RUPERT'S JOURNAL--Continued.
July 1, 1907.
Another week gone. I have waited patiently, and I am at last
rewarded by another letter. I was preparing for bed a little while
ago, when I heard the same mysterious sound at the door as on the
last two occasions. I hurried to the glass door, and there found
another close-folded letter. But I could see no sign of my Lady, or
of any other living being. The letter, which was without direction,
ran as follows:
"If you are still of the same mind, and feel no misgivings, meet me
at the Church of St. Sava beyond the Creek to-morrow night at a
quarter before midnight. If you come, come in secret, and, of
course, alone. Do not come at all unless you are prepared for a
terrible ordeal. But if you love me, and have neither doubts nor
fears, come. Come!"
Needless to say, I did not sleep last night. I tried to, but without
success. It was no morbid happiness that kept me awake, no doubting,
no fear. I was simply overwhelmed with the idea of the coming
rapture when I should call my Lady my very, very own. In this sea of
happy expectation all lesser things were submerged. Even sleep,
which is an imperative force with me, failed in its usual
effectiveness, and I lay still, calm, content.
With the coming of the morning, however, restlessness began. I did
not know what to do, how to restrain myself, where to look for an
anodyne. Happily the latter came in the shape of Rooke, who turned
up shortly after breakfast. He had a satisfactory tale to tell me of
the armoured yacht, which had lain off Cattaro on the previous night,
and to which he had brought his contingent of crew which had waited
for her coming. He did not like to take the risk of going into any
port with such a vessel, lest he might be detained or otherwise
hampered by forms, and had gone out upon the open sea before
daylight. There was on board the yacht a tiny torpedo-boat, for
which provision was made both for hoisting on deck and housing there.
This last would run into the creek at ten o'clock that evening, at
which time it would be dark. The yacht would then run to near
Otranto, to which she would send a boat to get any message I might
send. This was to be in a code, which we arranged, and would convey
instructions as to what night and approximate hour the yacht would
come to the creek.
The day was well on before we had made certain arrangements for the
future; and not till then did I feel again the pressure of my
personal restlessness. Rooke, like a wise commander, took rest
whilst he could. Well he knew that for a couple of days and nights
at least there would be little, if any, sleep for him.
For myself, the habit of self-control stood to me, and I managed to
get through the day somehow without exciting the attention of anyone
else. The arrival of the torpedo-boat and the departure of Rooke
made for me a welcome break in my uneasiness. An hour ago I said
good-night to Aunt Janet, and shut myself up alone here. My watch is
on the table before me, so that I may make sure of starting to the
moment. I have allowed myself half an hour to reach St. Sava. My
skiff is waiting, moored at the foot of the cliff on the hither side,
where the zigzag comes close to the water. It is now ten minutes
past eleven.
I shall add the odd five minutes to the time for my journey so as to
make safe. I go unarmed and without a light.
I shall show no distrust of anyone or anything this night.
RUPERT'S JOURNAL--Continued.
July 2, 1907.
When I was outside the church, I looked at my watch in the bright
moonlight, and found I had one minute to wait. So I stood in the
shadow of the doorway and looked out at the scene before me. Not a
sign of life was visible around me, either on land or sea. On the
broad plateau on which the church stands there was no movement of any
kind. The wind, which had been pleasant in the noontide, had fallen
completely, and not a leaf was stirring. I could see across the
creek and note the hard line where the battlements of the Castle cut
the sky, and where the keep towered above the line of black rock,
which in the shadow of the land made an ebon frame for the picture.
When I had seen the same view on former occasions, the line where the
rock rose from the sea was a fringe of white foam. But then, in the
daylight, the sea was sapphire blue; now it was an expanse of dark
blue--so dark as to seem almost black. It had not even the relief of
waves or ripples--simply a dark, cold, lifeless expanse, with no
gleam of light anywhere, of lighthouse or ship; neither was there any
special sound to be heard that one could distinguish--nothing but the
distant hum of the myriad voices of the dark mingling in one
ceaseless inarticulate sound. It was well I had not time to dwell on
it, or I might have reached some spiritually-disturbing melancholy.
Let me say here that ever since I had received my Lady's message
concerning this visit to St. Sava's I had been all on fire--not,
perhaps, at every moment consciously or actually so, but always, as
it were, prepared to break out into flame. Did I want a simile, I
might compare myself to a well-banked furnace, whose present function
it is to contain heat rather than to create it; whose crust can at
any moment be broken by a force external to itself, and burst into
raging, all-compelling heat. No thought of fear really entered my
mind. Every other emotion there was, coming and going as occasion
excited or lulled, but not fear. Well I knew in the depths of my
heart the purpose which that secret quest was to serve. I knew not
only from my Lady's words, but from the teachings of my own senses
and experiences, that some dreadful ordeal must take place before
happiness of any kind could be won. And that ordeal, though method
or detail was unknown to me, I was prepared to undertake. This was
one of those occasions when a man must undertake, blindfold, ways
that may lead to torture or death, or unknown terrors beyond. But,
then, a man--if, indeed, he have the heart of a man--can always
undertake; he can at least make the first step, though it may turn
out that through the weakness of mortality he may be unable to fulfil
his own intent, or justify his belief in his own powers. Such, I
take it, was the intellectual attitude of the brave souls who of old
faced the tortures of the Inquisition.
But though there was no immediate fear, there was a certain doubt.
For doubt is one of those mental conditions whose calling we cannot
control. The end of the doubting may not be a reality to us, or be
accepted as a possibility. These things cannot forego the existence
of the doubt. "For even if a man," says Victor Cousin, "doubt
everything else, at least he cannot doubt that he doubts." The doubt
had at times been on me that my Lady of the Shroud was a Vampire.
Much that had happened seemed to point that way, and here, on the
very threshold of the Unknown, when, through the door which I was
pushing open, my eyes met only an expanse of absolute blackness, all
doubts which had ever been seemed to surround me in a legion. I have
heard that, when a man is drowning, there comes a time when his whole
life passes in review during the space of time which cannot be
computed as even a part of a second. So it was to me in the moment
of my body passing into the church. In that moment came to my mind
all that had been, which bore on the knowledge of my Lady; and the
general tendency was to prove or convince that she was indeed a
Vampire. Much that had happened, or become known to me, seemed to
justify the resolving of doubt into belief. Even my own reading of
the books in Aunt Janet's little library, and the dear lady's
comments on them, mingled with her own uncanny beliefs, left little
opening for doubt. My having to help my Lady over the threshold of
my house on her first entry was in accord with Vampire tradition; so,
too, her flying at cock-crow from the warmth in which she revelled on
that strange first night of our meeting; so, too, her swift departure
at midnight on the second. Into the same category came the facts of
her constant wearing of her Shroud, even her pledging herself, and me
also, on the fragment torn from it, which she had given to me as a
souvenir; her lying still in the glass-covered tomb; her coming alone
to the most secret places in a fortified Castle where every aperture
was secured by unopened locks and bolts; her very movements, though
all of grace, as she flitted noiselessly through the gloom of night.
All these things, and a thousand others of lesser import, seemed, for
the moment, to have consolidated an initial belief. But then came
the supreme recollections of how she had lain in my arms; of her
kisses on my lips; of the beating of her heart against my own; of her
sweet words of belief and faith breathed in my ear in intoxicating
whispers; of . . . I paused. No! I could not accept belief as to
her being other than a living woman of soul and sense, of flesh and
blood, of all the sweet and passionate instincts of true and perfect
womanhood.
And so, in spite of all--in spite of all beliefs, fixed or
transitory, with a mind whirling amid contesting forces and
compelling beliefs--I stepped into the church overwhelmed with that
most receptive of atmospheres--doubt.
In one thing only was I fixed: here at least was no doubt or
misgiving whatever. I intended to go through what I had undertaken.
Moreover, I felt that I was strong enough to carry out my intention,
whatever might be of the Unknown--however horrible, however terrible.
When I had entered the church and closed the heavy door behind me,
the sense of darkness and loneliness in all their horror enfolded me
round. The great church seemed a living mystery, and served as an
almost terrible background to thoughts and remembrances of
unutterable gloom. My adventurous life has had its own schooling to
endurance and upholding one's courage in trying times; but it has its
contra in fulness of memory.
I felt my way forward with both hands and feet. Every second seemed
as if it had brought me at last to a darkness which was actually
tangible. All at once, and with no heed of sequence or order, I was
conscious of all around me, the knowledge or perception of which--or
even speculation on the subject--had never entered my mind. They
furnished the darkness with which I was encompassed with all the
crowded phases of a dream. I knew that all around me were memorials
of the dead--that in the Crypt deep-wrought in the rock below my feet
lay the dead themselves. Some of them, perhaps--one of them I knew--
had even passed the grim portals of time Unknown, and had, by some
mysterious power or agency, come back again to material earth. There
was no resting-place for thought when I knew that the very air which
I breathed might be full of denizens of the spirit-world. In that
impenetrable blackness was a world of imagining whose possibilities
of horror were endless.
I almost fancied that I could see with mortal eyes down through that
rocky floor to where, in the lonely Crypt, lay, in her tomb of
massive stone and under that bewildering coverlet of glass, the woman
whom I love. I could see her beautiful face, her long black lashes,
her sweet mouth--which I had kissed--relaxed in the sleep of death.
I could note the voluminous shroud--a piece of which as a precious
souvenir lay even then so close to my heart--the snowy woollen
coverlet wrought over in gold with sprigs of pine, the soft dent in
the cushion on which her head must for so long have lain. I could
see myself--within my eyes the memory of that first visit--coming
once again with glad step to renew that dear sight--dear, though it
scorched my eyes and harrowed my heart--and finding the greater
sorrow, the greater desolation of the empty tomb!
There! I felt that I must think no more of that lest the thought
should unnerve me when I should most want all my courage. That way
madness lay! The darkness had already sufficient terrors of its own
without bringing to it such grim remembrances and imaginings . . .
And I had yet to go through some ordeal which, even to her who had
passed and repassed the portals of death, was full of fear.
It was a merciful relief to me when, in groping my way forwards
through the darkness, I struck against some portion of the furnishing
of the church. Fortunately I was all strung up to tension, else I
should never have been able to control instinctively, as I did, the
shriek which was rising to my lips.
I would have given anything to have been able to light even a match.
A single second of light would, I felt, have made me my own man
again. But I knew that this would be against the implied condition
of my being there at all, and might have had disastrous consequences
to her whom I had come to save. It might even frustrate my scheme,
and altogether destroy my opportunity. At that moment it was borne
upon me more strongly than ever that this was not a mere fight for
myself or my own selfish purposes--not merely an adventure or a
struggle for only life and death against unknown difficulties and
dangers. It was a fight on behalf of her I loved, not merely for her
life, but perhaps even for her soul.
And yet this very thinking--understanding--created a new form of
terror. For in that grim, shrouding darkness came memories of other
moments of terrible stress.
Of wild, mystic rites held in the deep gloom of African forests,
when, amid scenes of revolting horror, Obi and the devils of his kind
seemed to reveal themselves to reckless worshippers, surfeited with
horror, whose lives counted for naught; when even human sacrifice was
an episode, and the reek of old deviltries and recent carnage tainted
the air, till even I, who was, at the risk of my life, a privileged
spectator who had come through dangers without end to behold the
scene, rose and fled in horror.
Of scenes of mystery enacted in rock-cut temples beyond the
Himalayas, whose fanatic priests, cold as death and as remorseless,
in the reaction of their phrenzy of passion, foamed at the mouth and
then sank into marble quiet, as with inner eyes they beheld the
visions of the hellish powers which they had invoked.
Of wild, fantastic dances of the Devil-worshippers of Madagascar,
where even the very semblance of humanity disappeared in the
fantastic excesses of their orgies.
Of strange doings of gloom and mystery in the rock-perched
monasteries of Thibet.
Of awful sacrifices, all to mystic ends, in the innermost recesses of
Cathay.
Of weird movements with masses of poisonous snakes by the medicine-
men of the Zuni and Mochi Indians in the far south-west of the
Rockies, beyond the great plains.
Of secret gatherings in vast temples of old Mexico, and by dim altars
of forgotten cities in the heart of great forests in South America.
Of rites of inconceivable horror in the fastnesses of Patagonia.
Of . . . Here I once more pulled myself up. Such thoughts were no
kind of proper preparation for what I might have to endure. My work
that night was to be based on love, on hope, on self-sacrifice for
the woman who in all the world was the closest to my heart, whose
future I was to share, whether that sharing might lead me to Hell or
Heaven. The hand which undertook such a task must have no trembling.
Still, those horrible memories had, I am bound to say, a useful part
in my preparation for the ordeal. They were of fact which I had
seen, of which I had myself been in part a sharer, and which I had
survived. With such experiences behind me, could there be aught
before me more dreadful? . . .
Moreover, if the coming ordeal was of supernatural or superhuman
order, could it transcend in living horror the vilest and most
desperate acts of the basest men? . . .
With renewed courage I felt my way before me, till my sense of touch
told me that I was at the screen behind which lay the stair to the
Crypt.
There I waited, silent, still.
My own part was done, so far as I knew how to do it. Beyond this,
what was to come was, so far as I knew, beyond my own control. I had
done what I could; the rest must come from others. I had exactly
obeyed my instructions, fulfilled my warranty to the utmost in my
knowledge and power. There was, therefore, left for me in the
present nothing but to wait.
It is a peculiarity of absolute darkness that it creates its own
reaction. The eye, wearied of the blackness, begins to imagine forms
of light. How far this is effected by imagination pure and simple I
know not. It may be that nerves have their own senses that bring
thought to the depository common to all the human functions, but,
whatever may be the mechanism or the objective, the darkness seems to
people itself with luminous entities.
So was it with me as I stood lonely in the dark, silent church. Here
and there seemed to flash tiny points of light.
In the same way the silence began to be broken now and again by
strange muffled sounds--the suggestion of sounds rather than actual
vibrations. These were all at first of the minor importance of
movement--rustlings, creakings, faint stirrings, fainter breathings.
Presently, when I had somewhat recovered from the sort of hypnotic
trance to which the darkness and stillness had during the time of
waiting reduced me, I looked around in wonder.
The phantoms of light and sound seemed to have become real. There
were most certainly actual little points of light in places--not
enough to see details by, but quite sufficient to relieve the utter
gloom. I thought--though it may have been a mingling of recollection
and imagination--that I could distinguish the outlines of the church;
certainly the great altar-screen was dimly visible. Instinctively I
looked up--and thrilled. There, hung high above me, was, surely
enough, a great Greek Cross, outlined by tiny points of light.
I lost myself in wonder, and stood still, in a purely receptive mood,
unantagonistic to aught, willing for whatever might come, ready for
all things, in rather a negative than a positive mood--a mood which
has an aspect of spiritual meekness. This is the true spirit of the
neophyte, and, though I did not think of it at the time, the proper
attitude for what is called by the Church in whose temple I stood a
"neo-nymph."
As the light grew a little in power, though never increasing enough
for distinctness, I saw dimly before me a table on which rested a
great open book, whereon were laid two rings--one of sliver, the
other of gold--and two crowns wrought of flowers, bound at the
joining of their stems with tissue--one of gold, the other of silver.
I do not know much of the ritual of the old Greek Church, which is
the religion of the Blue Mountains, but the things which I saw before
me could be none other than enlightening symbols. Instinctively I
knew that I had been brought hither, though in this grim way, to be
married. The very idea of it thrilled me to the heart's core. I
thought the best thing I could do would be to stay quite still, and
not show surprise at anything that might happen; but be sure I was
all eyes and ears.
I peered anxiously around me in every direction, but I could see no
sign of her whom I had come to meet.
Incidentally, however, I noticed that in the lighting, such as it
was, there was no flame, no "living" light. Whatever light there was
came muffled, as though through some green translucent stone. The
whole effect was terribly weird and disconcerting.
Presently I started, as, seemingly out of the darkness beside me, a
man's hand stretched out and took mine. Turning, I found close to me
a tall man with shining black eyes and long black hair and beard. He
was clad in some kind of gorgeous robe of cloth of gold, rich with
variety of adornment. His head was covered with a high, over-hanging
hat draped closely with a black scarf, the ends of which formed a
long, hanging veil on either side. These veils, falling over the
magnificent robes of cloth of gold, had an extraordinarily solemn
effect.
I yielded myself to the guiding hand, and shortly found myself, so
far as I could see, at one side of the sanctuary.
In the floor close to my feet was a yawning chasm, into which, from
so high over my head that in the uncertain light I could not
distinguish its origin, hung a chain. At the sight a strange wave of
memory swept over me. I could not but remember the chain which hung
over the glass-covered tomb in the Crypt, and I had an instinctive
feeling that the grim chasm in the floor of the sanctuary was but the
other side of the opening in the roof of the crypt from which the
chain over the sarcophagus depended.
There was a creaking sound--the groaning of a windlass and the
clanking of a chain. There was heavy breathing close to me
somewhere. I was so intent on what was going on that I did not see
that one by one, seeming to grow out of the surrounding darkness,
several black figures in monkish garb appeared with the silence of
ghosts. Their faces were shrouded in black cowls, wherein were holes
through which I could see dark gleaming eyes. My guide held me
tightly by the hand. This gave me a feeling of security in the touch
which helped to retain within my breast some semblance of calm.
The strain of the creaking windlass and the clanking chain continued
for so long that the suspense became almost unendurable. At last
there came into sight an iron ring, from which as a centre depended
four lesser chains spreading wide. In a few seconds more I could see
that these were fixed to the corners of the great stone tomb with the
covering of glass, which was being dragged upward. As it arose it
filled closely the whole aperture. When its bottom had reached the
level of the floor it stopped, and remained rigid. There was no room
for oscillation. It was at once surrounded by a number of black
figures, who raised the glass covering and bore it away into the
darkness. Then there stepped forward a very tall man, black-bearded,
and with head-gear like my guide, but made in triple tiers, he also
was gorgeously arrayed in flowing robes of cloth of gold richly
embroidered. He raised his hand, and forthwith eight other black-
clad figures stepped forward, and bending over the stone coffin,
raised from it the rigid form of my Lady, still clad in her Shroud,
and laid it gently on the floor of the sanctuary.
I felt it a grace that at that instant the dim lights seemed to grow
less, and finally to disappear--all save the tiny points that marked
the outline of the great Cross high overhead. These only gave light
enough to accentuate the gloom. The hand that held mine now released
it, and with a sigh I realized that I was alone. After a few moments
more of the groaning of the winch and clanking of the chain there was
a sharp sound of stone meeting stone; then there was silence. I
listened acutely, but could not hear near me the slightest sound.
Even the cautious, restrained breathing around me, of which up to
then I had been conscious, had ceased. Not knowing, in the
helplessness of my ignorance, what I should do, I remained as I was,
still and silent, for a time that seemed endless. At last, overcome
by some emotion which I could not at the moment understand, I slowly
sank to my knees and bowed my head. Covering my face with my hands,
I tried to recall the prayers of my youth. It was not, I am certain,
that fear in any form had come upon me, or that I hesitated or
faltered in my intention. That much I know now; I knew it even then.
It was, I believe, that the prolonged impressive gloom and mystery
had at last touched me to the quick. The bending of the knees was
but symbolical of the bowing of the spirit to a higher Power. When I
had realized that much, I felt more content than I had done since I
had entered the church, and with the renewed consciousness of
courage, took my hands from my face, and lifted again my bowed head.
Impulsively I sprang to my feet and stood erect--waiting. All seemed
to have changed since I had dropped on my knees. The points of light
about time church, which had been eclipsed, had come again, and were
growing in power to a partial revealing of the dim expanse. Before
me was the table with the open book, on which were laid the gold and
silver rings and the two crowns of flowers. There were also two tall
candles, with tiniest flames of blue--the only living light to be
seen.
Out of the darkness stepped the same tall figure in the gorgeous
robes and the triple hat. He led by the hand my Lady, still clad in
her Shroud; but over it, descending from the crown of her head, was a
veil of very old and magnificent lace of astonishing fineness. Even
in that dim light I could note the exquisite beauty of the fabric.
The veil was fastened with a bunch of tiny sprays of orange-blossom
mingled with cypress and laurel--a strange combination. In her hand
she carried a great bouquet of the same. Its sweet intoxicating
odour floated up to my nostrils. It and the sentiment which its very
presence evoked made me quiver.
Yielding to the guiding of the hand which held hers, she stood at my
left side before the table. Her guide then took his place behind
her. At either end of the table, to right and left of us, stood a
long-bearded priest in splendid robes, and wearing the hat with
depending veil of black. One of them, who seemed to be the more
important of the two, and took the initiative, signed to us to put
our right hands on the open book. My Lady, of course, understood the
ritual, and knew the words which the priest was speaking, and of her
own accord put out her hand. My guide at the same moment directed my
hand to the same end. It thrilled me to touch my Lady's hand, even
under such mysterious conditions.
After the priest had signed us each thrice on the forehead with the
sign of the Cross, he gave to each of us a tiny lighted taper brought
to him for the purpose. The lights were welcome, not so much for the
solace of the added light, great as that was, but because it allowed
us to see a little more of each other's faces. It was rapture to me
to see the face of my Bride; and from the expression of her face I
was assured that she felt as I did. It gave me an inexpressible
pleasure when, as her eyes rested on me, there grew a faint blush
over the grey pallor of her cheeks.
The priest then put in solemn voice to each of us in turn, beginning
with me, the questions of consent which are common to all such
rituals. I answered as well as I could, following the murmured words
of my guide. My Lady answered out proudly in a voice which, though
given softly, seemed to ring. It was a concern--even a grief--to me
that I could not, in the priest's questioning, catch her name, of
which, strangely enough,--I was ignorant. But, as I did not know the
language, and as the phrases were not in accord literally with our
own ritual, I could not make out which word was the name.
After some prayers and blessings, rhythmically spoken or sung by an
invisible choir, the priest took the rings from the open book, and,
after signing my forehead thrice with the gold one as he repeated the
blessing in each case, placed it on my right hand; then he gave my
Lady the silver one, with the same ritual thrice repeated. I suppose
it was the blessing which is the effective point in making two into
one.
After this, those who stood behind us exchanged our rings thrice,
taking them from one finger and placing them on the other, so that at
the end my wife wore the gold ring and I the silver one.
Then came a chant, during which the priest swung the censer himself,
and my wife and I held our tapers. After that he blessed us, the
responses coming from the voices of the unseen singers in the
darkness.
After a long ritual of prayer and blessing, sung in triplicate, the
priest took the crowns of flowers, and put one on the head of each,
crowning me first, and with the crown tied with gold. Then he signed
and blessed us each thrice. The guides, who stood behind us,
exchanged our crowns thrice, as they had exchanged the rings; so that
at the last, as I was glad to see, my wife wore the crown of gold,
and I that of silver.
Then there came, if it is possible to describe such a thing, a hush
over even that stillness, as though some form of added solemnity were
to be gone through. I was not surprised, therefore, when the priest
took in his hands the great golden chalice. Kneeling, my wife and I
partook together thrice.
When we had risen from our knees and stood for a little while, the
priest took my left hand in his right, and I, by direction of my
guide, gave my right hand to my wife. And so in a line, the priest
leading, we circled round the table in rhythmic measure. Those who
supported us moved behind us, holding the crowns over our heads, and
replacing them when we stopped.
After a hymn, sung through the darkness, the priest took off our
crowns. This was evidently the conclusion of the ritual, for the
priest placed us in each other's arms to embrace each other. Then he
blessed us, who were now man and wife!
The lights went out at once, some as if extinguished, others slowly
fading down to blackness.
Left in the dark, my wife and I sought each other's arms again, and
stood together for a few moments heart to heart, tightly clasping
each other, and kissed each other fervently.
Instinctively we turned to the door of the church, which was slightly
open, so that we could see the moonlight stealing in through the
aperture. With even steps, she holding me tightly by the left arm--
which is the wife's arm, we passed through the old church and out
into the free air.
Despite all that the gloom had brought me, it was sweet to be in the
open air and together--this quite apart from our new relations to
each other. The moon rode high, and the full light, coming after the
dimness or darkness in the church, seemed as bright as day. I could
now, for the first time, see my wife's face properly. The glamour of
the moonlight may have served to enhance its ethereal beauty, but
neither moonlight nor sunlight could do justice to that beauty in its
living human splendour. As I gloried in her starry eyes I could
think of nothing else; but when for a moment my eyes, roving round
for the purpose of protection, caught sight of her whole figure,
there was a pang to my heart. The brilliant moonlight showed every
detail in terrible effect, and I could see that she wore only her
Shroud. In the moment of darkness, after the last benediction,
before she returned to my arms, she must have removed her bridal
veil. This may, of course, have been in accordance with the
established ritual of her church; but, all the same, my heart was
sore. The glamour of calling her my very own was somewhat obscured
by the bridal adornment being shorn. But it made no difference in
her sweetness to me. Together we went along the path through the
wood, she keeping equal step with me in wifely way.
When we had come through the trees near enough to see the roof of the
Castle, now gilded with the moonlight, she stopped, and looking at me
with eyes full of love, said:
"Here I must leave you!"
"What?" I was all aghast, and I felt that my chagrin was expressed
in the tone of horrified surprise in my voice. She went on quickly:
"Alas! It is impossible that I should go farther--at present!"
"But what is to prevent you?" I queried. "You are now my wife. This
is our wedding-night; and surely your place is with me!" The wail in
her voice as she answered touched me to the quick:
"Oh, I know, I know! There is no dearer wish in my heart--there can
be none--than to share my husband's home. Oh, my dear, my dear, if
you only knew what it would be to me to be with you always! But
indeed I may not--not yet! I am not free! If you but knew how much
that which has happened to-night has cost me--or how much cost to
others as well as to myself may be yet to come--you would understand.
Rupert"--it was the first time she had ever addressed me by name, and
naturally it thrilled me through and through--"Rupert, my husband,
only that I trust you with all the faith which is in perfect love--
mutual love, I dare not have done what I have done this night. But,
dear, I know that you will bear me out; that your wife's honour is
your honour, even as your honour is mine. My honour is given to
this; and you can help me--the only help I can have at present--by
trusting me. Be patient, my beloved, be patient! Oh, be patient for
a little longer! It shall not be for long. So soon as ever my soul
is freed I shall come to you, my husband; and we shall never part
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.
