RUPERT'S JOURNAL--Continued.
May 19, 1907.
I was so restless early this morning that before daylight I was out
exploring on the mountain-side. By chance I came across a secret
place just as the day was breaking. Indeed, it was by the change of
light as the first sun-rays seemed to fall down the mountain-side
that my attention was called to an opening shown by a light behind
it. It was, indeed, a secret place--so secret that I thought at
first I should keep it to myself. In such a place as this either to
hide in or to be able to prevent anyone else hiding in might on
occasion be an asset of safety.
When, however, I saw indications rather than traces that someone had
already used it to camp in, I changed my mind, and thought that
whenever I should get an opportunity I would tell the Vladika of it,
as he is a man on whose discretion I can rely. If we ever have a war
here or any sort of invasion, it is just such places that may be
dangerous. Even in my own case it is much too near the Castle to be
neglected.
The indications were meagre--only where a fire had been on a little
shelf of rock; and it was not possible, through the results of
burning vegetation or scorched grass, to tell how long before the
fire had been alight. I could only guess. Perhaps the mountaineers
might be able to tell or even to guess better than I could. But I am
not so sure of this. I am a mountaineer myself, and with larger and
more varied experience than any of them. For myself, though I could
not be certain, I came to the conclusion that whoever had used the
place had done so not many days before. It could not have been quite
recently; but it may not have been very long ago. Whoever had used
it had covered up his tracks well. Even the ashes had been carefully
removed, and the place where they had lain was cleaned or swept in
some way, so that there was no trace on the spot. I applied some of
my West African experience, and looked on the rough bark of the trees
to leeward, to where the agitated air, however directed, must have
come, unless it was wanted to call attention to the place by the
scattered wood-ashes, however fine. I found traces of it, but they
were faint. There had not been rain for several days; so the dust
must have been blown there since the rain had fallen, for it was
still dry.
The place was a tiny gorge, with but one entrance, which was hidden
behind a barren spur of rock--just a sort of long fissure, jagged and
curving, in the rock, like a fault in the stratification. I could
just struggle through it with considerable effort, holding my breath
here and there, so as to reduce my depth of chest. Within it was
tree-clad, and full of possibilities of concealment.
As I came away I marked well its direction and approaches, noting any
guiding mark which might aid in finding it by day or night. I
explored every foot of ground around it--in front, on each side, and
above. But from nowhere could I see an indication of its existence.
It was a veritable secret chamber wrought by the hand of Nature
itself. I did not return home till I was familiar with every detail
near and around it. This new knowledge added distinctly to my sense
of security.
Later in the day I tried to find the Vladika or any mountaineer of
importance, for I thought that such a hiding-place which had been
used so recently might be dangerous, and especially at a time when,
as I had learned at the meeting where they did NOT fire their guns
that there may have been spies about or a traitor in the land.
Even before I came to my own room to-night I had fully made up my
mind to go out early in the morning and find some proper person to
whom to impart the information, so that a watch might be kept on the
place. It is now getting on for midnight, and when I have had my
usual last look at the garden I shall turn in. Aunt Janet was uneasy
all day, and especially so this evening. I think it must have been
my absence at the usual breakfast-hour which got on her nerves; and
that unsatisfied mental or psychical irritation increased as the day
wore on.
RUPERT'S JOURNAL--Continued.
May 20, 1907.
The clock on the mantelpiece in my room, which chimes on the notes of
the clock at St. James's Palace, was striking midnight when I opened
the glass door on the terrace. I had put out my lights before I drew
the curtain, as I wished to see the full effect of the moonlight.
Now that the rainy season is over, the moon is quite as beautiful as
it was in the wet, and a great deal more comfortable. I was in
evening dress, with a smoking-jacket in lieu of a coat, and I felt
the air mild and mellow on the warm side, as I stood on the terrace.
But even in that bright moonlight the further corners of the great
garden were full of mysterious shadows. I peered into them as well
as I could--and my eyes are pretty good naturally, and are well
trained. There was not the least movement. The air was as still as
death, the foliage as still as though wrought in stone.
I looked for quite a long time in the hope of seeing something of my
Lady. The quarters chimed several times, but I stood on unheeding.
At last I thought I saw far off in the very corner of the old
defending wall a flicker of white. It was but momentary, and could
hardly have accounted in itself for the way my heart beat. I
controlled myself, and stood as though I, too, were a graven image.
I was rewarded by seeing presently another gleam of white. And then
an unspeakable rapture stole over me as I realized that my Lady was
coming as she had come before. I would have hurried out to meet her,
but that I knew well that this would not be in accord with her
wishes. So, thinking to please her, I drew back into the room. I
was glad I had done so when, from the dark corner where I stood, I
saw her steal up the marble steps and stand timidly looking in at the
door. Then, after a long pause, came a whisper as faint and sweet as
the music of a distant AEolian harp:
"Are you there? May I come in? Answer me! I am lonely and in
fear!" For answer I emerged from my dim corner so swiftly that she
was startled. I could hear from the quivering intake of her breath
that she was striving--happily with success--to suppress a shriek.
"Come in," I said quietly. "I was waiting for you, for I felt that
you would come. I only came in from the terrace when I saw you
coming, lest you might fear that anyone might see us. That is not
possible, but I thought you wished that I should be careful."
"I did--I do," she answered in a low, sweet voice, but very firmly.
"But never avoid precaution. There is nothing that may not happen
here. There may be eyes where we least expect--or suspect them." As
she spoke the last words solemnly and in a low whisper, she was
entering the room. I closed the glass door and bolted it, rolled
back the steel grille, and pulled the heavy curtain. Then, when I
had lit a candle, I went over and put a light to the fire. In a few
seconds the dry wood had caught, and the flames were beginning to
rise and crackle. She had not objected to my closing the window and
drawing the curtain; neither did she make any comment on my lighting
the fire. She simply acquiesced in it, as though it was now a matter
of course. When I made the pile of cushions before it as on the
occasion of her last visit, she sank down on them, and held out her
white, trembling hands to the warmth.
She was different to-night from what she had been on either of the
two former visits. From her present bearing I arrived at some gauge
of her self-concern, her self-respect. Now that she was dry, and not
overmastered by wet and cold, a sweet and gracious dignity seemed to
shine from her, enwrapping her, as it were, with a luminous veil. It
was not that she was by this made or shown as cold or distant, or in
any way harsh or forbidding. On the contrary, protected by this
dignity, she seemed much more sweet and genial than before. It was
as though she felt that she could afford to stoop now that her
loftiness was realized--that her position was recognized and secure.
If her inherent dignity made an impenetrable nimbus round her, this
was against others; she herself was not bound by it, or to be bound.
So marked was this, so entirely and sweetly womanly did she appear,
that I caught myself wondering in flashes of thought, which came as
sharp periods of doubting judgment between spells of unconscious
fascination, how I had ever come to think she was aught but perfect
woman. As she rested, half sitting and half lying on the pile of
cushions, she was all grace, and beauty, and charm, and sweetness--
the veritable perfect woman of the dreams of a man, be he young or
old. To have such a woman sit by his hearth and hold her holy of
holies in his heart might well be a rapture to any man. Even an hour
of such entrancing joy might be well won by a lifetime of pain, by
the balance of a long life sacrificed, by the extinction of life
itself. Quick behind the record of such thoughts came the answer to
the doubt they challenged: if it should turn out that she was not
living at all, but one of the doomed and pitiful Un-Dead, then so
much more on account of her very sweetness and beauty would be the
winning of her back to Life and Heaven--even were it that she might
find happiness in the heart and in the arms of another man.
Once, when I leaned over the hearth to put fresh logs on the fire, my
face was so close to hers that I felt her breath on my cheek. It
thrilled me to feel even the suggestion of that ineffable contact.
Her breath was sweet--sweet as the breath of a calf, sweet as the
whiff of a summer breeze across beds of mignonette. How could anyone
believe for a moment that such sweet breath could come from the lips
of the dead--the dead in esse or in posse--that corruption could send
forth fragrance so sweet and pure? It was with satisfied happiness
that, as I looked at her from my stool, I saw the dancing of the
flames from the beech-logs reflected in her glorious black eyes, and
the stars that were hidden in them shine out with new colours and new
lustre as they gleamed, rising and falling like hopes and fears. As
the light leaped, so did smiles of quiet happiness flit over her
beautiful face, the merriment of the joyous flames being reflected in
ever-changing dimples.
At first I was a little disconcerted whenever my eyes took note of
her shroud, and there came a momentary regret that the weather had
not been again bad, so that there might have been compulsion for her
putting on another garment--anything lacking the loathsomeness of
that pitiful wrapping. Little by little, however, this feeling
disappeared, and I found no matter for even dissatisfaction in her
wrapping. Indeed, my thoughts found inward voice before the subject
was dismissed from my mind:
"One becomes accustomed to anything--even a shroud!" But the thought
was followed by a submerging wave of pity that she should have had
such a dreadful experience.
By-and-by we seemed both to forget everything--I know I did--except
that we were man and woman, and close together. The strangeness of
the situation and the circumstances did not seem of moment--not worth
even a passing thought. We still sat apart and said little, if
anything. I cannot recall a single word that either of us spoke
whilst we sat before the fire, but other language than speech came
into play; the eyes told their own story, as eyes can do, and more
eloquently than lips whilst exercising their function of speech.
Question and answer followed each other in this satisfying language,
and with an unspeakable rapture I began to realize that my affection
was returned. Under these circumstances it was unrealizable that
there should be any incongruity in the whole affair. I was not
myself in the mood of questioning. I was diffident with that
diffidence which comes alone from true love, as though it were a
necessary emanation from that delightful and overwhelming and
commanding passion. In her presence there seemed to surge up within
me that which forbade speech. Speech under present conditions would
have seemed to me unnecessary, imperfect, and even vulgarly overt.
She, too, was silent. But now that I am alone, and memory is alone
with me, I am convinced that she also had been happy. No, not that
exactly. "Happiness" is not the word to describe either her feeling
or my own. Happiness is more active, a more conscious enjoyment. We
had been content. That expresses our condition perfectly; and now
that I can analyze my own feeling, and understand what the word
implies, I am satisfied of its accuracy. "Content" has both a
positive and negative meaning or antecedent condition. It implies an
absence of disturbing conditions as well as of wants; also it implies
something positive which has been won or achieved, or which has
accrued. In our state of mind--for though it may be presumption on
my part, I am satisfied that our ideas were mutual--it meant that we
had reached an understanding whence all that might come must be for
good. God grant that it may be so!
As we sat silent, looking into each other's eyes, and whilst the
stars in hers were now full of latent fire, perhaps from the
reflection of the flames, she suddenly sprang to her feet,
instinctively drawing the horrible shroud round her as she rose to
her full height in a voice full of lingering emotion, as of one who
is acting under spiritual compulsion rather than personal will, she
said in a whisper:
"I must go at once. I feel the morning drawing nigh. I must be in
my place when the light of day comes."
She was so earnest that I felt I must not oppose her wish; so I, too,
sprang to my feet and ran towards the window. I pulled the curtain
aside sufficiently far for me to press back the grille and reach the
glass door, the latch of which I opened. I passed behind the curtain
again, and held the edge of it back so that she could go through.
For an instant she stopped as she broke the long silence:
"You are a true gentleman, and my friend. You understand all I wish.
Out of the depth of my heart I thank you." She held out her
beautiful high-bred hand. I took it in both mine as I fell on my
knees, and raised it to my lips. Its touch made me quiver. She,
too, trembled as she looked down at me with a glance which seemed to
search my very soul. The stars in her eyes, now that the firelight
was no longer on them, had gone back to their own mysterious silver.
Then she drew her hand from mine very, very gently, as though it
would fain linger; and she passed out behind the curtain with a
gentle, sweet, dignified little bow which left me on my knees.
When I heard the glass door pulled-to gently behind her, I rose from
my knees and hurried without the curtain, just in time to watch her
pass down the steps. I wanted to see her as long as I could. The
grey of morning was just beginning to war with the night gloom, and
by the faint uncertain light I could see dimly the white figure flit
between shrub and statue till finally it merged in the far darkness.
I stood for a long time on the terrace, sometimes looking into the
darkness in front of me, in case I might be blessed with another
glimpse of her; sometimes with my eyes closed, so that I might recall
and hold in my mind her passage down the steps. For the first time
since I had met her she had thrown back at me a glance as she stepped
on the white path below the terrace. With the glamour over me of
that look, which was all love and enticement, I could have dared all
the powers that be.
When the grey dawn was becoming apparent through the lightening of
the sky I returned to my room. In a dazed condition--half hypnotized
by love--I went to bed, and in dreams continued to think, all
happily, of my Lady of the Shroud.
RUPERT'S JOURNAL--Continued.
May 27, 1907.
A whole week has gone since I saw my Love! There it is; no doubt
whatever is left in my mind about it now! Since I saw her my passion
has grown and grown by leaps and bounds, as novelists put it. It has
now become so vast as to overwhelm me, to wipe out all thought of
doubt or difficulty. I suppose it must be what men suffered--
suffering need not mean pain--under enchantments in old times. I am
but as a straw whirled in the resistless eddies of a whirlpool. I
feel that I MUST see her again, even if it be but in her tomb in the
crypt. I must, I suppose, prepare myself for the venture, for many
things have to be thought of. The visit must not be at night, for in
such case I might miss her, did she come to me again here . . .
The morning came and went, but my wish and intention still remained;
and so in the full tide of noon, with the sun in all its fiery force,
I set out for the old church of St. Sava. I carried with me a
lantern with powerful lens. I had wrapped it up secretly, for I had
a feeling that I should not like anyone to know that I had such a
thing with me.
On this occasion I had no misgivings. On the former visit I had for
a moment been overwhelmed at the unexpected sight of the body of the
woman I thought I loved--I knew it now--lying in her tomb. But now I
knew all, and it was to see this woman, though in her tomb, that I
came.
When I had lit my lantern, which I did as soon as I had pushed open
the great door, which was once again unlocked, I turned my steps to
the steps of the crypt, which lay behind the richly carven wood
screen. This I could see, with the better light, was a noble piece
of work of priceless beauty and worth. I tried to keep my heart in
full courage with thoughts of my Lady, and of the sweetness and
dignity of our last meeting; but, despite all, it sank down, down,
and turned to water as I passed with uncertain feet down the narrow,
tortuous steps. My concern, I am now convinced, was not for myself,
but that she whom I adored should have to endure such a fearful
place. As anodyne to my own pain I thought what it would be, and how
I should feel, when I should have won for her a way out of that
horror, at any rate. This thought reassured me somewhat, and
restored my courage. It was in something of the same fashion which
has hitherto carried me out of tight places as well as into them that
at last I pushed open the low, narrow door at the foot of the rock-
hewn staircase and entered the crypt.
Without delay I made my way to the glass-covered tomb set beneath the
hanging chain. I could see by the flashing of the light around me
that my hand which held the lantern trembled. With a great effort I
steadied myself, and raising the lantern, turned its light down into
the sarcophagus.
Once again the fallen lantern rang on the tingling glass, and I stood
alone in the darkness, for an instant almost paralyzed with surprised
disappointment.
The tomb was empty! Even the trappings of the dead had been removed.
I knew not what happened till I found myself groping my way up the
winding stair. Here, in comparison with the solid darkness of the
crypt, it seemed almost light. The dim expanse of the church sent a
few straggling rays down the vaulted steps, and as I could see, be it
never so dimly, I felt I was not in absolute darkness. With the
light came a sense of power and fresh courage, and I groped my way
back into the crypt again. There, by now and again lighting matches,
I found my way to the tomb and recovered my lantern. Then I took my
way slowly--for I wished to prove, if not my own courage, at least
such vestiges of self-respect as the venture had left me--through the
church, where I extinguished my lantern, and out through the great
door into the open sunlight. I seemed to have heard, both in the
darkness of the crypt and through the dimness of the church,
mysterious sounds as of whispers and suppressed breathing; but the
memory of these did not count for much when once I was free. I was
only satisfied of my own consciousness and identity when I found
myself on the broad rock terrace in front of the church, with the
fierce sunlight beating on my upturned face, and, looking downward,
saw far below me the rippled blue of the open sea.
RUPERT'S JOURNAL--Continued.
June 3, 1907.
Another week has elapsed--a week full of movement of many kinds and
in many ways--but as yet I have had no tale or tidings of my Lady of
the Shroud. I have not had an opportunity of going again in daylight
to St. Sava's as I should have liked to have done. I felt that I
must not go at night. The night is her time of freedom, and it must
be kept for her--or else I may miss her, or perhaps never see her
again.
The days have been full of national movement. The mountaineers have
evidently been organizing themselves, for some reason which I cannot
quite understand, and which they have hesitated to make known to me.
I have taken care not to manifest any curiosity, whatever I may have
felt. This would certainly arouse suspicion, and might ultimately
cause disaster to my hopes of aiding the nation in their struggle to
preserve their freedom.
These fierce mountaineers are strangely--almost unduly--suspicious,
and the only way to win their confidence is to begin the trusting. A
young American attache of the Embassy at Vienna, who had made a
journey through the Land of the Blue Mountains, once put it to me in
this form:
"Keep your head shut, and they'll open theirs. If you don't, they'll
open it for you--down to the chine!"
It was quite apparent to me that they were completing some fresh
arrangements for signalling with a code of their own. This was
natural enough, and in no way inconsistent with the measure of
friendliness already shown to me. Where there are neither
telegraphs, railways, nor roads, any effective form of communication
must--can only be purely personal. And so, if they wish to keep any
secret amongst themselves, they must preserve the secret of their
code. I should have dearly liked to learn their new code and their
manner of using it, but as I want to be a helpful friend to them--and
as this implies not only trust, but the appearance of it--I had to
school myself to patience.
This attitude so far won their confidence that before we parted at
our last meeting, after most solemn vows of faith and secrecy, they
took me into the secret. This was, however, only to the extent of
teaching me the code and method; they still withheld from me rigidly
the fact or political secret, or whatever it was that was the
mainspring of their united action.
When I got home I wrote down, whilst it was fresh in my memory, all
they told me. This script I studied until I had it so thoroughly by
heart that I COULD not forget it. Then I burned the paper. However,
there is now one gain at least: with my semaphore I can send through
the Blue Mountains from side to side, with expedition, secrecy, and
exactness, a message comprehensible to all.
