BOOK IV: UNDER THE FLAGSTAFF
RUPERT'S JOURNAL--_Continued_.
_May_ 1, 1907.
For some days after the last adventure I was in truth in a half-dazedcondition, unable to think sensibly, hardly coherently. Indeed, it wasas much as I could do to preserve something of my habitual appearance andmanner. However, my first test happily came soon, and when I was oncethrough it I reacquired sufficient self-confidence to go through with mypurpose. Gradually the original phase of stupefaction passed, and I wasable to look the situation in the face. I knew the worst now, at anyrate; and when the lowest point has been reached things must begin tomend. Still, I was wofully sensitive regarding anything which mightaffect my Lady of the Shroud, or even my opinion of her. I even began todread Aunt Janet's Second-Sight visions or dreams. These had a fatalhabit of coming so near to fact that they always made for a danger ofdiscovery. I had to realize now that the Lady of the Shroud might indeedbe a Vampire--one of that horrid race that survives death and carries ona life-in-death existence eternally and only for evil. Indeed, I beganto _expect_ that Aunt Janet would ere long have some prophetic insight tothe matter. She had been so wonderfully correct in her propheticsurmises with regard to both the visits to my room that it was hardlypossible that she could fail to take cognizance of this last development.
But my dread was not justified; at any rate, I had no reason to suspectthat by any force or exercise of her occult gift she might cause meconcern by the discovery of my secret. Only once did I feel that actualdanger in that respect was close to me. That was when she came early onemorning and rapped at my door. When I called out, "Who is that? What isit?" she said in an agitated way:
"Thank God, laddie, you are all right! Go to sleep again."
Later on, when we met at breakfast, she explained that she had had anightmare in the grey of the morning. She thought she had seen me in thecrypt of a great church close beside a stone coffin; and, knowing thatsuch was an ominous subject to dream about, came as soon as she dared tosee if I was all right. Her mind was evidently set on death and burial,for she went on:
"By the way, Rupert, I am told that the great church on time top of thecliff across the creek is St. Sava's, where the great people of thecountry used to be buried. I want you to take me there some day. Weshall go over it, and look at the tombs and monuments together. I reallythink I should be afraid to go alone, but it will be all right if you arewith me." This was getting really dangerous, so I turned it aside:
"Really, Aunt Janet, I'm afraid it won't do. If you go off to weird oldchurches, and fill yourself up with a fresh supply of horrors, I don'tknow what will happen. You'll be dreaming dreadful things about me everynight and neither you nor I shall get any sleep." It went to my heart tooppose her in any wish; and also this kind of chaffy opposition mightpain her. But I had no alternative; the matter was too serious to beallowed to proceed. Should Aunt Janet go to the church, she would surelywant to visit the crypt. Should she do so, and there notice theglass-covered tomb--as she could not help doing--the Lord only knew whatwould happen. She had already Second-Sighted a woman being married tome, and before I myself knew that I had such a hope. What might she notreveal did she know where the woman came from? It may have been that herpower of Second Sight had to rest on some basis of knowledge or belief,and that her vision was but some intuitive perception of my ownsubjective thought. But whatever it was it should be stopped--at allhazards.
This whole episode set me thinking introspectively, and led me graduallybut imperatively to self-analysis--not of powers, but of motives. Ifound myself before long examining myself as to what were my realintentions. I thought at first that this intellectual process was anexercise of pure reason; but soon discarded this as inadequate--evenimpossible. Reason is a cold manifestation; this feeling which swayedand dominated me is none other than passion, which is quick, hot, andinsistent.
As for myself, the self-analysis could lead to but one result--theexpression to myself of the reality and definiteness of an already-formedthough unconscious intention. I wished to do the woman good--to serveher in some way--to secure her some benefit by any means, no matter howdifficult, which might be within my power. I knew that I lovedher--loved her most truly and fervently; there was no need forself-analysis to tell me that. And, moreover, no self-analysis, or anyother mental process that I knew of, could help my one doubt: whether shewas an ordinary woman (or an extraordinary woman, for the matter of that)in some sore and terrible straits; or else one who lay under somedreadful condition, only partially alive, and not mistress of herself orher acts. Whichever her condition might be, there was in my own feelinga superfluity of affection for her. The self-analysis taught me onething, at any rate--that I had for her, to start with, an infinite pitywhich had softened towards her my whole being, and had already masteredmerely selfish desire. Out of it I began to find excuses for her everyact. In the doing so I knew now, though perhaps I did not at the timethe process was going on, that my view in its true inwardness was of heras a living woman--the woman I loved.
In the forming of our ideas there are different methods of work, asthough the analogy with material life holds good. In the building of ahouse, for instance, there are many persons employed; men of differenttrades and occupations--architect, builder, masons, carpenters, plumbers,and a host of others--and all these with the officials of each guild ortrade. So in the world of thought and feelings: knowledge andunderstanding come through various agents, each competent to its task.
How far pity reacted with love I knew not; I only knew that whatever herstate might be, were she living or dead, I could find in my heart noblame for the Lady of the Shroud. It could not be that she was dead inthe real conventional way; for, after all, the Dead do not walk the earthin corporal substance, even if there be spirits which take the corporalform. This woman was of actual form and weight. How could I doubt that,at all events--I, who had held her in my arms? Might it not be that shewas not quite dead, and that it had been given to me to restore her tolife again? Ah! that would be, indeed, a privilege well worth the givingmy life to accomplish. That such a thing may be is possible. Surely theold myths were not absolute inventions; they must have had a basissomewhere in fact. May not the world-old story of Orpheus and Eurydicehave been based on some deep-lying principle or power of human nature?There is not one of us but has wished at some time to bring back thedead. Ay, and who has not felt that in himself or herself was power inthe deep love for our dead to make them quick again, did we but know thesecret of how it was to be done?
For myself, I have seen such mysteries that I am open to convictionregarding things not yet explained. These have been, of course, amongstsavages or those old-world people who have brought unchecked traditionsand beliefs--ay, and powers too--down the ages from the dim days when theworld was young; when forces were elemental, and Nature's handiwork wasexperimental rather than completed. Some of these wonders may have beenolder still than the accepted period of our own period of creation. Maywe not have to-day other wonders, different only in method, but not moresusceptible of belief? Obi-ism and Fantee-ism have been exercised in myown presence, and their results proved by the evidence of my own eyes andother senses. So, too, have stranger rites, with the same object and thesame success, in the far Pacific Islands. So, too, in India and China,in Thibet and in the Golden Chersonese. On all and each of theseoccasions there was, on my own part, enough belief to set in motion thepowers of understanding; and there were no moral scruples to stand in theway of realization. Those whose lives are so spent that they achieve thereputation of not fearing man or God or devil are not deterred in theirdoing or thwarted from a set purpose by things which might deter othersnot so equipped for adventure. Whatever may be before them--pleasant orpainful, bitter or sweet, arduous or facile, enjoyable or terrible,humorous or full of awe and horror--they must accept, taking them in theonward course as a goo
d athlete takes hurdles in his stride. And theremust be no hesitating, no looking back. If the explorer or theadventurer has scruples, he had better give up that special branch ofeffort and come himself to a more level walk in life. Neither must therebe regrets. There is no need for such; savage life has this advantage:it begets a certain toleration not to be found in conventional existence.