RUPERT'S JOURNAL--_Continued_.
_May_ 20, 1907.
The clock on the mantelpiece in my room, which chimes on the notes of theclock at St. James's Palace, was striking midnight when I opened theglass door on the terrace. I had put out my lights before I drew thecurtain, as I wished to see the full effect of the moonlight. Now thatthe rainy season is over, the moon is quite as beautiful as it was in thewet, and a great deal more comfortable. I was in evening dress, with asmoking-jacket in lieu of a coat, and I felt the air mild and mellow onthe warm side, as I stood on the terrace.
But even in that bright moonlight the further corners of the great gardenwere full of mysterious shadows. I peered into them as well as Icould--and my eyes are pretty good naturally, and are well trained.There was not the least movement. The air was as still as death, thefoliage as still as though wrought in stone.
I looked for quite a long time in the hope of seeing something of myLady. The quarters chimed several times, but I stood on unheeding. Atlast I thought I saw far off in the very corner of the old defending walla flicker of white. It was but momentary, and could hardly haveaccounted in itself for the way my heart beat. I controlled myself, andstood as though I, too, were a graven image. I was rewarded by seeingpresently another gleam of white. And then an unspeakable rapture stoleover me as I realized that my Lady was coming as she had come before. Iwould have hurried out to meet her, but that I knew well that this wouldnot be in accord with her wishes. So, thinking to please her, I drewback into the room. I was glad I had done so when, from the dark cornerwhere I stood, I saw her steal up the marble steps and stand timidlylooking in at the door. Then, after a long pause, came a whisper asfaint 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 wasstriving--happily with success--to suppress a shriek.
"Come in," I said quietly. "I was waiting for you, for I felt that youwould come. I only came in from the terrace when I saw you coming, lestyou might fear that anyone might see us. That is not possible, but Ithought you wished that I should be careful."
"I did--I do," she answered in a low, sweet voice, but very firmly. "Butnever avoid precaution. There is nothing that may not happen here.There may be eyes where we least expect--or suspect them." As she spokethe 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, andpulled the heavy curtain. Then, when I had lit a candle, I went over andput a light to the fire. In a few seconds the dry wood had caught, andthe flames were beginning to rise and crackle. She had not objected tomy closing the window and drawing the curtain; neither did she make anycomment on my lighting the fire. She simply acquiesced in it, as thoughit was now a matter of course. When I made the pile of cushions beforeit as on the occasion of her last visit, she sank down on them, and heldout her white, trembling hands to the warmth.
She was different to-night from what she had been on either of the twoformer visits. From her present bearing I arrived at some gauge of herself-concern, her self-respect. Now that she was dry, and notovermastered by wet and cold, a sweet and gracious dignity seemed toshine from her, enwrapping her, as it were, with a luminous veil. It wasnot that she was by this made or shown as cold or distant, or in any wayharsh or forbidding. On the contrary, protected by this dignity, sheseemed much more sweet and genial than before. It was as though she feltthat she could afford to stoop now that her loftiness was realized--thather position was recognized and secure. If her inherent dignity made animpenetrable nimbus round her, this was against others; she herself wasnot bound by it, or to be bound. So marked was this, so entirely andsweetly womanly did she appear, that I caught myself wondering in flashesof thought, which came as sharp periods of doubting judgment betweenspells of unconscious fascination, how I had ever come to think she wasaught but perfect woman. As she rested, half sitting and half lying onthe pile of cushions, she was all grace, and beauty, and charm, andsweetness--the veritable perfect woman of the dreams of a man, be heyoung or old. To have such a woman sit by his hearth and hold her holyof holies in his heart might well be a rapture to any man. Even an hourof such entrancing joy might be well won by a lifetime of pain, by thebalance of a long life sacrificed, by the extinction of life itself.Quick behind the record of such thoughts came the answer to the doubtthey 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 accountof her very sweetness and beauty would be the winning of her back to Lifeand Heaven--even were it that she might find happiness in the heart andin the arms of another man.
Once, when I leaned over the hearth to put fresh logs on the fire, myface was so close to hers that I felt her breath on my cheek. Itthrilled me to feel even the suggestion of that ineffable contact. Herbreath was sweet--sweet as the breath of a calf, sweet as the whiff of asummer breeze across beds of mignonette. How could anyone believe for amoment that such sweet breath could come from the lips of the dead--thedead _in esse_ or _in posse_--that corruption could send forth fragranceso sweet and pure? It was with satisfied happiness that, as I looked ather from my stool, I saw the dancing of the flames from the beech-logsreflected in her glorious black eyes, and the stars that were hidden inthem shine out with new colours and new lustre as they gleamed, risingand falling like hopes and fears. As the light leaped, so did smiles ofquiet happiness flit over her beautiful face, the merriment of the joyousflames being reflected in ever-changing dimples.
At first I was a little disconcerted whenever my eyes took note of hershroud, and there came a momentary regret that the weather had not beenagain bad, so that there might have been compulsion for her putting onanother garment--anything lacking the loathsomeness of that pitifulwrapping. Little by little, however, this feeling disappeared, and Ifound no matter for even dissatisfaction in her wrapping. Indeed, mythoughts found inward voice before the subject was dismissed from mymind:
"One becomes accustomed to anything--even a shroud!" But the thought wasfollowed by a submerging wave of pity that she should have had such adreadful experience.
By-and-by we seemed both to forget everything--I know I did--except thatwe were man and woman, and close together. The strangeness of thesituation and the circumstances did not seem of moment--not worth even apassing thought. We still sat apart and said little, if anything. Icannot recall a single word that either of us spoke whilst we sat beforethe fire, but other language than speech came into play; the eyes toldtheir own story, as eyes can do, and more eloquently than lips whilstexercising their function of speech. Question and answer followed eachother in this satisfying language, and with an unspeakable rapture Ibegan to realize that my affection was returned. Under thesecircumstances it was unrealizable that there should be any incongruity inthe whole affair. I was not myself in the mood of questioning. I wasdiffident with that diffidence which comes alone from true love, asthough it were a necessary emanation from that delightful andoverwhelming and commanding passion. In her presence there seemed tosurge up within me that which forbade speech. Speech under presentconditions would have seemed to me unnecessary, imperfect, and evenvulgarly overt. She, too, was silent. But now that I am alone, andmemory 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 herfeeling or my own. Happiness is more active, a more conscious enjoyment.We had been content. That expresses our condition perfectly; and nowthat I can analyze my own feeling, and understand what the word implies,I am satisfied of its accuracy. "Content" has both a positive andnegative meaning or antecedent condition. It implies an absence ofdisturbing conditions as well as of wants; also it implies somethingpositive which has been won or achieved, or which has accrued. I
n ourstate of mind--for though it may be presumption on my part, I amsatisfied that our ideas were mutual--it meant that we had reached anunderstanding whence all that might come must be for good. God grantthat it may be so!
As we sat silent, looking into each other's eyes, and whilst the stars inhers were now full of latent fire, perhaps from the reflection of theflames, she suddenly sprang to her feet, instinctively drawing thehorrible shroud round her as she rose to her full height in a voice fullof lingering emotion, as of one who is acting under spiritual compulsionrather than personal will, she said in a whisper:
"I must go at once. I feel the morning drawing nigh. I must be in myplace 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 asidesufficiently far for me to press back the grille and reach the glassdoor, 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 aninstant 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 beautifulhigh-bred hand. I took it in both mine as I fell on my knees, and raisedit to my lips. Its touch made me quiver. She, too, trembled as shelooked down at me with a glance which seemed to search my very soul. Thestars in her eyes, now that the firelight was no longer on them, had goneback to their own mysterious silver. Then she drew her hand from minevery, very gently, as though it would fain linger; and she passed outbehind the curtain with a gentle, sweet, dignified little bow which leftme on my knees.
When I heard the glass door pulled-to gently behind her, I rose from myknees and hurried without the curtain, just in time to watch her passdown the steps. I wanted to see her as long as I could. The grey ofmorning was just beginning to war with the night gloom, and by the faintuncertain light I could see dimly the white figure flit between shrub andstatue till finally it merged in the far darkness.
I stood for a long time on the terrace, sometimes looking into thedarkness in front of me, in case I might be blessed with another glimpseof her; sometimes with my eyes closed, so that I might recall and hold inmy mind her passage down the steps. For the first time since I had mether she had thrown back at me a glance as she stepped on the white pathbelow the terrace. With the glamour over me of that look, which was alllove and enticement, I could have dared all the powers that be.
When the grey dawn was becoming apparent through the lightening of thesky I returned to my room. In a dazed condition--half hypnotized bylove--I went to bed, and in dreams continued to think, all happily, of myLady of the Shroud.