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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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.
It was a merciful relief to me when, in groping my way forwards
through the darkness, I struck against some portion of the furnishing
of the church. Fortunately I was all strung up to tension, else I
should never have been able to control instinctively, as I did, the
shriek which was rising to my lips.
I would have given anything to have been able to light even a match.
A single second of light would, I felt, have made me my own man
again. But I knew that this would be against the implied condition
of my being there at all, and might have had disastrous consequences
to her whom I had come to save. It might even frustrate my scheme,
and altogether destroy my opportunity. At that moment it was borne
upon me more strongly than ever that this was not a mere fight for
myself or my own selfish purposes—not merely an adventure or a
struggle for only life and death against unknown difficulties and
dangers. It was a fight on behalf of her I loved, not merely for her
life, but perhaps even for her soul.
And yet this very thinking—understanding—created a new form of
terror. For in that grim, shrouding darkness came memories of other
moments of terrible stress.
Of wild, mystic rites held in the deep gloom of African forests,
when, amid scenes of revolting horror, Obi and the devils of his kind
seemed to reveal themselves to reckless worshippers, surfeited with
horror, whose lives counted for naught; when even human sacrifice was
an episode, and the reek of old deviltries and recent carnage tainted
the air, till even I, who was, at the risk of my life, a privileged
spectator who had come through dangers without end to behold the
scene, rose and fled in horror.
Of scenes of mystery enacted in rock-cut temples beyond the
Himalayas, whose fanatic priests, cold as death and as remorseless,
in the reaction of their phrenzy of passion, foamed at the mouth and
then sank into marble quiet, as with inner eyes they beheld the
visions of the hellish powers which they had invoked.
Of wild, fantastic dances of the Devil-worshippers of Madagascar,
where even the very semblance of humanity disappeared in the
fantastic excesses of their orgies.
Of strange doings of gloom and mystery in the rock-perched
monasteries of Thibet.
Of awful sacrifices, all to mystic ends, in the innermost recesses of
Cathay.
Of weird movements with masses of poisonous snakes by the medicine-men of the Zuni and Mochi Indians in the far south-west of the
Rockies, beyond the great plains.
Of secret gatherings in vast temples of old Mexico, and by dim altars
of forgotten cities in the heart of great forests in South America.
Of rites of inconceivable horror in the fastnesses of Patagonia.
Of … Here I once more pulled myself up. Such thoughts were no
kind of proper preparation for what I might have to endure. My work
that night was to be based on love, on hope, on self-sacrifice for
the woman who in all the world was the closest to my heart, whose
future I was to share, whether that sharing might lead me to Hell or
Heaven. The hand which undertook such a task must have no trembling.
Still, those horrible memories had, I am bound to say, a useful part
in my preparation for the ordeal. They were of fact which I had
seen, of which I had myself been in part a sharer, and which I had
survived. With such experiences behind me, could there be aught
before me more dreadful? …
Moreover, if the coming ordeal was of supernatural or superhuman
order, could it transcend in living horror the vilest and most
desperate acts of the basest men? …
With renewed courage I felt my way before me, till my sense of touch
told me that I was at the screen behind which lay the stair to the
Crypt.
There I waited, silent, still.
My own part was done, so far as I knew how to do it. Beyond this,
what was to come was, so far as I knew, beyond my own control. I had
done what I could; the rest must come from others. I had exactly
obeyed my instructions, fulfilled my warranty to the utmost in my
knowledge and power. There was, therefore, left for me in the
present nothing but to wait.
It is a peculiarity of absolute darkness that it creates its own
reaction. The eye, wearied of the blackness, begins to imagine forms
of light. How far this is effected by imagination pure and simple I
know not. It may be that nerves have their own senses that bring
thought to the depository common to all the human functions, but,
whatever may be the mechanism or the objective, the darkness seems to
people itself with luminous entities.
So was it with me as I stood lonely in the dark, silent church. Here
and there seemed to flash tiny points of light.
In the same way the silence began to be broken now and again by
strange muffled sounds—the suggestion of sounds rather than actual
vibrations. These were all at first of the minor importance of
movement—rustlings, creakings, faint stirrings, fainter breathings.
Presently, when I had somewhat recovered from the sort of hypnotic
trance to which the darkness and stillness had during the time of
waiting reduced me, I looked around in wonder.
The phantoms of light and sound seemed to have become real. There
were most certainly actual little points of light in places—not
enough to see details by, but quite sufficient to relieve the utter
gloom. I thought—though it may have been a mingling of recollection
and imagination—that I could distinguish the outlines of the church;
certainly the great altar-screen was dimly visible. Instinctively I
looked up—and thrilled. There, hung high above me, was, surely
enough, a great Greek Cross, outlined by tiny points of light.
I lost myself in wonder, and stood still, in a purely receptive mood,
unantagonistic to aught, willing for whatever might come, ready for
all things, in rather a negative than a positive mood—a mood which
has an aspect of spiritual meekness. This is the true spirit of the
neophyte, and, though I did not think of it at the time, the proper
attitude for what is called by the Church in whose temple I stood a
“neo-nymph.”
As the light grew a little in power, though never increasing enough
for distinctness, I saw dimly before me a table on which rested a
great open book, whereon were laid two rings—one of sliver, the
other of gold—and two crowns wrought of flowers, bound at the
joining of their stems with tissue—one of gold, the other of silver.
I do not know much of the ritual of the old Greek Church, which is
the religion of the Blue Mountains, but the things which I saw before
me could be none other than enlightening symbols. Instinctively I
knew that I had been brought hither, though in this grim way, to be
married. The very idea of it thrilled me to the heart’s core. I
thought the best thing I could do would be to stay quite still, and
not show surprise at anything that might happen; but be sure I was
all eyes and ears.
I peered anxiously around me in every direction, but I could see no
sign of her whom I had come to meet.
Incidentally, however, I noticed that in the lighting, such as it
was, there was no flame, no “living” light. Whatever light there was
came muffled, as though through some green translucent stone. The
whole effect was terribly weird and disconcerting.
Presently I started, as, seemingly out of the darkness beside me, a
man’s hand stretched out and took mine. Turning, I found close to me
a tall man with shining black eyes and long black hair and beard. He
was clad in some kind of gorgeous robe of cloth of gold, rich with
variety of adornment. His head was covered with a high, over-hanging
hat draped closely with a black scarf, the ends of which formed a
long, hanging veil on either side. These veils, falling over the
magnificent robes of cloth of gold, had an extraordinarily solemn
effect.
I yielded myself to the guiding hand, and shortly found myself, so
far as I could see, at one side of the sanctuary.
In the floor close to my feet was a yawning chasm, into which, from
so high over my head that in the uncertain light I could not
distinguish its origin, hung a chain. At the sight a strange wave of
memory swept over me. I could not but remember the chain which hung
over the glass-covered tomb in the Crypt, and I had an instinctive
feeling that the grim chasm in the floor of the sanctuary was but the
other side of the opening in the roof of the crypt from which the
chain over the sarcophagus depended.
There was a creaking sound—the groaning of a windlass and the
clanking of a chain. There was heavy breathing close to me
somewhere. I was so intent on what was going on that I did not see
that one by one, seeming to grow out of the surrounding darkness,
several black figures in monkish garb appeared with the silence of
ghosts. Their faces were shrouded in black cowls, wherein were holes
through which I could see dark gleaming eyes. My guide held me
tightly by the hand. This gave me a feeling of security in the touch
which helped to retain within my breast some semblance of calm.
The strain of the creaking windlass and the clanking chain continued
for so long that the suspense became almost unendurable. At last
there came into sight an iron ring, from which as a centre depended
four lesser chains spreading wide. In a few seconds more I could see
that these were fixed to the corners of the great stone tomb with the
covering of glass, which was being dragged upward. As it arose it
filled closely the whole aperture. When its bottom had reached the
level of the floor it stopped, and remained rigid. There was no room
for oscillation. It was at once surrounded by a number of black
figures, who raised the glass covering and bore it away into the
darkness. Then there stepped forward a very tall man, black-bearded,
and with head-gear like my guide, but made in triple tiers, he also
was gorgeously arrayed in flowing robes of cloth of gold
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