Complete Works of Bram Stoker (346 page)

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, bare-footed 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 grille, and threw open the French window.  I noticed that she shivered and trembled as the glass door fell open.  Indeed, she seemed so overcome with cold as to seem almost unable to move.  In the sense of her helplessness all idea of the strangeness of the situation entirely disappeared.  It was not as if my first idea of death taken from her cerements was negatived.  It was simply that I did not think of it at all; I was content to accept things as they were  —  she was a woman, and in some dreadful trouble; that was enough.

I am thus particular about my own emotions, as I may have to refer to them again in matters of comprehension or comparison.  The whole thing is so vastly strange and abnormal that the least thing may afterwards give some guiding light or clue to something otherwise not understandable.  I have always found that in recondite matters first impressions are of more real value than later conclusions.  We humans place far too little reliance on instinct as against reason; and yet instinct is the great gift of Nature to all animals for their protection and the fulfilment of their functions generally.

When I stepped out on the balcony, not thinking of my costume, I found that the woman was benumbed and hardly able to move.  Even when I asked her to enter, and supplemented my words with gestures in case she should not understand my language, she stood stock-still, only rocking slightly to and fro as though she had just strength enough left to balance herself on her feet.  I was afraid, from the condition in which she was, that she might drop down dead at any moment.  So I took her by the hand to lead her in.  But she seemed too weak to even make the attempt.  When I pulled her slightly forward, thinking to help her, she tottered, and would have fallen had I not caught her in my arms.  Then, half lifting her, I moved her forwards.  Her feet, relieved of her weight, now seemed able to make the necessary effort; and so, I almost carrying her, we moved into the room.  She was at the very end of her strength; I had to lift her over the sill.  In obedience to her motion, I closed the French window and bolted it.  I supposed the warmth of the room  —  though cool, it was warmer than the damp air without  —  affected her quickly, for on the instant she seemed to begin to recover herself.  In a few seconds, as though she had reacquired her strength, she herself pulled the heavy curtain across the window.  This left us in darkness, through which I heard her say in English:

“Light.  Get a light!”

I found matches, and at once lit a candle.  As the wick flared, she moved over to the door of the room, and tried if the lock and bolt were fastened.  Satisfied as to this, she moved towards me, her wet shroud leaving a trail of moisture on the green carpet.  By this time the wax of the candle had melted sufficiently to let me see her clearly.  She was shaking and quivering as though in an ague; she drew the wet shroud around her piteously.  Instinctively I spoke:

“Can I do anything for you?”

She answered, still in English, and in a voice of thrilling, almost piercing sweetness, which seemed somehow to go straight to my heart, and affected me strangely: “Give me warmth.”

I hurried to the fireplace.  It was empty; there was no fire laid.  I turned to her, and said:

“Wait just a few minutes here.  I shall call someone, and get help  —  and fire.”

Her voice seemed to ring with intensity as she answered without a pause:

“No, no!  Rather would I be”  —  here she hesitated for an instant, but as she caught sight of her cerements went on hurriedly  —  “as I am.  I trust you  —  not others; and you must not betray my trust.”  Almost instantly she fell into a frightful fit of shivering, drawing again her death-clothes close to her, so piteously that it wrung my heart.  I suppose I am a practical man.  At any rate, I am accustomed to action.  I took from its place beside my bed a thick Jaeger dressing-gown of dark brown  —  it was, of course, of extra length  —  and held it out to her as I said:

“Put that on.  It is the only warm thing here which would be suitable.  Stay; you must remove that wet  —  wet”  —  I stumbled about for a word that would not be offensive  —  “that frock  —  dress  —  costume  —  whatever it is.”  I pointed to where, in the corner of the room, stood a chintz-covered folding-screen which fences in my cold sponge bath, which is laid ready for me overnight, as I am an early riser.

She bowed gravely, and taking the dressing-gown in a long, white, finely-shaped hand, bore it behind the screen.  There was a slight rustle, and then a hollow “flop” as the wet garment fell on the floor; more rustling and rubbing, and a minute later she emerged wrapped from head to foot in the long Jaeger garment, which trailed on the floor behind her, though she was a tall woman.  She was still shivering painfully, however.  I took a flask of brandy and a glass from a cupboard, and offered her some; but with a motion of her hand she refused it, though she moaned grievously.

“Oh, I am so cold  —  so cold!”  Her teeth were chattering.  I was pained at her sad condition, and said despairingly, for I was at my wits’ end to know what to do:

“Tell me anything that I can do to help you, and I will do it.  I may not call help; there is no fire  —  nothing to make it with; you will not take some brandy.  What on earth can I do to give you warmth?”

Her answer certainly surprised me when it came, though it was practical enough  —  so practical that I should not have dared to say it.  She looked me straight in the face for a few seconds before speaking.  Then, with an air of girlish innocence which disarmed suspicion and convinced me at once of her simple faith, she said in a voice that at once thrilled me and evoked all my pity:

“Let me rest for a while, and cover me up with rugs.  That may give me warmth.  I am dying of cold.  And I have a deadly fear upon me  —  a deadly fear.  Sit by me, and let me hold your hand.  You are big and strong, and you look brave.  It will reassure me.  I am not myself a coward, but to-night fear has got me by the throat.  I can hardly breathe.  Do let me stay till I am warm.  If you only knew what I have gone through, and have to go through still, I am sure you would pity me and help me.”

To say that I was astonished would be a mild description of my feelings.  I was not shocked.  The life which I have led was not one which makes for prudery.  To travel in strange places amongst strange peoples with strange views of their own is to have odd experiences and peculiar adventures now and again; a man without human passions is not the type necessary for an adventurous life, such as I myself have had.  But even a man of passions and experiences can, when he respects a woman, be shocked  —  even prudish  —  where his own opinion of her is concerned.  Such must bring to her guarding any generosity which he has, and any self-restraint also.  Even should she place herself in a doubtful position, her honour calls to his honour.  This is a call which may not be  — 
must
not be  —  unanswered.  Even passion must pause for at least a while at sound of such a trumpet-call.

This woman I did respect  —  much respect.  Her youth and beauty; her manifest ignorance of evil; her superb disdain of convention, which could only come through hereditary dignity; her terrible fear and suffering  —  for there must be more in her unhappy condition than meets the eye  —  would all demand respect, even if one did not hasten to yield it.  Nevertheless, I thought it necessary to enter a protest against her embarrassing suggestion.  I certainly did feel a fool when making it, also a cad.  I can truly say it was made only for her good, and out of the best of me, such as I am.  I felt impossibly awkward; and stuttered and stumbled before I spoke:

“But surely  —  the convenances!  Your being here alone at night!  Mrs. Grundy  —  convention  —  the  —  ”

She interrupted me with an incomparable dignity  —  a dignity which had the effect of shutting me up like a clasp-knife and making me feel a decided inferior  —  and a poor show at that.  There was such a gracious simplicity and honesty in it, too, such self-respecting knowledge of herself and her position, that I could be neither angry nor hurt.  I could only feel ashamed of myself, and of my own littleness of mind and morals.  She seemed in her icy coldness  —  now spiritual as well as bodily  —  like an incarnate figure of Pride as she answered:

“What are convenances or conventions to me!  If you only knew where I have come from  —  the existence (if it can be called so) which I have had  —  the loneliness  —  the horror!  And besides, it is for me to
make
conventions, not to yield my personal freedom of action to them.  Even as I am  —  even here and in this garb  —  I am above convention.  Convenances do not trouble me or hamper me.  That, at least, I have won by what I have gone through, even if it had never come to me through any other way.  Let me stay.”  She said the last words, in spite of all her pride, appealingly.  But still, there was a note of high pride in all this  —  in all she said and did, in her attitude and movement, in the tones of her voice, in the loftiness of her carriage and the steadfast look of her open, starlit eyes.  Altogether, there was something so rarely lofty in herself and all that clad her that, face to face with it and with her, my feeble attempt at moral precaution seemed puny, ridiculous, and out of place.  Without a word in the doing, I took from an old chiffonier chest an armful of blankets, several of which I threw over her as she lay, for in the meantime, having replaced the coverlet, she had lain down at length on the bed.  I took a chair, and sat down beside her.  When she stretched out her hand from beneath the pile of wraps, I took it in mine, saying:

“Get warm and rest.  Sleep if you can.  You need not fear; I shall guard you with my life.”

She looked at me gratefully, her starry eyes taking a new light more full of illumination than was afforded by the wax candle, which was shaded from her by my body . . . She was horribly cold, and her teeth chattered so violently that I feared lest she should have incurred some dangerous evil from her wetting and the cold that followed it.  I felt, however, so awkward that I could find no words to express my fears; moreover, I hardly dared say anything at all regarding herself after the haughty way in which she had received my well-meant protest.  Manifestly I was but to her as a sort of refuge and provider of heat, altogether impersonal, and not to be regarded in any degree as an individual.  In these humiliating circumstances what could I do but sit quiet  —  and wait developments?