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

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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.

April 10, 1907.

For some days after what I call "the episode" I was in a strange

condition of mind. I did not take anyone--not even Aunt Janet--into

confidence. Even she dear, and open-hearted and liberal-minded as she

is, might not have understood well enough to be just and tolerant; and I

did not care to hear any adverse comment on my strange visitor. Somehow

I could not bear the thought of anyone finding fault with her or in her,

though, strangely enough, I was eternally defending her to myself; for,

despite my wishes, embarrassing thoughts would come again and again,

and again in all sorts and variants of queries difficult to answer. I

found myself defending her, sometimes as a woman hard pressed by

spiritual fear and physical suffering, sometimes as not being amenable to

laws that govern the Living. Indeed, I could not make up my mind whether

I looked on her as a living human being or as one with some strange

existence in another world, and having only a chance foothold in our own.

In such doubt imagination began to work, and thoughts of evil, of danger,

of doubt, even of fear, began to crowd on me with such persistence and in

such varied forms that I found my instinct of reticence growing into a

settled purpose. The value of this instinctive precaution was promptly

shown by Aunt Janet's state of mind, with consequent revelation of it.

She became full of gloomy prognostications and what I thought were morbid

fears. For the first time in my life I discovered that Aunt Janet had

nerves! I had long had a secret belief that she was gifted, to some

degree at any rate, with Second Sight, which quality, or whatever it is,

skilled in the powers if not the lore of superstition, manages to keep at

stretch not only the mind of its immediate pathic, but of others relevant

to it. Perhaps this natural quality had received a fresh impetus from

the arrival of some cases of her books sent on by Sir Colin. She

appeared to read and reread these works, which were chiefly on occult

subjects, day and night, except when she was imparting to me choice

excerpts of the most baleful and fearsome kind. Indeed, before a week

was over I found myself to be an expert in the history of the cult, as

well as in its manifestations, which latter I had been versed in for a

good many years.

The result of all this was that it set me brooding. Such, at least, I

gathered was the fact when Aunt Janet took me to task for it. She always

speaks out according to her convictions, so that her thinking I brooded

was to me a proof that I did; and after a personal examination I

came--reluctantly--to the conclusion that she was right, so far, at any

rate, as my outer conduct was concerned. The state of mind I was in,

however, kept me from making any acknowledgment of it--the real cause of

my keeping so much to myself and of being so distrait. And so I went

on, torturing myself as before with introspective questioning; and she,

with her mind set on my actions, and endeavouring to find a cause for

them, continued and expounded her beliefs and fears.

Her nightly chats with me when we were alone after dinner--for I had come

to avoid her questioning at other times--kept my imagination at high

pressure. Despite myself, I could not but find new cause for concern in

the perennial founts of her superstition. I had thought, years ago, that

I had then sounded the depths of this branch of psychicism; but this new

phase of thought, founded on the really deep hold which the existence of

my beautiful visitor and her sad and dreadful circumstances had taken

upon me, brought me a new concern in the matter of self-importance. I

came to think that I must reconstruct my self-values, and begin a fresh

understanding of ethical beliefs. Do what I would, my mind would keep

turning on the uncanny subjects brought before it. I began to apply them

one by one to my own late experience, and unconsciously to try to fit

them in turn to the present case.

The effect of this brooding was that I was, despite my own will, struck

by the similarity of circumstances bearing on my visitor, and the

conditions apportioned by tradition and superstition to such strange

survivals from earlier ages as these partial existences which are rather

Undead than Living--still walking the earth, though claimed by the world

of the Dead. Amongst them are the Vampire, or the Wehr-Wolf. To this

class also might belong in a measure the Doppelganger--one of whose dual

existences commonly belongs to the actual world around it. So, too, the

denizens of the world of Astralism. In any of these named worlds there

is a material presence--which must be created, if only for a single or

periodic purpose. It matters not whether a material presence already

created can be receptive of a disembodied soul, or a soul unattached can

have a body built up for it or around it; or, again, whether the body of

a dead person can be made seeming quick through some diabolic influence

manifested in the present, or an inheritance or result of some baleful

use of malefic power in the past. The result is the same in each case,

though the ways be widely different: a soul and a body which are not in

unity but brought together for strange purposes through stranger means

and by powers still more strange.

Through much thought and a process of exclusions the eerie form which

seemed to be most in correspondence with my adventure, and most suitable

to my fascinating visitor, appeared to be the Vampire. Doppelganger,

Astral creations, and all such-like, did not comply with the conditions

of my night experience. The Wehr-Wolf is but a variant of the Vampire,

and so needed not to be classed or examined at all. Then it was that,

thus focussed, the Lady of the Shroud (for so I came to hold her in my

mind) began to assume a new force. Aunt Janet's library afforded me

clues which I followed with avidity. In my secret heart I hated the

quest, and did not wish to go on with it. But in this I was not my own

master. Do what I would--brush away doubts never so often, new doubts

and imaginings came in their stead. The circumstance almost repeated the

parable of the Seven Devils who took the place of the exorcised one.

Doubts I could stand. Imaginings I could stand. But doubts and

imaginings together made a force so fell that I was driven to accept any

reading of the mystery which might presumably afford a foothold for

satisfying thought. And so I came to accept tentatively the Vampire

theory--accept it, at least, so far as to examine it as judicially as was

given me to do. As the days wore on, so the conviction grew. The more I

read on the subject, the more directly the evidences pointed towards this

view. The more I thought, the more obstinate became the conviction. I

ransacked Aunt Janet's volumes again and again to find anything to the

contrary; but in vain. Again, no matter how obstinate were my

convictions at any given time, unsettlement came with fresh thinking over

the argument, so that I was kept in a harassing state of uncertainty.

Briefly, the evidence in favour of accord between the facts of the case

and the Vampire theory were:

Her coming was at night--the time the Vampire is according to the theory,

free to move at will.

She wore her shroud--a necessity of coming fresh from grave or tomb; for

there is nothing occult about clothing which is not subject to astral or

other influences.

She had to be helped into my room--in strict accordance with what one

sceptical critic of occultism has called "the Vampire etiquette."

She made violent haste in getting away at cock-crow.

She seemed preternaturally cold; her sleep was almost abnormal in

intensity, and yet the sound of the cock-crowing came through it.

These things showed her to be subject to some laws, though not in exact

accord within those which govern human beings. Under the stress of such

circumstances as she must have gone through, her vitality seemed more

than human--the quality of vitality which could outlive ordinary burial.

Again, such purpose as she had shown in donning, under stress of some

compelling direction, her ice-cold wet shroud, and, wrapt in it, going

out again into the night, was hardly normal for a woman.

But if so, and if she was indeed a Vampire, might not whatever it may be

that holds such beings in thrall be by some means or other exorcised? To

find the means must be my next task. I am actually pining to see her

again. Never before have I been stirred to my depths by anyone. Come it

from Heaven or Hell, from the Earth or the Grave, it does not matter; I

shall make it my task to win her back to life and peace. If she be

indeed a Vampire, the task may be hard and long; if she be not so, and if

it be merely that circumstances have so gathered round her as to produce

that impression, the task may be simpler and the result more sweet. No,

not more sweet; for what can be more sweet than to restore the lost or

seemingly lost soul of the woman you love! There, the truth is out at

last! I suppose that I have fallen in love with her. If so, it is too

late for me to fight against it. I can only wait with what patience I

can till I see her again. But to that end I can do nothing. I know

absolutely nothing about her--not even her name. Patience!

April 16, 1907.

The only relief I have had from the haunting anxiety regarding the Lady

of the Shroud has been in the troubled state of my adopted country.

There has evidently been something up which I have not been allowed to

know. The mountaineers are troubled and restless; are wandering about,

singly and in parties, and holding meetings in strange places. This is

what I gather used to be in old days when intrigues were on foot with

Turks, Greeks, Austrians, Italians, Russians. This concerns me vitally,

for my mind has long been made up to share the fortunes of the Land of

the Blue Mountains. For good or ill I mean to stay here: J'y suis,

j'y reste. I share henceforth the lot of the Blue Mountaineers; and

not Turkey, nor Greece, nor Austria, nor Italy, nor Russia--no, not

France nor Germany either; not man nor God nor Devil shall drive me from

my purpose. With these patriots I throw in my lot! My only difficulty

seemed at first to be with the men themselves. They are so proud that at

the beginning I feared they would not even accord me the honour of being

one of them! However, things always move on somehow, no matter what

difficulties there be at the beginning. Never mind! When one looks back

at an accomplished fact the beginning is not to be seen--and if it were

it would not matter. It is not of any account, anyhow.

I heard that there was going to be a great meeting near here yesterday

afternoon, and I attended it. I think it was a success. If such is any

proof, I felt elated as well as satisfied when I came away. Aunt Janet's

Second Sight on the subject was comforting, though grim, and in a measure

disconcerting. When I was saying good-night she asked me to bend down my

head. As I did so, she laid her hands on it and passed them all over it.

I heard her say to herself:

"Strange! There's nothing there; yet I could have sworn I saw it!" I

asked her to explain, but she would not. For once she was a little

obstinate, and refused point blank to even talk of the subject. She was

not worried nor unhappy; so I had no cause for concern. I said nothing,

but I shall wait and see. Most mysteries become plain or disappear

altogether in time. But about the meeting--lest I forget!

When I joined the mountaineers who had assembled, I really think they

were glad to see me; though some of them seemed adverse, and others did

not seem over well satisfied. However, absolute unity is very seldom to

be found. Indeed, it is almost impossible; and in a free community is

not altogether to be desired. When it is apparent, the gathering lacks

that sense of individual feeling which makes for the real consensus of

opinion--which is the real unity of purpose. The meeting was at first,

therefore, a little cold and distant. But presently it began to thaw,

and after some fiery harangues I was asked to speak. Happily, I had

begun to learn the Balkan language as soon as ever Uncle Roger's wishes

had been made known to me, and as I have some facility of tongues and a

great deal of experience, I soon began to know something of it. Indeed,

when I had been here a few weeks, with opportunity of speaking daily with

the people themselves, and learned to understand the intonations and

vocal inflexions, I felt quite easy in speaking it. I understood every

word which had up to then been spoken at the meeting, and when I spoke

myself I felt that they understood. That is an experience which every

speaker has in a certain way and up to a certain point. He knows by some

kind of instinct if his hearers are with him; if they respond, they must

certainly have understood. Last night this was marked. I felt it every

instant I was talking and when I came to realize that the men were in

strict accord with my general views, I took them into confidence with

regard to my own personal purpose. It was the beginning of a mutual

trust; so for peroration I told them that I had come to the conclusion

that what they wanted most for their own protection and the security and

consolidation of their nation was arms--arms of the very latest pattern.

Here they interrupted me with wild cheers, which so strung me up that I

went farther than I intended, and made a daring venture. "Ay," I

repeated, "the security and consolidation of your country--of our

country, for I have come to live amongst you. Here is my home whilst I

live. I am with you heart and soul. I shall live with you, fight

shoulder to shoulder with you, and, if need be, shall die with you!"

Here the shouting was terrific, and the younger men raised their guns to

fire a salute in Blue Mountain fashion. But on the instant the Vladika

{1} held up his hands and motioned them to desist. In the immediate

silence he spoke, sharply at first, but later ascending to a high pitch

of single-minded, lofty eloquence. His words rang in my ears long after

the meeting was over and other thoughts had come between them and the

present.

"Silence!" he thundered. "Make no echoes in the forest or through the

hills at this dire time of stress and threatened danger to our land.

Bethink ye of this meeting, held here and in secret, in order that no

whisper of it may be heard afar. Have ye all, brave men of the Blue

Mountains, come hither through the forest like shadows that some of you,

thoughtless, may enlighten your enemies as to our secret purpose? The

thunder of your guns would doubtless sound well in the ears of those who

wish us ill and try to work us wrong. Fellow-countrymen, know ye not

that the Turk is awake once more for our harming? The Bureau of Spies

has risen from the torpor which came on it when the purpose against our

Teuta roused our mountains to such anger that the frontiers blazed with

passion, and were swept with fire and sword. Moreover, there is a

traitor somewhere in the land, or else incautious carelessness has served

the same base purpose. Something of our needs--our doing, whose secret

we have tried to hide, has gone out. The myrmidons of the Turk are close

on our borders, and it may be that some of them have passed our guards

and are amidst us unknown. So it behoves us doubly to be discreet.

Believe me that I share with you, my brothers, our love for the gallant

Englishman who has come amongst us to share our sorrows and

ambitions--and I trust it may be our joys. We are all united in the wish

to do him honour--though not in the way by which danger might be carried

on the wings of love. My brothers, our newest brother comes to us from

the Great Nation which amongst the nations has been our only friend, and

which has ere now helped us in our direst need--that mighty Britain whose

hand has ever been raised in the cause of freedom. We of the Blue

Mountains know her best as she stands with sword in hand face to face

with our foes. And this, her son and now our brother, brings further to

our need the hand of a giant and the heart of a lion. Later on, when

danger does not ring us round, when silence is no longer our outer guard;

we shall bid him welcome in true fashion of our land. But till then he

will believe--for he is great-hearted--that our love and thanks and

welcome are not to be measured by sound. When the time comes, then shall

be sound in his honour--not of rifles alone, but bells and cannon and the

mighty voice of a free people shouting as one. But now we must be wise

and silent, for the Turk is once again at our gates. Alas! the cause of

his former coming may not be, for she whose beauty and nobility and whose

place in our nation and in our hearts tempted him to fraud and violence

is not with us to share even our anxiety."

Here his voice broke, and there arose from all a deep wailing sound,

which rose and rose till the woods around us seemed broken by a mighty

and long-sustained sob. The orator saw that his purpose was

accomplished, and with a short sentence finished his harangue: "But the

need of our nation still remains!" Then, with an eloquent gesture to me

to proceed, he merged in the crowd and disappeared.

How could I even attempt to follow such a speaker with any hope of

success? I simply told them what I had already done in the way of help,

saying:

"As you needed arms, I have got them. My agent sends me word through the

code between us that he has procured for me--for us--fifty thousand of

the newest-pattern rifles, the French Ingis-Malbron, which has surpassed

all others, and sufficient ammunition to last for a year of war. The

first section is in hand, and will soon be ready for consignment. There

are other war materials, too, which, when they arrive, will enable every

man and woman--even the children--of our land to take a part in its

defence should such be needed. My brothers, I am with you in all things,

for good or ill!"

It made me very proud to hear the mighty shout which arose. I had felt

exalted before, but now this personal development almost unmanned me. I

was glad of the long-sustained applause to recover my self-control.

I was quite satisfied that the meeting did not want to hear any other

speaker, for they began to melt away without any formal notification

having been given. I doubt if there will be another meeting soon again.

The weather has begun to break, and we are in for another spell of rain.

It is disagreeable, of course; but it has its own charm. It was during a

spell of wet weather that the Lady of the Shroud came to me. Perhaps the

rain may bring her again. I hope so, with all my soul.

April 23, 1907.

The rain has continued for four whole days and nights, and the low-lying

ground is like a quagmire in places. In the sunlight the whole mountains

glisten with running streams and falling water. I feel a strange kind of

elation, but from no visible cause. Aunt Janet rather queered it by

telling me, as she said good-night, to be very careful of myself, as she

had seen in a dream last night a figure in a shroud. I fear she was not

pleased that I did not take it with all the seriousness that she did. I

would not wound her for the world if I could help it, but the idea of a

shroud gets too near the bone to be safe, and I had to fend her off at

all hazards. So when I doubted if the Fates regarded the visionary

shroud as of necessity appertaining to me, she said, in a way that was,

for her, almost sharp:

"Take care, laddie. 'Tis ill jesting wi' the powers o' time Unknown."

Perhaps it was that her talk put the subject in my mind. The woman

needed no such aid; she was always there; but when I locked myself into

my room that night, I half expected to find her in the room. I was not

sleepy, so I took a book of Aunt Janet's and began to read. The title

was "On the Powers and Qualities of Disembodied Spirits." "Your

grammar," said I to the author, "is hardly attractive, but I may learn

something which might apply to her. I shall read your book." Before

settling down to it, however, I thought I would have a look at the

garden. Since the night of the visit the garden seemed to have a new

attractiveness for me: a night seldom passed without my having a last

look at it before turning in. So I drew the great curtain and looked

out.

The scene was beautiful, but almost entirely desolate. All was ghastly

in the raw, hard gleams of moonlight coming fitfully through the masses

of flying cloud. The wind was rising, and the air was damp and cold. I

looked round the room instinctively, and noticed that the fire was laid

ready for lighting, and that there were small-cut logs of wood piled

beside the hearth. Ever since that night I have had a fire laid ready.

I was tempted to light it, but as I never have a fire unless I sleep in

the open, I hesitated to begin. I went back to the window, and, opening

the catch, stepped out on the terrace. As I looked down the white walk

and let my eyes range over the expanse of the garden, where everything

glistened as the moonlight caught the wet, I half expected to see some

white figure flitting amongst the shrubs and statues. The whole scene of

the former visit came back to me so vividly that I could hardly believe

that any time had passed since then. It was the same scene, and again

late in the evening. Life in Vissarion was primitive, and early hours

prevailed--though not so late as on that night.

As I looked I thought I caught a glimpse of something white far away. It

was only a ray of moonlight coming through the rugged edge of a cloud.

But all the same it set me in a strange state of perturbation. Somehow I

seemed to lose sight of my own identity. It was as though I was

hypnotized by the situation or by memory, or perhaps by some occult

force. Without thinking of what I was doing, or being conscious of any

reason for it, I crossed the room and set light to the fire. Then I blew

out the candle and came to the window again. I never thought it might be

a foolish thing to do--to stand at a window with a light behind me in

this country, where every man carries a gun with him always. I was in my

evening clothes, too, with my breast well marked by a white shirt. I

opened the window and stepped out on the terrace. There I stood for many

minutes, thinking. All the time my eyes kept ranging over the garden.

Once I thought I saw a white figure moving, but it was not followed up,

so, becoming conscious that it was again beginning to rain, I stepped

back into the room, shut the window, and drew the curtain. Then I

realized the comforting appearance of the fire, and went over and stood

before it.

Hark! Once more there was a gentle tapping at the window. I rushed over

to it and drew the curtain.

There, out on the rain-beaten terrace, stood the white shrouded figure,

more desolate-appearing than ever. Ghastly pale she looked, as before,

but her eyes had an eager look which was new. I took it that she was

attracted by the fire, which was by now well ablaze, and was throwing up

jets of flame as the dry logs crackled. The leaping flames threw fitful

light across the room, and every gleam threw the white-clad figure into

prominence, showing the gleam of the black eyes, and fixing the stars

that lay in them.

Without a word I threw open the window, and, taking the white hand

extended to me, drew into the room the Lady of the Shroud.

As she entered and felt the warmth of the blazing fire, a glad look

spread over her face. She made a movement as if to run to it. But she

drew back an instant after, looking round with instinctive caution. She

closed the window and bolted it, touched the lever which spread the

grille across the opening, and pulled close the curtain behind it. Then

she went swiftly to the door and tried if it was locked. Satisfied as to

this, she came quickly over to the fire, and, kneeling before it,

stretched out her numbed hands to the blaze. Almost on the instant her

wet shroud began to steam. I stood wondering. The precautions of

secrecy in the midst of her suffering--for that she did suffer was only

too painfully manifest--must have presupposed some danger. Then and

there my mind was made up that there should no harm assail her that I by

any means could fend off. Still, the present must be attended to;

pneumonia and other ills stalked behind such a chill as must infallibly

come on her unless precautions were taken. I took again the

dressing-gown which she had worn before and handed it to her, motioning

as I did so towards the screen which had made a dressing-room for her on

the former occasion. To my surprise she hesitated. I waited. She

waited, too, and then laid down the dressing-gown on the edge of the

stone fender. So I spoke:

"Won't you change as you did before? Your--your frock can then be dried.

Do! It will be so much safer for you to be dry clad when you resume your

own dress."

"How can I whilst you are here?"

Her words made me stare, so different were they from her acts of the

other visit. I simply bowed--speech on such a subject would be at least

inadequate--and walked over to the window. Passing behind the curtain, I

opened the window. Before stepping out on to the terrace, I looked into

the room and said:

"Take your own time. There is no hurry. I dare say you will find there

all you may want. I shall remain on the terrace until you summon me."

With that I went out on the terrace, drawing close the glass door behind

me.

I stood looking out on the dreary scene for what seemed a very short

time, my mind in a whirl. There came a rustle from within, and I saw a

dark brown figure steal round the edge of the curtain. A white hand was

raised, and beckoned me to come in. I entered, bolting the window behind

me. She had passed across the room, and was again kneeling before the

fire with her hands outstretched. The shroud was laid in partially

opened folds on one side of the hearth, and was steaming heavily. I

brought over some cushions and pillows, and made a little pile of them

beside her.

"Sit there," I said, "and rest quietly in the heat." It may have been

the effect of the glowing heat, but there was a rich colour in her face

as she looked at me with shining eyes. Without a word, but with a

courteous little bow, she sat down at once. I put a thick rug across her

shoulders, and sat down myself on a stool a couple of feet away.

For fully five or six minutes we sat in silence. At last, turning her

head towards me she said in a sweet, low voice:

"I had intended coming earlier on purpose to thank you for your very

sweet and gracious courtesy to me, but circumstances were such that I

could not leave my--my"--she hesitated before saying--"my abode. I am

not free, as you and others are, to do what I will. My existence is

sadly cold and stern, and full of horrors that appal. But I do thank

you. For myself I am not sorry for the delay, for every hour shows me

more clearly how good and understanding and sympathetic you have been to

me. I only hope that some day you may realize how kind you have been,

and how much I appreciate it."

"I am only too glad to be of any service," I said, feebly I felt, as I

held out my hand. She did not seem to see it. Her eyes were now on the

fire, and a warm blush dyed forehead and cheek and neck. The reproof was

so gentle that no one could have been offended. It was evident that she

was something coy and reticent, and would not allow me to come at present

more close to her, even to the touching of her hand. But that her heart

was not in the denial was also evident in the glance from her glorious

dark starry eyes. These glances--veritable lightning flashes coming

through her pronounced reserve--finished entirely any wavering there

might be in my own purpose. I was aware now to the full that my heart

was quite subjugated. I knew that I was in love--veritably so much in

love as to feel that without this woman, be she what she might, by my

side my future must be absolutely barren.

It was presently apparent that she did not mean to stay as long on this

occasion as on the last. When the castle clock struck midnight she

suddenly sprang to her feet with a bound, saying:

"I must go! There is midnight!" I rose at once, the intensity of her

speech having instantly obliterated the sleep which, under the influence

of rest and warmth, was creeping upon me. Once more she was in a frenzy

of haste, so I hurried towards the window, but as I looked back saw her,

despite her haste, still standing. I motioned towards the screen, and

slipping behind the curtain, opened the window and went out on the

terrace. As I was disappearing behind the curtain I saw her with the

tail of my eye lifting the shroud, now dry, from the hearth.

She was out through the window in an incredibly short time, now clothed

once more in that dreadful wrapping. As she sped past me barefooted on

the wet, chilly marble which made her shudder, she whispered:

"Thank you again. You are good to me. You can understand."

Once again I stood on the terrace, saw her melt like a shadow down the

steps, and disappear behind the nearest shrub. Thence she flitted away

from point to point with exceeding haste. The moonlight had now

disappeared behind heavy banks of cloud, so there was little light to see

by. I could just distinguish a pale gleam here and there as she wended

her secret way.

For a long time I stood there alone thinking, as I watched the course she

had taken, and wondering where might be her ultimate destination. As she

had spoken of her "abode," I knew there was some definitive objective of

her flight.

It was no use wondering. I was so entirely ignorant of her surroundings

that I had not even a starting-place for speculation. So I went in,

leaving the window open. It seemed that this being so made one barrier

the less between us. I gathered the cushions and rugs from before the

fire, which was no longer leaping, but burning with a steady glow, and

put them back in their places. Aunt Janet might come in the morning, as

she had done before, and I did not wish to set her thinking. She is much

too clever a person to have treading on the heels of a

mystery--especially one in which my own affections are engaged. I wonder

what she would have said had she seen me kiss the cushion on which my

beautiful guest's head had rested?

When I was in bed, and in the dark save for the fading glow of the fire,

my thoughts became fixed that whether she came from Earth or Heaven or

Hell, my lovely visitor was already more to me than aught else in the

world. This time she had, on going, said no word of returning. I had

been so much taken up with her presence, and so upset by her abrupt

departure, that I had omitted to ask her. And so I am driven, as before,

to accept the chance of her returning--a chance which I fear I am or may

be unable to control.

Surely enough Aunt Janet did come in the morning, early. I was still

asleep when she knocked at my door. With that purely physical

subconsciousness which comes with habit I must have realized the cause of

the sound, for I woke fully conscious of the fact that Aunt Janet had

knocked and was waiting to come in. I jumped from bed, and back again

when I had unlocked the door. When Aunt Janet came in she noticed the

cold of the room.

"Save us, laddie, but ye'll get your death o' cold in this room." Then,

as she looked round and noticed the ashes of the extinct fire in the

grate:

"Eh, but ye're no that daft after a'; ye've had the sense to light yer

fire. Glad I am that we had the fire laid and a wheen o' dry logs ready

to yer hand." She evidently felt the cold air coming from the window,

for she went over and drew the curtain. When she saw the open window,

she raised her hands in a sort of dismay, which to me, knowing how little

base for concern could be within her knowledge, was comic. Hurriedly she

shut the window, and then, coming close over to my bed, said:

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

"Dreaming again, Aunt Janet?" I asked--rather flippantly as it seemed to

me. She shook her head:

"Not so, Rupert, unless it be that the Lord gies us in dreams what we in

our spiritual darkness think are veesions." I roused up at this. When

Aunt Janet calls me Rupert, as she always used to do in my dear mother's

time, things are serious with her. As I was back in childhood now,

recalled by her word, I thought the best thing I could do to cheer her

would be to bring her back there too--if I could. So I patted the edge

of the bed as I used to do when I was a wee kiddie and wanted her to

comfort me, and said:

"Sit down, Aunt Janet, and tell me." She yielded at once, and the look

of the happy old days grew over her face as though there had come a gleam

of sunshine. She sat down, and I put out my hands as I used to do, and

took her hand between them. There was a tear in her eye as she raised my

hand and kissed it as in old times. But for the infinite pathos of it,

it would have been comic:

Aunt Janet, old and grey-haired, but still retaining her girlish slimness

of figure, petite, dainty as a Dresden figure, her face lined with the

care of years, but softened and ennobled by the unselfishness of those

years, holding up my big hand, which would outweigh her whole arm;

sitting dainty as a pretty old fairy beside a recumbent giant--for my

bulk never seems so great as when I am near this real little good fairy

of my life--seven feet beside four feet seven.

So she began as of old, as though she were about to soothe a frightened

child with a fairy tale:

"'Twas a veesion, I think, though a dream it may hae been. But whichever

or whatever it was, it concerned my little boy, who has grown to be a big

giant, so much that I woke all of a tremble. Laddie dear, I thought that

I saw ye being married." This gave me an opening, though a small one,

for comforting her, so I took it at once:

"Why, dear, there isn't anything to alarm you in that, is there? It was

only the other day when you spoke to me about the need of my getting

married, if it was only that you might have children of your boy playing

around your knees as their father used to do when he was a helpless wee

child himself."

"That is so, laddie," she answered gravely. "But your weddin' was none

so merry as I fain would see. True, you seemed to lo'e her wi' all yer

hairt. Yer eyes shone that bright that ye might ha' set her afire, for

all her black locks and her winsome face. But, laddie, that was not

all--no, not though her black een, that had the licht o' all the stars o'

nicht in them, shone in yours as though a hairt o' love an' passion, too,

dwelt in them. I saw ye join hands, an' heard a strange voice that

talked stranger still, but I saw none ither. Your eyes an' her eyes, an'

your hand an' hers, were all I saw. For all else was dim, and the

darkness was close around ye twa. And when the benison was spoken--I

knew that by the voices that sang, and by the gladness of her een, as

well as by the pride and glory of yours--the licht began to glow a wee

more, an' I could see yer bride. She was in a veil o' wondrous fine

lace. And there were orange-flowers in her hair, though there were

twigs, too, and there was a crown o' flowers on head wi' a golden band

round it. And the heathen candles that stood on the table wi' the Book

had some strange effect, for the reflex o' it hung in the air o'er her

head like the shadow of a crown. There was a gold ring on her finger and

a silver one on yours." Here she paused and trembled, so that, hoping to

dispel her fears, I said, as like as I could to the way I used to when I

was a child:

"Go on, Aunt Janet."

She did not seem to recognize consciously the likeness between past and

present; but the effect was there, for she went on more like her old

self, though there was a prophetic gravity in her voice, more marked than

I had ever heard from her:

"All this I've told ye was well; but, oh, laddie, there was a dreadful

lack o' livin' joy such as I should expect from the woman whom my boy had

chosen for his wife--and at the marriage coupling, too! And no wonder,

when all is said; for though the marriage veil o' love was fine, an' the

garland o' flowers was fresh-gathered, underneath them a' was nane ither

than a ghastly shroud. As I looked in my veesion--or maybe dream--I

expectit to see the worms crawl round the flagstane at her feet. If

'twas not Death, laddie dear, that stood by ye, it was the shadow o'

Death that made the darkness round ye, that neither the light o' candles

nor the smoke o' heathen incense could pierce. Oh, laddie, laddie, wae

is me that I hae seen sic a veesion--waking or sleeping, it matters not!

I was sair distressed--so sair that I woke wi' a shriek on my lips and

bathed in cold sweat. I would hae come doon to ye to see if you were

hearty or no--or even to listen at your door for any sound o' yer being

quick, but that I feared to alarm ye till morn should come. I've counted

the hours and the minutes since midnight, when I saw the veesion, till I

came hither just the now."

"Quite right, Aunt Janet," I said, "and I thank you for your kind thought

for me in the matter, now and always." Then I went on, for I wanted to

take precautions against the possibility of her discovery of my secret.

I could not bear to think that she might run my precious secret to earth

in any well-meant piece of bungling. That would be to me disaster

unbearable. She might frighten away altogether my beautiful visitor,

even whose name or origin I did not know, and I might never see her

again:

"You must never do that, Aunt Janet. You and I are too good friends to

have sense of distrust or annoyance come between us--which would surely

happen if I had to keep thinking that you or anyone else might be

watching me."

April 27, 1907.

After a spell of loneliness which has seemed endless I have something to

write. When the void in my heart was becoming the receptacle for many

devils of suspicion and distrust I set myself a task which might, I

thought, keep my thoughts in part, at any rate, occupied--to explore

minutely the neighbourhood round the Castle. This might, I hoped, serve

as an anodyne to my pain of loneliness, which grew more acute as the

days, the hours, wore on, even if it should not ultimately afford me some

clue to the whereabouts of the woman whom I had now grown to love so

madly.

My exploration soon took a systematic form, as I intended that it should

be exhaustive. I would take every day a separate line of advance from

the Castle, beginning at the south and working round by the east to the

north. The first day only took me to the edge of the creek, which I

crossed in a boat, and landed at the base of the cliff opposite. I found

the cliffs alone worth a visit. Here and there were openings to caves

which I made up my mind to explore later. I managed to climb up the

cliff at a spot less beetling than the rest, and continued my journey.

It was, though very beautiful, not a specially interesting place. I

explored that spoke of the wheel of which Vissarion was the hub, and got

back just in time for dinner.

The next day I took a course slightly more to the eastward. I had no

difficulty in keeping a straight path, for, once I had rowed across the

creek, the old church of St. Sava rose before me in stately gloom. This

was the spot where many generations of the noblest of the Land of the

Blue Mountains had from time immemorial been laid to rest, amongst them

the Vissarions. Again, I found the opposite cliffs pierced here and

there with caves, some with wide openings,--others the openings of which

were partly above and partly below water. I could, however, find no

means of climbing the cliff at this part, and had to make a long detour,

following up the line of the creek till further on I found a piece of

beach from which ascent was possible. Here I ascended, and found that I

was on a line between the Castle and the southern side of the mountains.

I saw the church of St. Sava away to my right, and not far from the edge

of the cliff. I made my way to it at once, for as yet I had never been

near it. Hitherto my excursions had been limited to the Castle and its

many gardens and surroundings. It was of a style with which I was not

familiar--with four wings to the points of the compass. The great

doorway, set in a magnificent frontage of carved stone of manifestly

ancient date, faced west, so that, when one entered, he went east. To my

surprise--for somehow I expected the contrary--I found the door open.

Not wide open, but what is called ajar--manifestly not locked or barred,

but not sufficiently open for one to look in. I entered, and after

passing through a wide vestibule, more like a section of a corridor than

an ostensible entrance, made my way through a spacious doorway into the

body of the church. The church itself was almost circular, the openings

of the four naves being spacious enough to give the appearance of the

interior as a whole, being a huge cross. It was strangely dim, for the

window openings were small and high-set, and were, moreover, filled with

green or blue glass, each window having a colour to itself. The glass

was very old, being of the thirteenth or fourteenth century. Such

appointments as there were--for it had a general air of desolation--were

of great beauty and richness,--especially so to be in a place--even a

church--where the door lay open, and no one was to be seen. It was

strangely silent even for an old church on a lonesome headland. There

reigned a dismal solemnity which seemed to chill me, accustomed as I have

been to strange and weird places. It seemed abandoned, though it had not

that air of having been neglected which is so often to be noticed in old

churches. There was none of the everlasting accumulation of dust which

prevails in places of higher cultivation and larger and more strenuous

work.

In the church itself or its appending chambers I could find no clue or

suggestion which could guide me in any way in my search for the Lady of

the Shroud. Monuments there were in profusion--statues, tablets, and all

the customary memorials of the dead. The families and dates represented

were simply bewildering. Often the name of Vissarion was given, and the

inscription which it held I read through carefully, looking to find some

enlightenment of any kind. But all in vain: there was nothing to see in

the church itself. So I determined to visit the crypt. I had no lantern

or candle with me, so had to go back to the Castle to secure one.

It was strange, coming in from the sunlight, here overwhelming to one so

recently accustomed to northern skies, to note the slender gleam of the

lantern which I carried, and which I had lit inside the door. At my

first entry to the church my mind had been so much taken up with the

strangeness of the place, together with the intensity of wish for some

sort of clue, that I had really no opportunity of examining detail. But

now detail became necessary, as I had to find the entrance to the crypt.

My puny light could not dissipate the semi-Cimmerian gloom of the vast

edifice; I had to throw the feeble gleam into one after another of the

dark corners.

At last I found, behind the great screen, a narrow stone staircase which

seemed to wind down into the rock. It was not in any way secret, but

being in the narrow space behind the great screen, was not visible except

when close to it. I knew I was now close to my objective, and began to

descend. Accustomed though I have been to all sorts of mysteries and

dangers, I felt awed and almost overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness and

desolation as I descended the ancient winding steps. These were many in

number, roughly hewn of old in the solid rock on which the church was

built.

I met a fresh surprise in finding that the door of the crypt was open.

After all, this was different from the church-door being open; for in

many places it is a custom to allow all comers at all times to find rest

and comfort in the sacred place. But I did expect that at least the

final resting-place of the historic dead would be held safe against

casual intrusion. Even I, on a quest which was very near my heart,

paused with an almost overwhelming sense of decorum before passing

through that open door. The crypt was a huge place, strangely lofty for

a vault. From its formation, however, I soon came to the conclusion that

it was originally a natural cavern altered to its present purpose by the

hand of man. I could hear somewhere near the sound of running water, but

I could not locate it. Now and again at irregular intervals there was a

prolonged booming, which could only come from a wave breaking in a

confined place. The recollection then came to me of the proximity of the

church to the top of the beetling cliff, and of the half-sunk cavern

entrances which pierced it.

With the gleam of my lamp to guide me, I went through and round the whole

place. There were many massive tombs, mostly rough-hewn from great slabs

or blocks of stone. Some of them were marble, and the cutting of all was

ancient. So large and heavy were some of them that it was a wonder to me

how they could ever have been brought to this place, to which the only

entrance was seemingly the narrow, tortuous stairway by which I had come.

At last I saw near one end of the crypt a great chain hanging. Turning

the light upward, I found that it depended from a ring set over a wide

opening, evidently made artificially. It must have been through this

opening that the great sarcophagi had been lowered.

Directly underneath the hanging chain, which did not come closer to the

ground than some eight or ten feet, was a huge tomb in the shape of a

rectangular coffer or sarcophagus. It was open, save for a huge sheet of

thick glass which rested above it on two thick balks of dark oak, cut to

exceeding smoothness, which lay across it, one at either end. On the far

side from where I stood each of these was joined to another oak plank,

also cut smooth, which sloped gently to the rocky floor. Should it be

necessary to open the tomb, the glass could be made to slide along the

supports and descend by the sloping planks.

Naturally curious to know what might be within such a strange receptacle,

I raised the lantern, depressing its lens so that the light might fall

within.

Then I started back with a cry, the lantern slipping from my nerveless

hand and falling with a ringing sound on the great sheet of thick glass.

Within, pillowed on soft cushions, and covered with a mantle woven of

white natural fleece sprigged with tiny sprays of pine wrought in gold,

lay the body of a woman--none other than my beautiful visitor. She was

marble white, and her long black eyelashes lay on her white cheeks as

though she slept.

Without a word or a sound, save the sounds made by my hurrying feet on

the stone flooring, I fled up the steep steps, and through the dim

expanse of the church, out into the bright sunlight. I found that I had

mechanically raised the fallen lamp, and had taken it with me in my

flight.

My feet naturally turned towards home. It was all instinctive. The new

horror had--for the time, at any rate--drowned my mind in its mystery,

deeper than the deepest depths of thought or imagination.




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