The Lady of the Shroud by Bram Stoker (knowledgeable books to read .txt) 📖

about her. I was quite a boy then, not more than thirteen;

but our family were always clever from the very beginning of life,

and father was telling me about the St. Leger family. My family

hadn’t, of course, seen anything of them since Captain St. Leger

died—the circle to which we belong don’t care for poor relations—

and was explaining where Miss MacKelpie came in. She must have been

a sort of nursery governess, for Mrs. St. Leger once told him that

she helped her to educate the child.

 

“Then, father,” I said, “if she helped to educate the child she ought

to have been called Miss MacSkelpie!”

 

When my first-cousin-once-removed, Rupert, was twelve years old, his

mother died, and he was in the dolefuls about it for more than a

year. Miss MacKelpie kept on living with him all the same. Catch

her quitting! That sort don’t go into the poor-house when they can

keep out! My father, being Head of the Family, was, of course, one

of the trustees, and his uncle Roger, brother of the testator,

another. The third was General MacKelpie, a poverty-stricken Scotch

laird who had a lot of valueless land at Croom, in Ross-shire. I

remember father gave me a new ten-pound note when I interrupted him

whilst he was telling me of the incident of young St. Leger’s

improvidence by remarking that he was in error as to the land. From

what I had heard of MacKelpie’s estate, it was productive of one

thing; when he asked me “What?” I answered “Mortgages!” Father, I

knew, had bought, not long before, a lot of them at what a college

friend of mine from Chicago used to call “cut-throat” price. When I

remonstrated with my father for buying them at all, and so injuring

the family estate which I was to inherit, he gave me an answer, the

astuteness of which I have never forgotten.

 

“I did it so that I might keep my hand on the bold General, in case

he should ever prove troublesome. And if the worst should ever come

to the worst, Croom is a good country for grouse and stags!” My

father can see as far as most men!

 

When my cousin—I shall call him cousin henceforth in this record,

lest it might seem to any unkind person who might hereafter read it

that I wished to taunt Rupert St. Leger with his somewhat obscure

position, in reiterating his real distance in kinship with my family-

-when my cousin, Rupert St. Leger, wished to commit a certain idiotic

act of financial folly, he approached my father on the subject,

arriving at our estate, Humcroft, at an inconvenient time, without

permission, not having had even the decent courtesy to say he was

coming. I was then a little chap of six years old, but I could not

help noticing his mean appearance. He was all dusty and dishevelled.

When my father saw him—I came into the study with him—he said in a

horrified voice:

 

“Good God!” He was further shocked when the boy brusquely

acknowledged, in reply to my father’s greeting, that he had travelled

third class. Of course, none of my family ever go anything but first

class; even the servants go second. My father was really angry when

he said he had walked up from the station.

 

“A nice spectacle for my tenants and my tradesmen! To see my—my—a

kinsman of my house, howsoever remote, trudging like a tramp on the

road to my estate! Why, my avenue is two miles and a perch! No

wonder you are filthy and insolent!” Rupert—really, I cannot call

him cousin here—was exceedingly impertinent to my father.

 

“I walked, sir, because I had no money; but I assure you I did not

mean to be insolent. I simply came here because I wished to ask your

advice and assistance, not because you are an important person, and

have a long avenue—as I know to my cost—but simply because you are

one of my trustees.”

 

“YOUR trustees, sirrah!” said my father, interrupting him. “Your

trustees?”

 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, quite quietly. “I meant the

trustees of my dear mother’s will.”

 

“And what, may I ask you,” said father, “do you want in the way of

advice from one of the trustees of your dear mother’s will?” Rupert

got very red, and was going to say something rude—I knew it from his

look—but he stopped, and said in the same gentle way:

 

“I want your advice, sir, as to the best way of doing something which

I wish to do, and, as I am under age, cannot do myself. It must be

done through the trustees of my mother’s will.”

 

“And the assistance for which you wish?” said father, putting his

hand in his pocket. I know what that action means when I am talking

to him.

 

“The assistance I want,” said Rupert, getting redder than ever, “is

from my—the trustee also. To carry out what I want to do.”

 

“And what may that be?” asked my father. “I would like, sir, to make

over to my Aunt Janet—” My father interrupted him by asking—he had

evidently remembered my jest:

 

“Miss MacSkelpie?” Rupert got still redder, and I turned away; I

didn’t quite wish that he should see me laughing. He went on

quietly:

 

“MACKELPIE, sir! Miss Janet MacKelpie, my aunt, who has always been

so kind to me, and whom my mother loved—I want to have made over to

her the money which my dear mother left to me.” Father doubtless

wished to have the matter take a less serious turn, for Rupert’s eyes

were all shiny with tears which had not fallen; so after a little

pause he said, with indignation, which I knew was simulated:

 

“Have you forgotten your mother so soon, Rupert, that you wish to

give away the very last gift which she bestowed on you?” Rupert was

sitting, but he jumped up and stood opposite my father with his fist

clenched. He was quite pale now, and his eyes looked so fierce that

I thought he would do my father an injury. He spoke in a voice which

did not seem like his own, it was so strong and deep.

 

“Sir!” he roared out. I suppose, if I was a writer, which, thank

God, I am not—I have no need to follow a menial occupation—I would

call it “thundered.” “Thundered” is a longer word than “roared,” and

would, of course, help to gain the penny which a writer gets for a

line. Father got pale too, and stood quite still. Rupert looked at

him steadily for quite half a minute—it seemed longer at the time—

and suddenly smiled and said, as he sat down again:

 

“Sorry. But, of course, you don’t understand such things.” Then he

went on talking before father had time to say a word.

 

“Let us get back to business. As you do not seem to follow me, let

me explain that it is BECAUSE I do not forget that I wish to do this.

I remember my dear mother’s wish to make Aunt Janet happy, and would

like to do as she did.”

 

“AUNT Janet?” said father, very properly sneering at his ignorance.

“She is not your aunt. Why, even her sister, who was married to your

uncle, was only your aunt by courtesy.” I could not help feeling

that Rupert meant to be rude to my father, though his words were

quite polite. If I had been as much bigger than him as he was than

me, I should have flown at him; but he was a very big boy for his

age. I am myself rather thin. Mother says thinness is an “appanage

of birth.”

 

“My Aunt Janet, sir, is an aunt by love. Courtesy is a small word to

use in connection with such devotion as she has given to us. But I

needn’t trouble you with such things, sir. I take it that my

relations on the side of my own house do not affect you. I am a Sent

Leger!” Father looked quite taken aback. He sat quite still before

he spoke.

 

“Well, Mr. St. Leger, I shall think over the matter for a while, and

shall presently let you know my decision. In the meantime, would you

like something to eat? I take it that as you must have started very

early, you have not had any breakfast?” Rupert smiled quite

genially:

 

“That is true, sir. I haven’t broken bread since dinner last night,

and I am ravenously hungry.” Father rang the bell, and told the

footman who answered it to send the housekeeper. When she came,

father said to her:

 

“Mrs. Martindale, take this boy to your room and give him some

breakfast.” Rupert stood very still for some seconds. His face had

got red again after his paleness. Then he bowed to my father, and

followed Mrs. Martindale, who had moved to the door.

 

Nearly an hour afterwards my father sent a servant to tell him to

come to the study. My mother was there, too, and I had gone back

with her. The man came back and said:

 

“Mrs. Martindale, sir, wishes to know, with her respectful service,

if she may have a word with you.” Before father could reply mother

told him to bring her. The housekeeper could not have been far off—

that kind are generally near a keyhole—for she came at once. When

she came in, she stood at the door curtseying and looking pale.

Father said:

 

“Well?”

 

“I thought, sir and ma’am, that I had better come and tell you about

Master Sent Leger. I would have come at once, but I feared to

disturb you.”

 

“Well?” Father had a stern way with servants. When I’m head of the

family I’ll tread them under my feet. That’s the way to get real

devotion from servants!

 

“If you please, sir, I took the young gentleman into my room and

ordered a nice breakfast for him, for I could see he was half

famished—a growing boy like him, and so tall! Presently it came

along. It was a good breakfast, too! The very smell of it made even

me hungry. There were eggs and frizzled ham, and grilled kidneys,

and coffee, and buttered toast, and bloater-paste—”

 

“That will do as to the menu,” said mother. “Go on!”

 

“When it was all ready, and the maid had gone, I put a chair to the

table and said, ‘Now, sir, your breakfast is ready!’ He stood up and

said, ‘Thank you, madam; you are very kind!’ and he bowed to me quite

nicely, just as if I was a lady, ma’am!”

 

“Go on,” said mother.

 

“Then, sir, he held out his hand and said, ‘Good-bye, and thank you,’

and he took up his cap.

 

“‘But aren’t you going to have any breakfast, sir?’ I says.

 

“‘No, thank you, madam,’ he said; ‘I couldn’t eat here … in this

house, I mean!’ Well, ma’am, he looked so lonely that I felt my

heart melting, and I ventured to ask him if there was any mortal

thing I could do for him. ‘Do tell me, dear,’ I ventured to say. ‘I

am an old woman, and you, sir, are only a boy, though it’s a fine man

you will be—like your dear, splendid father, which I remember so

well, and gentle like your poor dear mother.’

 

“‘You’re a dear!’ he says; and with that I took up his hand and

kissed it, for I remember his poor dear mother so well, that was dead

only a year. Well, with that he turned his head away, and when I

took him by the shoulders and turned him