The Lady of the Shroud by Bram Stoker (knowledgeable books to read .txt) 📖

>again. Be content for a while! Believe me that I love you with my

very soul; and to keep away from your dear side is more bitter for me

than even it can be for you! Think, my dear one, I am not as other

women are, as some day you shall clearly understand. I am at the

present, and shall be for a little longer, constrained by duties and

obligations put upon me by others, and for others, and to which I am

pledged by the most sacred promises—given not only by myself, but by

others—and which I must not forgo. These forbid me to do as I wish.

Oh, trust me, my beloved—my husband!”

 

She held out her hands appealingly. The moonlight, falling through

the thinning forest, showed her white cerements. Then the

recollection of all she must have suffered—the awful loneliness in

that grim tomb in the Crypt, the despairing agony of one who is

helpless against the unknown—swept over me in a wave of pity. What

could I do but save her from further pain? And this could only be by

showing her my faith and trust. If she was to go back to that

dreadful charnel-house, she would at least take with her the

remembrance that one who loved her and whom she loved—to whom she

had been lately bound in the mystery of marriage—trusted her to the

full. I loved her more than myself—more than my own soul; and I was

moved by pity so great that all possible selfishness was merged in

its depths. I bowed my head before her—my Lady and my Wife—as I

said:

 

“So be it, my beloved. I trust you to the full, even as you trust

me. And that has been proven this night, even to my own doubting

heart. I shall wait; and as I know you wish it, I shall wait as

patiently as I can. But till you come to me for good and all, let me

see you or hear from you when you can. The time, dear wife, must go

heavily with me as I think of you suffering and lonely. So be good

to me, and let not too long a time elapse between my glimpses of

hope. And, sweetheart, when you DO come to me, it shall be for

ever!” There was something in the intonation of the last sentence—I

felt its sincerity myself—some implied yearning for a promise, that

made her beautiful eyes swim. The glorious stars in them were

blurred as she answered with a fervour which seemed to me as more

than earthly:

 

“For ever! I swear it!”

 

With one long kiss, and a straining in each others arms, which left

me tingling for long after we had lost sight of each other, we

parted. I stood and watched her as her white figure, gliding through

the deepening gloom, faded as the forest thickened. It surely was no

optical delusion or a phantom of the mind that her shrouded arm was

raised as though in blessing or farewell before the darkness

swallowed her up.

 

BOOK VI: THE PURSUIT IN THE FOREST

 

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

July 3, 1907.

 

There is no anodyne but work to pain of the heart; and my pain is all

of the heart. I sometimes feel that it is rather hard that with so

much to make me happy I cannot know happiness. How can I be happy

when my wife, whom I fondly love, and who I know loves me, is

suffering in horror and loneliness of a kind which is almost beyond

human belief? However, what is my loss is my country’s gain, for the

Land of the Blue Mountains is my country now, despite the fact that I

am still a loyal subject of good King Edward. Uncle Roger took care

of that when he said I should have the consent of the Privy Council

before I might be naturalized anywhere else.

 

When I got home yesterday morning I naturally could not sleep. The

events of the night and the bitter disappointment that followed my

exciting joy made such a thing impossible. When I drew the curtain

over the window, the reflection of the sunrise was just beginning to

tinge the high-sailing clouds in front of me. I laid down and tried

to rest, but without avail. However, I schooled myself to lie still,

and at last, if I did not sleep, was at least quiescent.

 

Disturbed by a gentle tap at the door, I sprang up at once and threw

on a dressing gown. Outside, when I opened the door, was Aunt Janet.

She was holding a lighted candle in her hand, for though it was

getting light in the open, the passages were still dark. When she

saw me she seemed to breathe more freely, and asked if she might come

in.

 

Whilst she sat on the edge of my bed, in her old-time way, she said

in a hushed voice:

 

“Oh, laddie, laddie, I trust yer burden is no too heavy to bear.”

 

“My burden! What on earth do you mean, Aunt Janet?” I said in reply.

I did not wish to commit myself by a definite answer, for it was

evident that she had been dreaming or Second Sighting again. She

replied with the grim seriousness usual to her when she touched on

occult matters:

 

“I saw your hairt bleeding, laddie. I kent it was yours, though how

I kent it I don’t know. It lay on a stone floor in the dark, save

for a dim blue light such as corpse-lights are. On it was placed a

great book, and close around were scattered many strange things,

amongst them two crowns o’ flowers—the one bound wi’ silver, the

other wi’ gold. There was also a golden cup, like a chalice,

o’erturned. The red wine trickled from it an’ mingled wi’ yer

hairt’s bluid; for on the great book was some vast dim weight wrapped

up in black, and on it stepped in turn many men all swathed in black.

An’ as the weight of each came on it the bluid gushed out afresh.

And oh, yer puir hairt, my laddie, was quick and leaping, so that at

every beat it raised the black-clad weight! An’ yet that was not

all, for hard by stood a tall imperial shape o’ a woman, all arrayed

in white, wi’ a great veil o’ finest lace worn o’er a shrood. An’

she was whiter than the snow, an’ fairer than the morn for beauty;

though a dark woman she was, wi’ hair like the raven, an’ eyes black

as the sea at nicht, an’ there was stars in them. An’ at each beat

o’ yer puir bleeding hairt she wrung her white hands, an’ the manin’

o’ her sweet voice rent my hairt in twain. Oh, laddie, laddie! what

does it mean?”

 

I managed to murmur: “I’m sure I don’t know, Aunt Janet. I suppose

it was all a dream!”

 

“A dream it was, my dear. A dream or a veesion, whilka matters nane,

for a’ such are warnin’s sent frae God … ” Suddenly she said in

a different voice:

 

“Laddie, hae ye been fause to any lassie? I’m no blamin’ ye. For ye

men are different frae us women, an’ yer regard on recht and wrang

differs from oors. But oh, laddie, a woman’s tears fa’ heavy when

her hairt is for sair wi’ the yieldin’ to fause words. ‘Tis a heavy

burden for ony man to carry wi’ him as he goes, an’ may well cause

pain to ithers that he fain would spare.” She stopped, and in dead

silence waited for me to speak. I thought it would be best to set

her poor loving heart at rest, and as I could not divulge my special

secret, spoke in general terms:

 

“Aunt Janet, I am a man, and have led a man’s life, such as it is.

But I can tell you, who have always loved me and taught me to be

true, that in all the world there is no woman who must weep for any

falsity of mine. If close there be any who, sleeping or waking, in

dreams or visions or in reality, weeps because of me, it is surely

not for my doing, but because of something outside me. It may be

that her heart is sore because I must suffer, as all men must in some

degree; but she does not weep for or through any act of mine.”

 

She sighed happily at my assurance, and looked up through her tears,

for she was much moved; and after tenderly kissing my forehead and

blessing me, stole away. She was more sweet and tender than I have

words to say, and the only regret that I have in all that is gone is

that I have not been able to bring my wife to her, and let her share

in the love she has for me. But that, too, will come, please God!

 

In the morning I sent a message to Rooke at Otranto, instructing him

by code to bring the yacht to Vissarion in the coming night.

 

All day I spent in going about amongst the mountaineers, drilling

them and looking after their arms. I COULD not stay still. My only

chance of peace was to work, my only chance of sleep to tire myself

out. Unhappily, I am very strong, so even when I came home at dark I

was quite fresh. However, I found a cable message from Rooke that

the yacht would arrive at midnight.

 

There was no need to summon the mountaineers, as the men in the

Castle would be sufficient to make preparations for the yacht’s

coming.

 

LATER.

 

The yacht has come. At half-past eleven the lookout signalled that a

steamer without lights was creeping in towards the Creek. I ran out

to the Flagstaff, and saw her steal in like a ghost. She is painted

a steely blue-grey, and it is almost impossible to see her at any

distance. She certainly goes wonderfully. Although there was not

enough throb from the engines to mar the absolute stillness, she came

on at a fine speed, and within a few minutes was close to the boom.

I had only time to run down to give orders to draw back the boom when

she glided in and stopped dead at the harbour wall. Rooke steered

her himself, and he says he never was on a boat that so well or so

quickly answered her helm. She is certainly a beauty, and so far as

I can see at night perfect in every detail. I promise myself a few

pleasant hours over her in the daylight. The men seem a splendid

lot.

 

But I do not feel sleepy; I despair of sleep to-night. But work

demands that I be fit for whatever may come, and so I shall try to

sleep—to rest, at any rate.

 

RUPERT’S JOURNAL.—Continued.

July 4, 1907.

 

I was up with the first ray of sunrise, so by the time I had my bath

and was dressed there was ample light. I went down to the dock at

once, and spent the morning looking over the vessel, which fully

justifies Rooke’s enthusiasm about her. She is built on lovely

lines, and I can quite understand that she is enormously fast. Her

armour I can only take on the specifications, but her armament is

really wonderful. And there are not only all the very newest devices

of aggressive warfare—indeed, she has the newest up-to-date

torpedoes and torpedo-guns—but also the old-fashioned rocket-tubes,

which in certain occasions are so useful. She has electric guns and

the latest Massillon water-guns, and Reinhardt electro-pneumatic

“deliverers” for pyroxiline shells. She is even equipped with war-balloons easy of expansion,