The Lady of the Shroud by Bram Stoker (book series for 10 year olds .txt) 📕
"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 devoti
Read free book «The Lady of the Shroud by Bram Stoker (book series for 10 year olds .txt) 📕» - read online or download for free at americanlibrarybooks.com
- Author: Bram Stoker
- Performer: -
Read book online «The Lady of the Shroud by Bram Stoker (book series for 10 year olds .txt) 📕». Author - Bram Stoker
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.
Comments (0)