Complete Works of Bram Stoker (349 page)

“Won’t you change as you did before?  Your  —  your frock can then be dried.  Do!  It will be so much safer for you to be dry clad when you resume your own dress.”

“How can I whilst you are here?”

Her words made me stare, so different were they from her acts of the other visit.  I simply bowed  —  speech on such a subject would be at least inadequate  —  and walked over to the window.  Passing behind the curtain, I opened the window.  Before stepping out on to the terrace, I looked into the room and said:

“Take your own time.  There is no hurry.  I dare say you will find there all you may want.  I shall remain on the terrace until you summon me.”  With that I went out on the terrace, drawing close the glass door behind me.

I stood looking out on the dreary scene for what seemed a very short time, my mind in a whirl.  There came a rustle from within, and I saw a dark brown figure steal round the edge of the curtain.  A white hand was raised, and beckoned me to come in.  I entered, bolting the window behind me.  She had passed across the room, and was again kneeling before the fire with her hands outstretched.  The shroud was laid in partially opened folds on one side of the hearth, and was steaming heavily.  I brought over some cushions and pillows, and made a little pile of them beside her.

“Sit there,” I said, “and rest quietly in the heat.”  It may have been the effect of the glowing heat, but there was a rich colour in her face as she looked at me with shining eyes.  Without a word, but with a courteous little bow, she sat down at once.  I put a thick rug across her shoulders, and sat down myself on a stool a couple of feet away.

For fully five or six minutes we sat in silence.  At last, turning her head towards me she said in a sweet, low voice:

“I had intended coming earlier on purpose to thank you for your very sweet and gracious courtesy to me, but circumstances were such that I could not leave my  —  my”  —  she hesitated before saying  —  “my abode.  I am not free, as you and others are, to do what I will.  My existence is sadly cold and stern, and full of horrors that appal.  But I
do
thank you.  For myself I am not sorry for the delay, for every hour shows me more clearly how good and understanding and sympathetic you have been to me.  I only hope that some day you may realise how kind you have been, and how much I appreciate it.”

“I am only too glad to be of any service,” I said, feebly I felt, as I held out my hand.  She did not seem to see it.  Her eyes were now on the fire, and a warm blush dyed forehead and cheek and neck.  The reproof was so gentle that no one could have been offended.  It was evident that she was something coy and reticent, and would not allow me to come at present more close to her, even to the touching of her hand.  But that her heart was not in the denial was also evident in the glance from her glorious dark starry eyes.  These glances  —  veritable lightning flashes coming through her pronounced reserve  —  finished entirely any wavering there might be in my own purpose.  I was aware now to the full that my heart was quite subjugated.  I knew that I was in love  —  veritably so much in love as to feel that without this woman, be she what she might, by my side my future must be absolutely barren.

It was presently apparent that she did not mean to stay as long on this occasion as on the last.  When the castle clock struck midnight she suddenly sprang to her feet with a bound, saying:

“I must go!  There is midnight!”  I rose at once, the intensity of her speech having instantly obliterated the sleep which, under the influence of rest and warmth, was creeping upon me.  Once more she was in a frenzy of haste, so I hurried towards the window, but as I looked back saw her, despite her haste, still standing.  I motioned towards the screen, and slipping behind the curtain, opened the window and went out on the terrace.  As I was disappearing behind the curtain I saw her with the tail of my eye lifting the shroud, now dry, from the hearth.

She was out through the window in an incredibly short time, now clothed once more in that dreadful wrapping.  As she sped past me barefooted on the wet, chilly marble which made her shudder, she whispered:

“Thank you again.  You
are
good to me.  You can understand.”

Once again I stood on the terrace, saw her melt like a shadow down the steps, and disappear behind the nearest shrub.  Thence she flitted away from point to point with exceeding haste.  The moonlight had now disappeared behind heavy banks of cloud, so there was little light to see by.  I could just distinguish a pale gleam here and there as she wended her secret way.

For a long time I stood there alone thinking, as I watched the course she had taken, and wondering where might be her ultimate destination.  As she had spoken of her “abode,” I knew there was some definitive objective of her flight.

It was no use wondering.  I was so entirely ignorant of her surroundings that I had not even a starting-place for speculation.  So I went in, leaving the window open.  It seemed that this being so made one barrier the less between us.  I gathered the cushions and rugs from before the fire, which was no longer leaping, but burning with a steady glow, and put them back in their places.  Aunt Janet might come in the morning, as she had done before, and I did not wish to set her thinking.  She is much too clever a person to have treading on the heels of a mystery  —  especially one in which my own affections are engaged.  I wonder what she would have said had she seen me kiss the cushion on which my beautiful guest’s head had rested?

When I was in bed, and in the dark save for the fading glow of the fire, my thoughts became fixed that whether she came from Earth or Heaven or Hell, my lovely visitor was already more to me than aught else in the world.  This time she had, on going, said no word of returning.  I had been so much taken up with her presence, and so upset by her abrupt departure, that I had omitted to ask her.  And so I am driven, as before, to accept the chance of her returning  —  a chance which I fear I am or may be unable to control.

Surely enough Aunt Janet did come in the morning, early.  I was still asleep when she knocked at my door.  With that purely physical subconsciousness which comes with habit I must have realised the cause of the sound, for I woke fully conscious of the fact that Aunt Janet had knocked and was waiting to come in.  I jumped from bed, and back again when I had unlocked the door.  When Aunt Janet came in she noticed the cold of the room.

“Save us, laddie, but ye’ll get your death o’ cold in this room.”  Then, as she looked round and noticed the ashes of the extinct fire in the grate:

“Eh, but ye’re no that daft after a’; ye’ve had the sense to light yer fire.  Glad I am that we had the fire laid and a wheen o’ dry logs ready to yer hand.”  She evidently felt the cold air coming from the window, for she went over and drew the curtain.  When she saw the open window, she raised her hands in a sort of dismay, which to me, knowing how little base for concern could be within her knowledge, was comic.  Hurriedly she shut the window, and then, coming close over to my bed, said:

“Yon has been a fearsome nicht again, laddie, for yer poor auld aunty.”

“Dreaming again, Aunt Janet?” I asked  —  rather flippantly as it seemed to me.  She shook her head:

“Not so, Rupert, unless it be that the Lord gies us in dreams what we in our spiritual darkness think are veesions.”  I roused up at this.  When Aunt Janet calls me Rupert, as she always used to do in my dear mother’s time, things are serious with her.  As I was back in childhood now, recalled by her word, I thought the best thing I could do to cheer her would be to bring her back there too  —  if I could.  So I patted the edge of the bed as I used to do when I was a wee kiddie and wanted her to comfort me, and said:

“Sit down, Aunt Janet, and tell me.”  She yielded at once, and the look of the happy old days grew over her face as though there had come a gleam of sunshine.  She sat down, and I put out my hands as I used to do, and took her hand between them.  There was a tear in her eye as she raised my hand and kissed it as in old times.  But for the infinite pathos of it, it would have been comic:

Aunt Janet, old and grey-haired, but still retaining her girlish slimness of figure, petite, dainty as a Dresden figure, her face lined with the care of years, but softened and ennobled by the unselfishness of those years, holding up my big hand, which would outweigh her whole arm; sitting dainty as a pretty old fairy beside a recumbent giant  —  for my bulk never seems so great as when I am near this real little good fairy of my life  —  seven feet beside four feet seven.

So she began as of old, as though she were about to soothe a frightened child with a fairy tale:

“‘Twas a veesion, I think, though a dream it may hae been.  But whichever or whatever it was, it concerned my little boy, who has grown to be a big giant, so much that I woke all of a tremble.  Laddie dear, I thought that I saw ye being married.”  This gave me an opening, though a small one, for comforting her, so I took it at once:

“Why, dear, there isn’t anything to alarm you in that, is there?  It was only the other day when you spoke to me about the need of my getting married, if it was only that you might have children of your boy playing around your knees as their father used to do when he was a helpless wee child himself.”

“That is so, laddie,” she answered gravely.  “But your weddin’ was none so merry as I fain would see.  True, you seemed to lo’e her wi’ all yer hairt.  Yer eyes shone that bright that ye might ha’ set her afire, for all her black locks and her winsome face.  But, laddie, that was not all  —  no, not though her black een, that had the licht o’ all the stars o’ nicht in them, shone in yours as though a hairt o’ love an’ passion, too, dwelt in them.  I saw ye join hands, an’ heard a strange voice that talked stranger still, but I saw none ither.  Your eyes an’ her eyes, an’ your hand an’ hers, were all I saw.  For all else was dim, and the darkness was close around ye twa.  And when the benison was spoken  —  I knew that by the voices that sang, and by the gladness of her een, as well as by the pride and glory of yours  —  the licht began to glow a wee more, an’ I could see yer bride.  She was in a veil o’ wondrous fine lace.  And there were orange-flowers in her hair, though there were twigs, too, and there was a crown o’ flowers on head wi’ a golden band round it.  And the heathen candles that stood on the table wi’ the Book had some strange effect, for the reflex o’ it hung in the air o’er her head like the shadow of a crown.  There was a gold ring on her finger and a silver one on yours.”  Here she paused and trembled, so that, hoping to dispel her fears, I said, as like as I could to the way I used to when I was a child:

“Go on, Aunt Janet.”

She did not seem to recognise consciously the likeness between past and present; but the effect was there, for she went on more like her old self, though there was a prophetic gravity in her voice, more marked than I had ever heard from her:

“All this I’ve told ye was well; but, oh, laddie, there was a dreadful lack o’ livin’ joy such as I should expect from the woman whom my boy had chosen for his wife  —  and at the marriage coupling, too!  And no wonder, when all is said; for though the marriage veil o’ love was fine, an’ the garland o’ flowers was fresh-gathered, underneath them a’ was nane ither than a ghastly shroud.  As I looked in my veesion  —  or maybe dream  —  I expectit to see the worms crawl round the flagstane at her feet.  If ‘twas not Death, laddie dear, that stood by ye, it was the shadow o’ Death that made the darkness round ye, that neither the light o’ candles nor the smoke o’ heathen incense could pierce.  Oh, laddie, laddie, wae is me that I hae seen sic a veesion  —  waking or sleeping, it matters not!  I was sair distressed  —  so sair that I woke wi’ a shriek on my lips and bathed in cold sweat.  I would hae come doon to ye to see if you were hearty or no  —  or even to listen at your door for any sound o’ yer being quick, but that I feared to alarm ye till morn should come.  I’ve counted the hours and the minutes since midnight, when I saw the veesion, till I came hither just the now.”

“Quite right, Aunt Janet,” I said, “and I thank you for your kind thought for me in the matter, now and always.”  Then I went on, for I wanted to take precautions against the possibility of her discovery of my secret.  I could not bear to think that she might run my precious secret to earth in any well-meant piece of bungling.  That would be to me disaster unbearable.  She might frighten away altogether my beautiful visitor, even whose name or origin I did not know, and I might never see her again:

“You must never do that, Aunt Janet.  You and I are too good friends to have sense of distrust or annoyance come between us  —  which would surely happen if I had to keep thinking that you or anyone else might be watching me.”

RUPERT’S JOURNAL  — 
Continued
.

April
27, 1907.

After a spell of loneliness which has seemed endless I have something to write.  When the void in my heart was becoming the receptacle for many devils of suspicion and distrust I set myself a task which might, I thought, keep my thoughts in part, at any rate, occupied  —  to explore minutely the neighbourhood round the Castle.  This might, I hoped, serve as an anodyne to my pain of loneliness, which grew more acute as the days, the hours, wore on, even if it should not ultimately afford me some clue to the whereabouts of the woman whom I had now grown to love so madly.

My exploration soon took a systematic form, as I intended that it should be exhaustive.  I would take every day a separate line of advance from the Castle, beginning at the south and working round by the east to the north.  The first day only took me to the edge of the creek, which I crossed in a boat, and landed at the base of the cliff opposite.  I found the cliffs alone worth a visit.  Here and there were openings to caves which I made up my mind to explore later.  I managed to climb up the cliff at a spot less beetling than the rest, and continued my journey.  It was, though very beautiful, not a specially interesting place.  I explored that spoke of the wheel of which Vissarion was the hub, and got back just in time for dinner.