The Lady of the Shroud by Bram Stoker (book series for 10 year olds .txt) 📕

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 AEolian 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.