BOOK III: THE COMING OF THE LADY
RUPERT SENT LEGER'S JOURNAL.
April 3, 1907.
I have waited till now--well into midday--before beginning to set
down the details of the strange episode of last night. I have spoken
with persons whom I know to be of normal type. I have breakfasted,
as usual heartily, and have every reason to consider myself in
perfect health and sanity. So that the record following may be
regarded as not only true in substance, but exact as to details. I
have investigated and reported on too many cases for the Psychical
Research Society to be ignorant of the necessity for absolute
accuracy in such matters of even the minutest detail.
Yesterday was Tuesday, the second day of April, 1907. I passed a day
of interest, with its fair amount of work of varying kinds. Aunt
Janet and I lunched together, had a stroll round the gardens after
tea--especially examining the site for the new Japanese garden, which
we shall call "Janet's Garden." We went in mackintoshes, for the
rainy season is in its full, the only sign of its not being a
repetition of the Deluge being that breaks in the continuance are
beginning. They are short at present but will doubtless enlarge
themselves as the season comes towards an end. We dined together at
seven. After dinner I had a cigar, and then joined Aunt Janet for an
hour in her drawing-room. I left her at half-past ten, when I went
to my own room and wrote some letters. At ten minutes past eleven I
wound my watch, so I know the time accurately. Having prepared for
bed, I drew back the heavy curtain in front of my window, which opens
on the marble steps into the Italian garden. I had put out my light
before drawing back the curtain, for I wanted to have a look at the
scene before turning in. Aunt Janet has always had an old-fashioned
idea of the need (or propriety, I hardly know which) of keeping
windows closed and curtains drawn. I am gradually getting her to
leave my room alone in this respect, but at present the change is in
its fitful stage, and of course I must not hurry matters or be too
persistent, as it would hurt her feelings. This night was one of
those under the old regime. It was a delight to look out, for the
scene was perfect of its own kind. The long spell of rain--the
ceaseless downpour which had for the time flooded everywhere--had
passed, and water in abnormal places rather trickled than ran. We
were now beginning to be in the sloppy rather than the deluged stage.
There was plenty of light to see by, for the moon had begun to show
out fitfully through the masses of flying clouds. The uncertain
light made weird shadows with the shrubs and statues in the garden.
The long straight walk which leads from the marble steps is strewn
with fine sand white from the quartz strand in the nook to the south
of the Castle. Tall shrubs of white holly, yew, juniper, cypress,
and variegated maple and spiraea, which stood at intervals along the
walk and its branches, appeared ghost-like in the fitful moonlight.
The many vases and statues and urns, always like phantoms in a half-
light, were more than ever weird. Last night the moonlight was
unusually effective, and showed not only the gardens down to the
defending wall, but the deep gloom of the great forest-trees beyond;
and beyond that, again, to where the mountain chain began, the forest
running up their silvered slopes flamelike in form, deviated here and
there by great crags and the outcropping rocky sinews of the vast
mountains.
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?
Little by little the fierce chattering of her teeth began to abate as
the warmth of her surroundings stole through her. I also felt, even
in this strangely awakening position, the influence of the quiet; and
sleep began to steal over me. Several times I tried to fend it off,
but, as I could not make any overt movement without alarming my
strange and beautiful companion, I had to yield myself to drowsiness.
I was still in such an overwhelming stupor of surprise that I could
not even think freely. There was nothing for me but to control
myself and wait. Before I could well fix my thoughts I was asleep.
I was recalled to consciousness by hearing, even through the pall of
sleep that bound me, the crowing of a cock in some of the out-offices
of the castle. At the same instant the figure, lying deathly still
but for the gentle heaving of her bosom, began to struggle wildly.
The sound had won through the gates of her sleep also. With a swift,
gliding motion she slipped from the bed to the floor, saying in a
fierce whisper as she pulled herself up to her full height:
"Let me out! I must go! I must go!"
By this time I was fully awake, and the whole position of things came
to me in an instant which I shall never--can never--forget: the dim
light of the candle, now nearly burned down to the socket, all the
dimmer from the fact that the first grey gleam of morning was
stealing in round the edges of the heavy curtain; the tall, slim
figure in the brown dressing-gown whose over-length trailed on the
floor, the black hair showing glossy in the light, and increasing by
contrast the marble whiteness of the face, in which the black eyes
sent through their stars fiery gleams. She appeared quite in a
frenzy of haste; her eagerness was simply irresistible.
I was so stupefied with amazement, as well as with sleep, that I did
not attempt to stop her, but began instinctively to help her by
furthering her wishes. As she ran behind the screen, and, as far as
sound could inform me,--began frantically to disrobe herself of the
warm dressing-gown and to don again the ice-cold wet shroud, I pulled
back the curtain from the window, and drew the bolt of the glass
door. As I did so she was already behind me, shivering. As I threw
open the door she glided out with a swift silent movement, but
trembling in an agonized way. As she passed me, she murmured in a
low voice, which was almost lost in the chattering of her teeth:
"Oh, thank you--thank you a thousand times! But I must go. I MUST!
I MUST! I shall come again, and try to show my gratitude. Do not
condemn me as ungrateful--till then." And she was gone.
I watched her pass the length of the white path, flitting from shrub
to shrub or statue as she had come. In the cold grey light of the
undeveloped dawn she seemed even more ghostly than she had done in
the black shadow of the night.
When she disappeared from sight in the shadow of the wood, I stood on
the terrace for a long time watching, in case I should be afforded
another glimpse of her, for there was now no doubt in my mind that
she had for me some strange attraction. I felt even then that the
look in those glorious starry eyes would be with me always so long as
I might live. There was some fascination which went deeper than my
eyes or my flesh or my heart--down deep into the very depths of my
soul. My mind was all in a whirl, so that I could hardly think
coherently. It all was like a dream; the reality seemed far away.
It was not possible to doubt that the phantom figure which had been
so close to me during the dark hours of the night was actual flesh
and blood. Yet she was so cold, so cold! Altogether I could not fix
my mind to either proposition: that it was a living woman who had
held my hand, or a dead body reanimated for the time or the occasion
in some strange manner.
The difficulty was too great for me to make up my mind upon it, even
had I wanted to. But, in any case, I did not want to. This would,
no doubt, come in time. But till then I wished to dream on, as
anyone does in a dream which can still be blissful though there be
pauses of pain, or ghastliness, or doubt, or terror.
So I closed the window and drew the curtain again, feeling for the
first time the cold in which I had stood on the wet marble floor of
the terrace when my bare feet began to get warm on the soft carpet.
To get rid of the chill feeling I got into the bed on which SHE had
lain, and as the warmth restored me tried to think coherently. For a
short while I was going over the facts of the night--or what seemed
as facts to my remembrance. But as I continued to think, the
possibilities of any result seemed to get less, and I found myself
vainly trying to reconcile with the logic of life the grim episode of
the night. The effort proved to be too much for such concentration
as was left to me; moreover, interrupted sleep was clamant, and would
not be denied. What I dreamt of--if I dreamt at all--I know not. I
only know that I was ready for waking when the time came. It came
with a violent knocking at my door. I sprang from bed, fully awake
in a second, drew the bolt, and slipped back to bed. With a hurried
"May I come in?" Aunt Janet entered. She seemed relieved when she
saw me, and gave without my asking an explanation of her
perturbation:
"Oh, laddie, I hae been so uneasy aboot ye all the nicht. I hae had
dreams an' veesions an' a' sorts o' uncanny fancies. I fear that--"
She was by now drawing back the curtain, and as her eyes took in the
marks of wet all over the floor the current of her thoughts changed:
"Why, laddie, whativer hae ye been doin' wi' yer baith? Oh, the mess
ye hae made! 'Tis sinful to gie sic trouble an' waste . . . " And
so she went on. I was glad to hear the tirade, which was only what a
good housewife, outraged in her sentiments of order, would have made.
I listened in patience--with pleasure when I thought of what she
would have thought (and said) had she known the real facts. I was
well pleased to have got off so easily.
