RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

June 6, 1907.

Last night I had a new experience of my Lady of the Shroud—in so far as form was concerned, at any rate.  I was in bed, and just falling asleep, when I heard a queer kind of scratching at the glass door of the terrace.  I listened acutely, my heart beating hard.  The sound seemed to come from low down, close to the floor.  I jumped out of bed, ran to the window, and, pulling aside the heavy curtains, looked out.

The garden looked, as usual, ghostly in the moonlight, but there was not the faintest sign of movement anywhere, and no one was on or near the terrace.  I looked eagerly down to where the sound had seemed to come from.

There, just inside the glass door, as though it had been pushed under the door, lay a paper closely folded in several laps.  I picked it up and opened it.  I was all in a tumult, for my heart told me whence it came.  Inside was written in English, in a large, sprawling hand, such as might be from an English child of seven or eight:

“Meet me at the Flagstaff on the Rock!”

I knew the place, of course.  On the farthermost point of the rock on which the Castle stands is set a high flagstaff, whereon in old time the banner of the Vissarion family flew.  At some far-off time, when the Castle had been liable to attack, this point had been strongly fortified.  Indeed, in the days when the bow was a martial weapon it must have been quite impregnable.

A covered gallery, with loopholes for arrows, had been cut in the solid rock, running right round the point, quite surrounding the flagstaff and the great boss of rock on whose centre it was reared.  A narrow drawbridge of immense strength had connected—in peaceful times, and still remained—the outer point of rock with an entrance formed in the outer wall, and guarded with flanking towers and a portcullis.  Its use was manifestly to guard against surprise.  From this point only could be seen the line of the rocks all round the point.  Thus, any secret attack by boats could be made impossible.

Having hurriedly dressed myself, and taking with me both hunting-knife and revolver, I went out on the terrace, taking the precaution, unusual to me, of drawing the grille behind me and locking it.  Matters around the Castle are in far too disturbed a condition to allow the taking of any foolish chances, either in the way of being unarmed or of leaving the private entrance to the Castle open.  I found my way through the rocky passage, and climbed by the Jacob’s ladder fixed on the rock—a device of convenience in time of peace—to the foot of the flagstaff.

I was all on fire with expectation, and the time of going seemed exceeding long; so I was additionally disappointed by the contrast when I did not see my Lady there when I arrived.  However, my heart beat freely again—perhaps more freely than ever—when I saw her crouching in the shadow of the Castle wall.  From where she was she could not be seen from any point save that alone which I occupied; even from there it was only her white shroud that was conspicuous through the deep gloom of the shadow.  The moonlight was so bright that the shadows were almost unnaturally black.

I rushed over towards her, and when close was about to say impulsively, “Why did you leave your tomb?” when it suddenly struck me that the question would be malapropos and embarrassing in many ways.  So, better judgment prevailing, I said instead:

“It has been so long since I saw you!  It has seemed an eternity to me!”  Her answer came as quickly as even I could have wished; she spoke impulsively and without thought:

“It has been long to me too!  Oh, so long! so long!  I have asked you to come out here because I wanted to see you so much that I could not wait any longer.  I have been heart-hungry for a sight of you!”

Her words, her eager attitude, the ineffable something which conveys the messages of the heart, the longing expression in her eyes as the full moonlight fell on her face, showing the stars as living gold—for in her eagerness she had stepped out towards me from the shadow—all set me on fire.  Without a thought or a word—for it was Nature speaking in the language of Love, which is a silent tongue—I stepped towards her and took her in my arms.  She yielded with that sweet unconsciousness which is the perfection of Love, as if it was in obedience to some command uttered before the beginning of the world.  Probably without any conscious effort on either side—I know there was none on mine—our mouths met in the first kiss of love.

At the time nothing in the meeting struck me as out of the common.  But later in the night, when I was alone and in darkness, whenever I thought of it all—its strangeness and its stranger rapture—I could not but be sensible of the bizarre conditions for a love meeting.  The place lonely, the time night, the man young and strong, and full of life and hope and ambition; the woman, beautiful and ardent though she was, a woman seemingly dead, clothed in the shroud in which she had been wrapped when lying in her tomb in the crypt of the old church.

Whilst we were together, anyhow, there was little thought of the kind; no reasoning of any kind on my part.  Love has its own laws and its own logic.  Under the flagstaff, where the Vissarion banner was wont to flap in the breeze, she was in my arms; her sweet breath was on my face; her heart was beating against my own.  What need was there for reason at all?  Inter arma silent leges—the voice of reason is silent in the stress of passion.  Dead she may be, or Un-dead—a Vampire with one foot in Hell and one on earth.  But I love her; and come what may, here or hereafter, she is mine.  As my mate, we shall fare along together, whatsoever the end may be, or wheresoever our path may lead.  If she is indeed to be won from the nethermost Hell, then be mine the task!

But to go back to the record.  When I had once started speaking to her in words of passion I could not stop.  I did not want to—if I could; and she did not appear to wish it either.  Can there be a woman—alive or dead—who would not want to hear the rapture of her lover expressed to her whilst she is enclosed in his arms?

There was no attempt at reticence on my part now; I took it for granted that she knew all that I surmised, and, as she made neither protest nor comment, that she accepted my belief as to her indeterminate existence.  Sometimes her eyes would be closed, but even then the rapture of her face was almost beyond belief.  Then, when the beautiful eyes would open and gaze on me, the stars that were in them would shine and scintillate as though they were formed of living fire.  She said little, very little; but though the words were few, every syllable was fraught with love, and went straight to the very core of my heart.

By-and-by, when our transport had calmed to joy, I asked when I might next see her, and how and where I might find her when I should want to.  She did not reply directly, but, holding me close in her arms, whispered in my ear with that breathless softness which is a lover’s rapture of speech:

“I have come here under terrible difficulties, not only because I love you—and that would be enough—but because, as well as the joy of seeing you, I wanted to warn you.”

“To warn me!  Why?” I queried.  Her reply came with a bashful hesitation, with something of a struggle in it, as of one who for some ulterior reason had to pick her words:

“There are difficulties and dangers ahead of you.  You are beset with them; and they are all the greater because they are, of grim necessity, hidden from you.  You cannot go anywhere, look in any direction, do anything, say anything, but it may be a signal for danger.  My dear, it lurks everywhere—in the light as well as in the darkness; in the open as well as in the secret places; from friends as well as foes; when you are least prepared; when you may least expect it.  Oh, I know it, and what it is to endure; for I share it for you—for your dear sake!”

“My darling!” was all I could say, as I drew her again closer to me and kissed her.  After a bit she was calmer; seeing this, I came back to the subject that she had—in part, at all events—come to me to speak about:

“But if difficulty and danger hedge me in so everlastingly, and if I am to have no indication whatever of its kind or purpose, what can I do?  God knows I would willingly guard myself—not on my own account, but for your dear sake.  I have now a cause to live and be strong, and to keep all my faculties, since it may mean much to you.  If you may not tell me details, may you not indicate to me some line of conduct, of action, that would be most in accord with your wishes—or, rather, with your idea of what would be best?”

She looked at me fixedly before speaking—a long, purposeful, loving look which no man born of woman could misunderstand.  Then she spoke slowly, deliberately, emphatically:

“Be bold, and fear not.  Be true to yourself, to me—it is the same thing.  These are the best guards you can use.  Your safety does not rest with me.  Ah, I wish it did!  I wish to God it did!”  In my inner heart it thrilled me not merely to hear the expression of her wish, but to hear her use the name of God as she did.  I understand now, in the calm of this place and with the sunlight before me, that my belief as to her being all woman—living woman—was not quite dead: but though at the moment my heart did not recognize the doubt, my brain did.  And I made up my mind that we should not part this time until she knew that I had seen her, and where; but, despite my own thoughts, my outer ears listened greedily as she went on.

“As for me, you may not find me, but I shall find you, be sure!  And now we must say ‘Good-night,’ my dear, my dear!  Tell me once again that you love me, for it is a sweetness that one does not wish to forego—even one who wears such a garment as this—and rests where I must rest.”  As she spoke she held up part of her cerements for me to see.  What could I do but take her once again in my arms and hold her close, close.  God knows it was all in love; but it was passionate love which surged through my every vein as I strained her dear body to mine.  But yet this embrace was not selfish; it was not all an expression of my own passion.  It was based on pity—the pity which is twin-born with true love.  Breathless from our kisses, when presently we released each other, she stood in a glorious rapture, like a white spirit in the moonlight, and as her lovely, starlit eyes seemed to devour me, she spoke in a languorous ecstasy:

“Oh, how you love me! how you love me!  It is worth all I have gone through for this, even to wearing this terrible drapery.”  And again she pointed to her shroud.

Here was my chance to speak of what I knew, and I took it.  “I know, I know.  Moreover, I know that awful resting-place.”

I was interrupted, cut short in the midst of my sentence, not by any word, but by the frightened look in her eyes and the fear-mastered way in which she shrank away from me.  I suppose in reality she could not be paler than she looked when the colour-absorbing moonlight fell on her; but on the instant all semblance of living seemed to shrink and fall away, and she looked with eyes of dread as if in I some awful way held in thrall.  But for the movement of the pitiful glance, she would have seemed of soulless marble, so deadly cold did she look.

The moments that dragged themselves out whilst I waited for her to speak seemed endless.  At length her words came in an awed whisper, so faint that even in that stilly night I could hardly hear it:

“You know—you know my resting-place!  How—when was that?”  There was nothing to do now but to speak out the truth:

“I was in the crypt of St. Sava.  It was all by accident.  I was exploring all around the Castle, and I went there in my course.  I found the winding stair in the rock behind the screen, and went down.  Dear, I loved you well before that awful moment, but then, even as the lantern fell tingling on the glass, my love multiplied itself, with pity as a factor.”  She was silent for a few seconds.  When she spoke, there was a new tone in her voice:

“But were you not shocked?”

“Of course I was,” I answered on the spur of the moment, and I now think wisely.  “Shocked is hardly the word.  I was horrified beyond anything that words can convey that you—you should have to so endure!  I did not like to return, for I feared lest my doing so might set some barrier between us.  But in due time I did return on another day.”

“Well?”  Her voice was like sweet music.

“I had another shock that time, worse than before, for you were not there.  Then indeed it was that I knew to myself how dear you were—how dear you are to me.  Whilst I live, you—living or dead—shall always be in my heart.”  She breathed hard.  The elation in her eyes made them outshine the moonlight, but she said no word.  I went on:

“My dear, I had come into the crypt full of courage and hope, though I knew what dreadful sight should sear my eyes once again.  But we little know what may be in store for us, no matter what we expect.  I went out with a heart like water from that dreadful desolation.”

“Oh, how you love me, dear!”  Cheered by her words, and even more by her tone, I went on with renewed courage.  There was no halting, no faltering in my intention now:

“You and I, my dear, were ordained for each other.  I cannot help it that you had already suffered before I knew you.  It may be that there may be for you still suffering that I may not prevent, endurance that I may not shorten; but what a man can do is yours.  Not Hell itself will stop me, if it be possible that I may win through its torments with you in my arms!”

“Will nothing stop you, then?”  Her question was breathed as softly as the strain of an Æolian harp.

“Nothing!” I said, and I heard my own teeth snap together.  There was something speaking within me stronger than I had ever known myself to be.  Again came a query, trembling, quavering, quivering, as though the issue was of more than life or death:

“Not this?”  She held up a corner of the shroud, and as she saw my face and realized the answer before I spoke, went on: “With all it implies?”

“Not if it were wrought of the cerecloths of the damned!”  There was a long pause.  Her voice was more resolute when she spoke again.  It rang.  Moreover, there was in it a joyous note, as of one who feels new hope:

“But do you know what men say?  Some of them, that I am dead and buried; others, that I am not only dead and buried, but that I am one of those unhappy beings that may not die the common death of man.  Who live on a fearful life-in-death, whereby they are harmful to all.  Those unhappy Un-dead whom men call Vampires—who live on the blood of the living, and bring eternal damnation as well as death with the poison of their dreadful kisses!

“I know what men say sometimes,” I answered.  “But I know also what my own heart says; and I rather choose to obey its calling than all the voices of the living or the dead.  Come what may, I am pledged to you.  If it be that your old life has to be rewon for you out of the very jaws of Death and Hell, I shall keep the faith I have pledged, and that here I pledge again!”  As I finished speaking I sank on my knees at her feet, and, putting my arms round her, drew her close to me.  Her tears rained down on my face as she stroked my hair with her soft, strong hand and whispered to me:

“This is indeed to be one.  What more holy marriage can God give to any of His creatures?”  We were both silent for a time.

I think I was the first to recover my senses.  That I did so was manifest by my asking her: “When may we meet again?”—a thing I had never remembered doing at any of our former partings.  She answered with a rising and falling of the voice that was just above a whisper, as soft and cooing as the voice of a pigeon:

“That will be soon—as soon as I can manage it, be sure.  My dear, my dear!”  The last four words of endearment she spoke in a low but prolonged and piercing tone which made me thrill with delight.

“Give me some token,” I said, “that I may have always close to me to ease my aching heart till we meet again, and ever after, for love’s sake!”  Her mind seemed to leap to understanding, and with a purpose all her own.  Stooping for an instant, she tore off with swift, strong fingers a fragment of her shroud.  This, having kissed it, she handed to me, whispering:

“It is time that we part.  You must leave me now.  Take this, and keep it for ever.  I shall be less unhappy in my terrible loneliness whilst it lasts if I know that this my gift, which for good or ill is a part of me as you know me, is close to you.  It may be, my very dear, that some day you may be glad and even proud of this hour, as I am.”  She kissed me as I took it.

“For life or death, I care not which, so long as I am with you!” I said, as I moved off.  Descending the Jacob’s ladder, I made my way down the rock-hewn passage.

The last thing I saw was the beautiful face of my Lady of the Shroud as she leaned over the edge of the opening.  Her eyes were like glowing stars as her looks followed me.  That look shall never fade from my memory.

After a few agitating moments of thought I half mechanically took my way down to the garden.  Opening the grille, I entered my lonely room, which looked all the more lonely for the memory of the rapturous moments under the Flagstaff.  I went to bed as one in a dream.  There I lay till sunrise—awake and thinking.