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

>took his valet with him (on the box-seat), and I followed in a

Stadtwagen with the luggage. When I arrived, I found the maitre

d’hotel in a stupor of concern. The English nobleman, he said, had

found fault with everything, and used to him language to which he was

not accustomed. I quieted him, telling him that the stranger was

probably unused to foreign ways, and assuring him that Your Honour

had every faith in him. He announced himself satisfied and happy at

the assurance. But I noticed that he promptly put everything in the

hands of the headwaiter, telling him to satisfy the milor at any

cost, and then went away to some urgent business in Vienna. Clever

man!

 

I took Mr. Melton’s orders for our journey in the morning, and asked

if there was anything for which he wished. He simply said to me:

 

“Everything is rotten. Go to hell, and shut the door after you!”

His man, who seems a very decent little fellow, though he is as vain

as a peacock, and speaks with a Cockney accent which is simply

terrible, came down the passage after me, and explained “on his own,”

as he expressed it, that his master, “Mr. Ernest,” was upset by the

long journey, and that I was not to mind. I did not wish to make him

uncomfortable, so I explained that I minded nothing except what Your

Honour wished; that the steam-yacht would be ready at 7 a.m.; and

that I should be waiting in the hotel from that time on till Mr.

Melton cared to start, to bring him aboard.

 

In the morning I waited till the man Jenkinson came and told me that

Mr. Ernest would start at ten. I asked if he would breakfast on

board; he answered that he would take his cafe-complet at the hotel,

but breakfast on board.

 

We left at ten, and took the electric pinnace out to the Trent, which

lay, with steam up, in the roads. Breakfast was served on board, by

his orders, and presently he came up on the bridge, where I was in

command. He brought his man Jenkinson with him. Seeing me there,

and not (I suppose) understanding that I was in command, he

unceremoniously ordered me to go on the deck. Indeed, he named a

place much lower. I made a sign of silence to the quartermaster at

the wheel, who had released the spokes, and was going, I feared, to

make some impertinent remark. Jenkinson joined me presently, and

said, as some sort of explanation of his master’s discourtesy (of

which he was manifestly ashamed), if not as an amende:

 

“The governor is in a hell of a wax this morning.”

 

When we got in sight of Meleda, Mr. Melton sent for me and asked me

where we were to land. I told him that, unless he wished to the

contrary, we were to run to Vissarion; but that my instructions were

to land at whatever port he wished. Whereupon he told me that he

wished to stay the night at some place where he might be able to see

some “life.” He was pleased to add something, which I presume he

thought jocular, about my being able to “coach” him in such matters,

as doubtless even “an old has-been like you” had still some sort of

an eye for a pretty girl. I told him as respectfully as I could that

I had no knowledge whatever on such subjects, which were possibly of

some interest to younger men, but of none to me. He said no more; so

after waiting for further orders, but without receiving any, I said:

 

“I suppose, sir, we shall run to Vissarion?”

 

“Run to the devil, if you like!” was his reply, as he turned away.

When we arrived in the creek at Vissarion, he seemed much milder—

less aggressive in his manner; but when he heard that you were

detained at Plazac, he got rather “fresh”—I use the American term—

again. I greatly feared there would be a serious misfortune before

we got into the Castle, for on the dock was Julia, the wife of

Michael, the Master of the Wine, who is, as you know, very beautiful.

Mr. Melton seemed much taken with her; and she, being flattered by

the attention of a strange gentleman and Your Honour’s kinsman, put

aside the stand-offishness of most of the Blue Mountain women.

Whereupon Mr. Melton, forgetting himself, took her in his arms and

kissed her. Instantly there was a hubbub. The mountaineers present

drew their handjars, and almost on the instant sudden death appeared

to be amongst us. Happily the men waited as Michael, who had just

arrived on the quay-wall as the outrage took place, ran forward,

wheeling his handjar round his head, and manifestly intending to

decapitate Mr. Melton. On the instant—I am sorry to say it, for it

created a terribly bad effect—Mr. Melton dropped on his knees in a

state of panic. There was just this good use in it—that there was a

pause of a few seconds. During that time the little Cockney valet,

who has the heart of a man in him, literally burst his way forward,

and stood in front of his master in boxing attitude, calling out:

 

“‘Ere, come on, the ‘ole lot of ye! ‘E ain’t done no ‘arm. He honly

kissed the gal, as any man would. If ye want to cut off somebody’s

‘ed, cut off mine. I ain’t afride!” There was such genuine pluck in

this, and it formed so fine a contrast to the other’s craven attitude

(forgive me, Your Honour; but you want the truth!), that I was glad

he was an Englishman, too. The mountaineers recognized his spirit,

and saluted with their handjars, even Michael amongst the number.

Half turning his head, the little man said in a fierce whisper:

 

“Buck up, guv’nor! Get up, or they’ll slice ye! ‘Ere’s Mr. Rooke;

‘e’ll see ye through it.”

 

By this time the men were amenable to reason, and when I reminded

them that Mr. Melton was Your Honour’s cousin, they put aside their

handjars and went about their work. I asked Mr. Melton to follow,

and led the way to the Castle.

 

When we got close to the great entrance within the walled courtyard,

we found a large number of the servants gathered, and with them many

of the mountaineers, who have kept an organized guard all round the

Castle ever since the abducting of the Voivodin. As both Your Honour

and the Voivode were away at Plazac, the guard had for the time been

doubled. When the steward came and stood in the doorway, the

servants stood off somewhat, and the mountaineers drew back to the

farther sides and angles of the courtyard. The Voivodin had, of

course, been informed of the guest’s (your cousin) coming, and came

to meet him in the old custom of the Blue Mountains. As Your Honour

only came to the Blue Mountains recently, and as no occasion has been

since then of illustrating the custom since the Voivode was away, and

the Voivodin then believed to be dead, perhaps I, who have lived here

so long, may explain:

 

When to an old Blue Mountain house a guest comes whom it is wished to

do honour, the Lady, as in the vernacular the mistress of the house

is called, comes herself to meet the guest at the door—or, rather,

OUTSIDE the door—so that she can herself conduct him within. It is

a pretty ceremony, and it is said that of old in kingly days the

monarch always set much store by it. The custom is that, when she

approaches the honoured guest (he need not be royal), she bends—or

more properly kneels—before him and kisses his hand. It has been

explained by historians that the symbolism is that the woman, showing

obedience to her husband, as the married woman of the Blue Mountains

always does, emphasizes that obedience to her husband’s guest. The

custom is always observed in its largest formality when a young wife

receives for the first time a guest, and especially one whom her

husband wishes to honour. The Voivodin was, of course, aware that

Mr. Melton was your kinsman, and naturally wished to make the

ceremony of honour as marked as possible, so as to show overtly her

sense of her husband’s worth.

 

When we came into the courtyard, I held back, of course, for the

honour is entirely individual, and is never extended to any other, no

matter how worthy he may be. Naturally Mr. Melton did not know the

etiquette of the situation, and so for that is not to be blamed. He

took his valet with him when, seeing someone coming to the door, he

went forward. I thought he was going to rush to his welcomer. Such,

though not in the ritual, would have been natural in a young kinsman

wishing to do honour to the bride of his host, and would to anyone

have been both understandable and forgivable. It did not occur to me

at the time, but I have since thought that perhaps he had not then

heard of Your Honour’s marriage, which I trust you will, in justice

to the young gentleman, bear in mind when considering the matter.

Unhappily, however, he did not show any such eagerness. On the

contrary, he seemed to make a point of showing indifference. It

seemed to me myself that he, seeing somebody wishing to make much of

him, took what he considered a safe opportunity of restoring to

himself his own good opinion, which must have been considerably

lowered in the episode of the Wine Master’s wife.

 

The Voivodin, thinking, doubtless, Your Honour, to add a fresh lustre

to her welcome, had donned the costume which all her nation has now

come to love and to accept as a dress of ceremonial honour. She wore

her shroud. It moved the hearts of all of us who looked on to see

it, and we appreciated its being worn for such a cause. But Mr.

Melton did not seem to care. As he had been approaching she had

begun to kneel, and was already on her knees whilst he was several

yards away. There he stopped and turned to speak to his valet, put a

glass in his eye, and looked all round him and up and down—indeed,

everywhere except at the Great Lady, who was on her knees before him,

waiting to bid him welcome. I could see in the eyes of such of the

mountaineers as were within my range of vision a growing animosity;

so, hoping to keep down any such expression, which I knew would cause

harm to Your Honour and the Voivodin, I looked all round them

straight in their faces with a fixed frown, which, indeed, they

seemed to understand, for they regained, and for the time maintained,

their usual dignified calm. The Voivodin, may I say, bore the trial

wonderfully. No human being could see that she was in any degree

pained or even surprised. Mr. Melton stood looking round him so long

that I had full time to regain my own attitude of calm. At last he

seemed to come back to the knowledge that someone was waiting for

him, and sauntered leisurely forward. There was so much insolence—

mind you, not insolence that was intended to appear as such—in his

movement that the mountaineers began to steal forward. When he was

close up to the Voivodin, and she put out her hand to take his, he

put forward ONE FINGER! I could hear the intake of the breath of the

men, now close around, for I had moved forward, too. I thought it

would be as well to be close to your guest, lest something should

happen to him.