narrow,

tortuous steps. My concern, I am now convinced, was not for myself,

but that she whom I adored should have to endure such a fearful

place. As anodyne to my own pain I thought what it would be, and how

I should feel, when I should have won for her a way out of that

horror, at any rate. This thought reassured me somewhat, and

restored my courage. It was in something of the same fashion which

has hitherto carried me out of tight places as well as into them that

at last I pushed open the low, narrow door at the foot of the rock-hewn staircase and entered the crypt.

 

Without delay I made my way to the glass-covered tomb set beneath the

hanging chain. I could see by the flashing of the light around me

that my hand which held the lantern trembled. With a great effort I

steadied myself, and raising the lantern, turned its light down into

the sarcophagus.

 

Once again the fallen lantern rang on the tingling glass, and I stood

alone in the darkness, for an instant almost paralyzed with surprised

disappointment.

 

The tomb was empty! Even the trappings of the dead had been removed.

 

I knew not what happened till I found myself groping my way up the

winding stair. Here, in comparison with the solid darkness of the

crypt, it seemed almost light. The dim expanse of the church sent a

few straggling rays down the vaulted steps, and as I could see, be it

never so dimly, I felt I was not in absolute darkness. With the

light came a sense of power and fresh courage, and I groped my way

back into the crypt again. There, by now and again lighting matches,

I found my way to the tomb and recovered my lantern. Then I took my

way slowly—for I wished to prove, if not my own courage, at least

such vestiges of self-respect as the venture had left me—through the

church, where I extinguished my lantern, and out through the great

door into the open sunlight. I seemed to have heard, both in the

darkness of the crypt and through the dimness of the church,

mysterious sounds as of whispers and suppressed breathing; but the

memory of these did not count for much when once I was free. I was

only satisfied of my own consciousness and identity when I found

myself on the broad rock terrace in front of the church, with the

fierce sunlight beating on my upturned face, and, looking downward,

saw far below me the rippled blue of the open sea.

 

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

June 3, 1907.

 

Another week has elapsed—a week full of movement of many kinds and

in many ways—but as yet I have had no tale or tidings of my Lady of

the Shroud. I have not had an opportunity of going again in daylight

to St. Sava’s as I should have liked to have done. I felt that I

must not go at night. The night is her time of freedom, and it must

be kept for her—or else I may miss her, or perhaps never see her

again.

 

The days have been full of national movement. The mountaineers have

evidently been organizing themselves, for some reason which I cannot

quite understand, and which they have hesitated to make known to me.

I have taken care not to manifest any curiosity, whatever I may have

felt. This would certainly arouse suspicion, and might ultimately

cause disaster to my hopes of aiding the nation in their struggle to

preserve their freedom.

 

These fierce mountaineers are strangely—almost unduly—suspicious,

and the only way to win their confidence is to begin the trusting. A

young American attache of the Embassy at Vienna, who had made a

journey through the Land of the Blue Mountains, once put it to me in

this form:

 

“Keep your head shut, and they’ll open theirs. If you don’t, they’ll

open it for you—down to the chine!”

 

It was quite apparent to me that they were completing some fresh

arrangements for signalling with a code of their own. This was

natural enough, and in no way inconsistent with the measure of

friendliness already shown to me. Where there are neither

telegraphs, railways, nor roads, any effective form of communication

must—can only be purely personal. And so, if they wish to keep any

secret amongst themselves, they must preserve the secret of their

code. I should have dearly liked to learn their new code and their

manner of using it, but as I want to be a helpful friend to them—and

as this implies not only trust, but the appearance of it—I had to

school myself to patience.

 

This attitude so far won their confidence that before we parted at

our last meeting, after most solemn vows of faith and secrecy, they

took me into the secret. This was, however, only to the extent of

teaching me the code and method; they still withheld from me rigidly

the fact or political secret, or whatever it was that was the

mainspring of