Complete Works of Bram Stoker (353 page)

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 organising 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 attaché 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 their united action.

When I got home I wrote down, whilst it was fresh in my memory, all they told me.  This script I studied until I had it so thoroughly by heart that I
could
not forget it.  Then I burned the paper.  However, there is now one gain at least: with my semaphore I can send through the Blue Mountains from side to side, with expedition, secrecy, and exactness, a message comprehensible to all.

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?”