Complete Works of Bram Stoker (356 page)

“When shall I see you again?”

“Soon!” came her answer.  “I shall let you know soon  —  when and where.  Oh, go, go!”  She almost pushed me from her.

When I had passed through the low doorway and locked and barred it behind me, I felt a pang that I should have had to shut her out like that; but I feared lest there should arise some embarrassing suspicion if the door should be found open.  Later came the comforting thought that, as she had got to the roof though the door had been shut, she would be able to get away by the same means.  She had evidently knowledge of some secret way into the Castle.  The alternative was that she must have some supernatural quality or faculty which gave her strange powers.  I did not wish to pursue that train of thought, and so, after an effort, shut it out from my mind.

When I got back to my room I locked the door behind me, and went to sleep in the dark.  I did not want light just then  —  could not bear it.

This morning I woke, a little later than usual, with a kind of apprehension which I could not at once understand.  Presently, however, when my faculties became fully awake and in working order, I realised that I feared, half expected, that Aunt Janet would come to me in a worse state of alarm than ever apropos of some new Second-Sight experience of more than usual ferocity.

But, strange to say, I had no such visit.  Later on in the morning, when, after breakfast, we walked together through the garden, I asked her how she had slept, and if she had dreamt.  She answered me that she had slept without waking, and if she had had any dreams, they must have been pleasant ones, for she did not remember them.  “And you know, Rupert,” she added, “that if there be anything bad or fearsome or warning in dreams, I always remember them.”

Later still, when I was by myself on the cliff beyond the creek, I could not help commenting on the absence of her power of Second Sight on the occasion.  Surely, if ever there was a time when she might have had cause of apprehension, it might well have been when I asked the Lady whom she did not know to marry me  —  the Lady of whose identity I knew nothing, even whose name I did not know  —  whom I loved with all my heart and soul  —  my Lady of the Shroud.

I have lost faith in Second Sight.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL  — 
Continued
.

July
1, 1907.

Another week gone.  I have waited patiently, and I am at last rewarded by another letter.  I was preparing for bed a little while ago, when I heard the same mysterious sound at the door as on the last two occasions.  I hurried to the glass door, and there found another close-folded letter.  But I could see no sign of my Lady, or of any other living being.  The letter, which was without direction, ran as follows:

“If you are still of the same mind, and feel no misgivings, meet me at the Church of St. Sava beyond the Creek to-morrow night at a quarter before midnight.  If you come, come in secret, and, of course, alone.  Do not come at all unless you are prepared for a terrible ordeal.  But if you love me, and have neither doubts nor fears, come.  Come!”

Needless to say, I did not sleep last night.  I tried to, but without success.  It was no morbid happiness that kept me awake, no doubting, no fear.  I was simply overwhelmed with the idea of the coming rapture when I should call my Lady my very, very own.  In this sea of happy expectation all lesser things were submerged.  Even sleep, which is an imperative force with me, failed in its usual effectiveness, and I lay still, calm, content.

With the coming of the morning, however, restlessness began.  I did not know what to do, how to restrain myself, where to look for an anodyne.  Happily the latter came in the shape of Rooke, who turned up shortly after breakfast.  He had a satisfactory tale to tell me of the armoured yacht, which had lain off Cattaro on the previous night, and to which he had brought his contingent of crew which had waited for her coming.  He did not like to take the risk of going into any port with such a vessel, lest he might be detained or otherwise hampered by forms, and had gone out upon the open sea before daylight.  There was on board the yacht a tiny torpedo-boat, for which provision was made both for hoisting on deck and housing there.  This last would run into the creek at ten o’clock that evening, at which time it would be dark.  The yacht would then run to near Otranto, to which she would send a boat to get any message I might send.  This was to be in a code, which we arranged, and would convey instructions as to what night and approximate hour the yacht would come to the creek.

The day was well on before we had made certain arrangements for the future; and not till then did I feel again the pressure of my personal restlessness.  Rooke, like a wise commander, took rest whilst he could.  Well he knew that for a couple of days and nights at least there would be little, if any, sleep for him.

For myself, the habit of self-control stood to me, and I managed to get through the day somehow without exciting the attention of anyone else.  The arrival of the torpedo-boat and the departure of Rooke made for me a welcome break in my uneasiness.  An hour ago I said good-night to Aunt Janet, and shut myself up alone here.  My watch is on the table before me, so that I may make sure of starting to the moment.  I have allowed myself half an hour to reach St. Sava.  My skiff is waiting, moored at the foot of the cliff on the hither side, where the zigzag comes close to the water.  It is now ten minutes past eleven.

I shall add the odd five minutes to the time for my journey so as to make safe.  I go unarmed and without a light.

I shall show no distrust of anyone or anything this night.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL  — 
Continued
.

July
2, 1907.

When I was outside the church, I looked at my watch in the bright moonlight, and found I had one minute to wait.  So I stood in the shadow of the doorway and looked out at the scene before me.  Not a sign of life was visible around me, either on land or sea.  On the broad plateau on which the church stands there was no movement of any kind.  The wind, which had been pleasant in the noontide, had fallen completely, and not a leaf was stirring.  I could see across the creek and note the hard line where the battlements of the Castle cut the sky, and where the keep towered above the line of black rock, which in the shadow of the land made an ebon frame for the picture.  When I had seen the same view on former occasions, the line where the rock rose from the sea was a fringe of white foam.  But then, in the daylight, the sea was sapphire blue; now it was an expanse of dark blue  —  so dark as to seem almost black.  It had not even the relief of waves or ripples  —  simply a dark, cold, lifeless expanse, with no gleam of light anywhere, of lighthouse or ship; neither was there any special sound to be heard that one could distinguish  —  nothing but the distant hum of the myriad voices of the dark mingling in one ceaseless inarticulate sound.  It was well I had not time to dwell on it, or I might have reached some spiritually-disturbing melancholy.

Let me say here that ever since I had received my Lady’s message concerning this visit to St. Sava’s I had been all on fire  —  not, perhaps, at every moment consciously or actually so, but always, as it were, prepared to break out into flame.  Did I want a simile, I might compare myself to a well-banked furnace, whose present function it is to contain heat rather than to create it; whose crust can at any moment be broken by a force external to itself, and burst into raging, all-compelling heat.  No thought of fear really entered my mind.  Every other emotion there was, coming and going as occasion excited or lulled, but not fear.  Well I knew in the depths of my heart the purpose which that secret quest was to serve.  I knew not only from my Lady’s words, but from the teachings of my own senses and experiences, that some dreadful ordeal must take place before happiness of any kind could be won.  And that ordeal, though method or detail was unknown to me, I was prepared to undertake.  This was one of those occasions when a man must undertake, blindfold, ways that may lead to torture or death, or unknown terrors beyond.  But, then, a man  —  if, indeed, he have the heart of a man  —  can always undertake; he can at least make the first step, though it may turn out that through the weakness of mortality he may be unable to fulfil his own intent, or justify his belief in his own powers.  Such, I take it, was the intellectual attitude of the brave souls who of old faced the tortures of the Inquisition.

But though there was no immediate fear, there was a certain doubt.  For doubt is one of those mental conditions whose calling we cannot control.  The end of the doubting may not be a reality to us, or be accepted as a possibility.  These things cannot forego the existence of the doubt.  “For even if a man,” says Victor Cousin, “doubt everything else, at least he cannot doubt that he doubts.”  The doubt had at times been on me that my Lady of the Shroud was a Vampire.  Much that had happened seemed to point that way, and here, on the very threshold of the Unknown, when, through the door which I was pushing open, my eyes met only an expanse of absolute blackness, all doubts which had ever been seemed to surround me in a legion.  I have heard that, when a man is drowning, there comes a time when his whole life passes in review during the space of time which cannot be computed as even a part of a second.  So it was to me in the moment of my body passing into the church.  In that moment came to my mind all that had been, which bore on the knowledge of my Lady; and the general tendency was to prove or convince that she was indeed a Vampire.  Much that had happened, or become known to me, seemed to justify the resolving of doubt into belief.  Even my own reading of the books in Aunt Janet’s little library, and the dear lady’s comments on them, mingled with her own uncanny beliefs, left little opening for doubt.  My having to help my Lady over the threshold of my house on her first entry was in accord with Vampire tradition; so, too, her flying at cock-crow from the warmth in which she revelled on that strange first night of our meeting; so, too, her swift departure at midnight on the second.  Into the same category came the facts of her constant wearing of her Shroud, even her pledging herself, and me also, on the fragment torn from it, which she had given to me as a souvenir; her lying still in the glass-covered tomb; her coming alone to the most secret places in a fortified Castle where every aperture was secured by unopened locks and bolts; her very movements, though all of grace, as she flitted noiselessly through the gloom of night.

All these things, and a thousand others of lesser import, seemed, for the moment, to have consolidated an initial belief.  But then came the supreme recollections of how she had lain in my arms; of her kisses on my lips; of the beating of her heart against my own; of her sweet words of belief and faith breathed in my ear in intoxicating whispers; of . . . I paused.  No!  I could not accept belief as to her being other than a living woman of soul and sense, of flesh and blood, of all the sweet and passionate instincts of true and perfect womanhood.

And so, in spite of all  —  in spite of all beliefs, fixed or transitory, with a mind whirling amid contesting forces and compelling beliefs  —  I stepped into the church overwhelmed with that most receptive of atmospheres  —  doubt.

In one thing only was I fixed: here at least was no doubt or misgiving whatever.  I intended to go through what I had undertaken.  Moreover, I felt that I was strong enough to carry out my intention, whatever might be of the Unknown  —  however horrible, however terrible.

When I had entered the church and closed the heavy door behind me, the sense of darkness and loneliness in all their horror enfolded me round.  The great church seemed a living mystery, and served as an almost terrible background to thoughts and remembrances of unutterable gloom.  My adventurous life has had its own schooling to endurance and upholding one’s courage in trying times; but it has its contra in fulness of memory.

I felt my way forward with both hands and feet.  Every second seemed as if it had brought me at last to a darkness which was actually tangible.  All at once, and with no heed of sequence or order, I was conscious of all around me, the knowledge or perception of which  —  or even speculation on the subject  —  had never entered my mind.  They furnished the darkness with which I was encompassed with all the crowded phases of a dream.  I knew that all around me were memorials of the dead  —  that in the Crypt deep-wrought in the rock below my feet lay the dead themselves.  Some of them, perhaps  —  one of them I knew  —  had even passed the grim portals of time Unknown, and had, by some mysterious power or agency, come back again to material earth.  There was no resting-place for thought when I knew that the very air which I breathed might be full of denizens of the spirit-world.  In that impenetrable blackness was a world of imagining whose possibilities of horror were endless.

I almost fancied that I could see with mortal eyes down through that rocky floor to where, in the lonely Crypt, lay, in her tomb of massive stone and under that bewildering coverlet of glass, the woman whom I love.  I could see her beautiful face, her long black lashes, her sweet mouth  —  which I had kissed  —  relaxed in the sleep of death.  I could note the voluminous shroud  —  a piece of which as a precious souvenir lay even then so close to my heart  —  the snowy woollen coverlet wrought over in gold with sprigs of pine, the soft dent in the cushion on which her head must for so long have lain.  I could see myself  —  within my eyes the memory of that first visit  —  coming once again with glad step to renew that dear sight  —  dear, though it scorched my eyes and harrowed my heart  —  and finding the greater sorrow, the greater desolation of the empty tomb!

There!  I felt that I must think no more of that lest the thought should unnerve me when I should most want all my courage.  That way madness lay!  The darkness had already sufficient terrors of its own without bringing to it such grim remembrances and imaginings . . . And I had yet to go through some ordeal which, even to her who had passed and repassed the portals of death, was full of fear.