The Lady of the Shroud by Bram Stoker (book series for 10 year olds .txt) đź“•
"Sorry. But, of course, you don't understand such things." Then he went on talking before father had time to say a word.
"Let us get back to business. As you do not seem to follow me, let me explain that it is BECAUSE I do not forget that I wish to do this. I remember my dear mother's wish to make Aunt Janet happy, and would like to do as she did."
"AUNT Janet?" said father, very properly sneering at his ignorance. "She is not your aunt. Why, even her sister, who was married to your uncle, was only your aunt by courtesy." I could not help feeling that Rupert meant to be rude to my father, though his words were quite polite. If I had been as much bigger than him as he was than me, I should have flown at him; but he was a very big boy for his age. I am myself rather thin. Mother says thinness is an "appanage of birth."
"My Aunt Janet, sir, is an aunt by love. Courtesy is a small word to use in connection with such devoti
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prophecy:
“Your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream
dreams.”
By the way, my dear, talking about dreams, I am sending you out some
boxes of books which were in your rooms. They are nearly all on odd
subjects that WE understand—Second Sight, Ghosts, Dreams (that was
what brought the matter to my mind just now), superstitions,
Vampires, Wehr-Wolves, and all such uncanny folk and things. I
looked over some of these books, and found your marks and underlining
and comments, so I fancy you will miss them in your new home. You
will, I am sure, feel more at ease with such old friends close to
you. I have taken the names and sent the list to London, so that
when you pay me a visit again you will be at home in all ways. If
you come to me altogether, you will be more welcome still—if
possible. But I am sure that Rupert, who I know loves you very much,
will try to make you so happy that you will not want to leave him.
So I will have to come out often to see you both, even at the cost of
leaving Croom for so long. Strange, is it not? that now, when,
through Roger Melton’s more than kind remembrance of me, I am able to
go where I will and do what I will, I want more and more to remain at
home by my own ingle. I don’t think that anyone but you or Rupert
could get me away from it. I am working very hard at my little
regiment, as I call it. They are simply fine, and will, I am sure,
do us credit. The uniforms are all made, and well made, too. There
is not a man of them that does not look like an officer. I tell you,
Janet, that when we turn out the Vissarion Guard we shall feel proud
of them. I dare say that a couple of months will do all that can be
done here. I shall come out with them myself. Rupert writes me that
he thinks it will be more comfortable to come out direct in a ship of
our own. So when I go up to London in a few weeks’ time I shall see
about chartering a suitable vessel. It will certainly save a lot of
trouble to us and anxiety to our people. Would it not be well when I
am getting the ship, if I charter one big enough to take out all your
lassies, too? It is not as if they were strangers. After all, my
dear, soldiers are soldiers and lassies are lassies. But these are
all kinsfolk, as well as clansmen and clanswomen, and I, their Chief,
shall be there. Let me know your views and wishes in this respect.
Mr. Trent, whom I saw before leaving London, asked me to “convey to
you his most respectful remembrances”—these were his very words, and
here they are. Trent is a nice fellow, and I like him. He has
promised to pay me a visit here before the month is up, and I look
forward to our both enjoying ourselves.
Good-bye, my dear, and the Lord watch over you and our dear boy.
Your affectionate Uncle,
COLIN ALEXANDER MACKELPIE.
BOOK III: THE COMING OF THE LADY
RUPERT SENT LEGER’S JOURNAL.
April 3, 1907.
I have waited till now—well into midday—before beginning to set
down the details of the strange episode of last night. I have spoken
with persons whom I know to be of normal type. I have breakfasted,
as usual heartily, and have every reason to consider myself in
perfect health and sanity. So that the record following may be
regarded as not only true in substance, but exact as to details. I
have investigated and reported on too many cases for the Psychical
Research Society to be ignorant of the necessity for absolute
accuracy in such matters of even the minutest detail.
Yesterday was Tuesday, the second day of April, 1907. I passed a day
of interest, with its fair amount of work of varying kinds. Aunt
Janet and I lunched together, had a stroll round the gardens after
tea—especially examining the site for the new Japanese garden, which
we shall call “Janet’s Garden.” We went in mackintoshes, for the
rainy season is in its full, the only sign of its not being a
repetition of the Deluge being that breaks in the continuance are
beginning. They are short at present but will doubtless enlarge
themselves as the season comes towards an end. We dined together at
seven. After dinner I had a cigar, and then joined Aunt Janet for an
hour in her drawing-room. I left her at half-past ten, when I went
to my own room and wrote some letters. At ten minutes past eleven I
wound my watch, so I know the time accurately. Having prepared for
bed, I drew back the heavy curtain in front of my window, which opens
on the marble steps into the Italian garden. I had put out my light
before drawing back the curtain, for I wanted to have a look at the
scene before turning in. Aunt Janet has always had an old-fashioned
idea of the need (or propriety, I hardly know which) of keeping
windows closed and curtains drawn. I am gradually getting her to
leave my room alone in this respect, but at present the change is in
its fitful stage, and of course I must not hurry matters or be too
persistent, as it would hurt her feelings. This night was one of
those under the old regime. It was a delight to look out, for the
scene was perfect of its own kind. The long spell of rain—the
ceaseless downpour which had for the time flooded everywhere—had
passed, and water in abnormal places rather trickled than ran. We
were now beginning to be in the sloppy rather than the deluged stage.
There was plenty of light to see by, for the moon had begun to show
out fitfully through the masses of flying clouds. The uncertain
light made weird shadows with the shrubs and statues in the garden.
The long straight walk which leads from the marble steps is strewn
with fine sand white from the quartz strand in the nook to the south
of the Castle. Tall shrubs of white holly, yew, juniper, cypress,
and variegated maple and spiraea, which stood at intervals along the
walk and its branches, appeared ghost-like in the fitful moonlight.
The many vases and statues and urns, always like phantoms in a half-light, were more than ever weird. Last night the moonlight was
unusually effective, and showed not only the gardens down to the
defending wall, but the deep gloom of the great forest-trees beyond;
and beyond that, again, to where the mountain chain began, the forest
running up their silvered slopes flamelike in form, deviated here and
there by great crags and the outcropping rocky sinews of the vast
mountains.
Whilst I was looking at this lovely prospect, I thought I saw
something white flit, like a modified white flash, at odd moments
from one to another of the shrubs or statues—anything which would
afford cover from observation. At first I was not sure whether I
really saw anything or did not. This was in itself a little
disturbing to me, for I have been so long trained to minute
observation of facts surrounding me, on which often depend not only
my own life, but the lives of others, that I have become accustomed
to trust my eyes; and anything creating the faintest doubt in this
respect is a cause of more or less anxiety to me. Now, however, that
my attention was called to myself, I looked more keenly, and in a
very short time was satisfied that something was moving—something
clad in white. It was natural enough that my thoughts should tend
towards something uncanny—the belief that this place is haunted,
conveyed in a thousand ways of speech and inference. Aunt Janet’s
eerie beliefs, fortified by her books on occult subjects—and of
late, in our isolation from the rest of the world, the subject of
daily conversations—helped to this end. No wonder, then, that,
fully awake and with senses all on edge, I waited for some further
manifestation from this ghostly visitor—as in my mind I took it to
be. It must surely be a ghost or spiritual manifestation of some
kind which moved in this silent way. In order to see and hear
better, I softly moved back the folding grille, opened the French
window, and stepped out, barefooted and pyjama-clad as I was, on the
marble terrace. How cold the wet marble was! How heavy smelled the
rain-laden garden! It was as though the night and the damp, and even
the moonlight, were drawing the aroma from all the flowers that
blossomed. The whole night seemed to exhale heavy, half-intoxicating
odours! I stood at the head of the marble steps, and all immediately
before me was ghostly in the extreme—the white marble terrace and
steps, the white walks of quartz-sand glistening under the fitful
moonlight; the shrubs of white or pale green or yellow,—all looking
dim and ghostly in the glamorous light; the white statues and vases.
And amongst them, still flitting noiselessly, that mysterious elusive
figure which I could not say was based on fact or imagination. I
held my breath, listening intently for every sound; but sound there
was none, save those of the night and its denizens. Owls hooted in
the forest; bats, taking advantage of the cessation of the rain,
flitted about silently, like shadows in the air. But there was no
more sign of moving ghost or phantom, or whatever I had seen might
have been—if, indeed, there had been anything except imagination.
So, after waiting awhile, I returned to my room, closed the window,
drew the grille across again, and dragged the heavy curtain before
the opening; then, having extinguished my candles, went to bed in the
dark. In a few minutes I must have been asleep.
“What was that?” I almost heard the words of my own thought as I sat
up in bed wide awake. To memory rather than present hearing the
disturbing sound had seemed like the faint tapping at the window.
For some seconds I listened, mechanically but intently, with bated
breath and that quick beating of the heart which in a timorous person
speaks for fear, and for expectation in another. In the stillness
the sound came again—this time a very, very faint but unmistakable
tapping at the glass door.
I jumped up, drew back the curtain, and for a moment stood appalled.
There, outside on the balcony, in the now brilliant moonlight, stood
a woman, wrapped in white grave-clothes saturated with water, which
dripped on the marble floor, making a pool which trickled slowly down
the wet steps. Attitude and dress and circumstance all conveyed the
idea that, though she moved and spoke, she was not quick, but dead.
She was young and very beautiful, but pale, like the grey pallor of
death. Through the still white of her face, which made her look as
cold as the wet marble she stood on, her dark eyes seemed to gleam
with a strange but enticing lustre. Even in the unsearching
moonlight, which is after all rather deceptive than illuminative, I
could not but notice one rare quality of her eyes. Each had some
quality of refraction which made it look as though it contained a
star. At every movement she made, the stars exhibited new beauties,
of more rare and radiant force. She looked at me imploringly as the
heavy curtain rolled back, and in eloquent gestures implored me to
admit her. Instinctively I obeyed; I rolled back the steel
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