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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fire had been alight. I could only guess. Perhaps the mountaineers
might be able to tell or even to guess better than I could. But I am
not so sure of this. I am a mountaineer myself, and with larger and
more varied experience than any of them. For myself, though I could
not be certain, I came to the conclusion that whoever had used the
place had done so not many days before. It could not have been quite
recently; but it may not have been very long ago. Whoever had used
it had covered up his tracks well. Even the ashes had been carefully
removed, and the place where they had lain was cleaned or swept in
some way, so that there was no trace on the spot. I applied some of
my West African experience, and looked on the rough bark of the trees
to leeward, to where the agitated air, however directed, must have
come, unless it was wanted to call attention to the place by the
scattered wood-ashes, however fine. I found traces of it, but they
were faint. There had not been rain for several days; so the dust
must have been blown there since the rain had fallen, for it was
still dry.
The place was a tiny gorge, with but one entrance, which was hidden
behind a barren spur of rock—just a sort of long fissure, jagged and
curving, in the rock, like a fault in the stratification. I could
just struggle through it with considerable effort, holding my breath
here and there, so as to reduce my depth of chest. Within it was
tree-clad, and full of possibilities of concealment.
As I came away I marked well its direction and approaches, noting any
guiding mark which might aid in finding it by day or night. I
explored every foot of ground around it—in front, on each side, and
above. But from nowhere could I see an indication of its existence.
It was a veritable secret chamber wrought by the hand of Nature
itself. I did not return home till I was familiar with every detail
near and around it. This new knowledge added distinctly to my sense
of security.
Later in the day I tried to find the Vladika or any mountaineer of
importance, for I thought that such a hiding-place which had been
used so recently might be dangerous, and especially at a time when,
as I had learned at the meeting where they did NOT fire their guns
that there may have been spies about or a traitor in the land.
Even before I came to my own room to-night I had fully made up my
mind to go out early in the morning and find some proper person to
whom to impart the information, so that a watch might be kept on the
place. It is now getting on for midnight, and when I have had my
usual last look at the garden I shall turn in. Aunt Janet was uneasy
all day, and especially so this evening. I think it must have been
my absence at the usual breakfast-hour which got on her nerves; and
that unsatisfied mental or psychical irritation increased as the day
wore on.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
May 20, 1907.
The clock on the mantelpiece in my room, which chimes on the notes of
the clock at St. James’s Palace, was striking midnight when I opened
the glass door on the terrace. I had put out my lights before I drew
the curtain, as I wished to see the full effect of the moonlight.
Now that the rainy season is over, the moon is quite as beautiful as
it was in the wet, and a great deal more comfortable. I was in
evening dress, with a smoking-jacket in lieu of a coat, and I felt
the air mild and mellow on the warm side, as I stood on the terrace.
But even in that bright moonlight the further corners of the great
garden were full of mysterious shadows. I peered into them as well
as I could—and my eyes are pretty good naturally, and are well
trained. There was not the least movement. The air was as still as
death, the foliage as still as though wrought in stone.
I looked for quite a long time in the hope of seeing something of my
Lady. The quarters chimed several times, but I stood on unheeding.
At last I thought I saw far off in the very corner of the old
defending wall a flicker of white. It was but momentary, and could
hardly have accounted in itself for the way my heart beat. I
controlled myself, and stood as though I, too, were a graven image.
I was rewarded by seeing presently another gleam of white. And then
an unspeakable rapture stole over me as I realized that my Lady was
coming as she had come before. I would have hurried out to meet her,
but that I knew well that this would not be in accord with her
wishes. So, thinking to please her, I drew back into the room. I
was glad I had done so when, from the dark corner where I stood, I
saw her steal up the marble steps and stand timidly looking in at the
door. Then, after a long pause, came a whisper as faint and sweet as
the music of a distant AEolian harp:
“Are you there? May I come in? Answer me! I am lonely and in
fear!” For answer I emerged from my dim corner so swiftly that she
was startled. I could hear from the quivering intake of her breath
that she was striving—happily with success—to suppress a shriek.
“Come in,” I said quietly. “I was waiting for you, for I felt that
you would come. I only came in from the terrace when I saw you
coming, lest you might fear that anyone might see us. That is not
possible, but I thought you wished that I should be careful.”
“I did—I do,” she answered in a low, sweet voice, but very firmly.
“But never avoid precaution. There is nothing that may not happen
here. There may be eyes where we least expect—or suspect them.” As
she spoke the last words solemnly and in a low whisper, she was
entering the room. I closed the glass door and bolted it, rolled
back the steel grille, and pulled the heavy curtain. Then, when I
had lit a candle, I went over and put a light to the fire. In a few
seconds the dry wood had caught, and the flames were beginning to
rise and crackle. She had not objected to my closing the window and
drawing the curtain; neither did she make any comment on my lighting
the fire. She simply acquiesced in it, as though it was now a matter
of course. When I made the pile of cushions before it as on the
occasion of her last visit, she sank down on them, and held out her
white, trembling hands to the warmth.
She was different to-night from what she had been on either of the
two former visits. From her present bearing I arrived at some gauge
of her self-concern, her self-respect. Now that she was dry, and not
overmastered by wet and cold, a sweet and gracious dignity seemed to
shine from her, enwrapping her, as it were, with a luminous veil. It
was not that she was by this made or shown as cold or distant, or in
any way harsh or forbidding. On the contrary, protected by this
dignity, she seemed much more sweet and genial than before. It was
as though she felt that she could afford to stoop now that her
loftiness was realized—that her position was recognized and secure.
If her inherent dignity made an impenetrable nimbus round her, this
was against others; she herself was not bound by it, or to be bound.
So marked was this, so entirely and sweetly womanly did she appear,
that I caught myself wondering in flashes of thought, which came as
sharp periods of doubting judgment between spells of unconscious
fascination, how I had ever come to think she was aught but perfect
woman. As she rested, half sitting and half lying on the pile of
cushions, she was all grace, and beauty, and charm, and sweetness—
the veritable perfect woman of the dreams of a man, be he young or
old. To have such a woman sit by his hearth and hold her holy of
holies in his heart might well be a rapture to any man. Even an hour
of such entrancing joy might be well won by a lifetime of pain, by
the balance of a long life sacrificed, by the extinction of life
itself. Quick behind the record of such thoughts came the answer to
the doubt they challenged: if it should turn out that she was not
living at all, but one of the doomed and pitiful Un-Dead, then so
much more on account of her very sweetness and beauty would be the
winning of her back to Life and Heaven—even were it that she might
find happiness in the heart and in the arms of another man.
Once, when I leaned over the hearth to put fresh logs on the fire, my
face was so close to hers that I felt her breath on my cheek. It
thrilled me to feel even the suggestion of that ineffable contact.
Her breath was sweet—sweet as the breath of a calf, sweet as the
whiff of a summer breeze across beds of mignonette. How could anyone
believe for a moment that such sweet breath could come from the lips
of the dead—the dead in esse or in posse—that corruption could send
forth fragrance so sweet and pure? It was with satisfied happiness
that, as I looked at her from my stool, I saw the dancing of the
flames from the beech-logs reflected in her glorious black eyes, and
the stars that were hidden in them shine out with new colours and new
lustre as they gleamed, rising and falling like hopes and fears. As
the light leaped, so did smiles of quiet happiness flit over her
beautiful face, the merriment of the joyous flames being reflected in
ever-changing dimples.
At first I was a little disconcerted whenever my eyes took note of
her shroud, and there came a momentary regret that the weather had
not been again bad, so that there might have been compulsion for her
putting on another garment—anything lacking the loathsomeness of
that pitiful wrapping. Little by little, however, this feeling
disappeared, and I found no matter for even dissatisfaction in her
wrapping. Indeed, my thoughts found inward voice before the subject
was dismissed from my mind:
“One becomes accustomed to anything—even a shroud!” But the thought
was followed by a submerging wave of pity that she should have had
such a dreadful experience.
By-and-by we seemed both to forget everything—I know I did—except
that we were man and woman, and close together. The strangeness of
the situation and the circumstances did not seem of moment—not worth
even a passing thought. We still sat apart and said little, if
anything. I cannot recall a single word that either of us spoke
whilst we sat before the fire, but other language than speech came
into play; the eyes told their own story, as eyes can do, and more
eloquently than lips whilst exercising their function of speech.
Question and answer followed each other in this satisfying language,
and with an unspeakable rapture I began to realize that my affection
was returned. Under these circumstances it was unrealizable that
there should be any incongruity in the whole affair. I was not
myself in the mood of questioning. I was diffident with that
diffidence which
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