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THE LADY OF THE SHROUD
By
Bram Stoker
to
my dear old friend
THE COMTESSE DE GUERBEL
(geneviève ward)
FROM “THE JOURNAL OF OCCULTISM”
MID-JANUARY, 1907.
A strange story comes from the Adriatic. It appears that on the
night of the 9th, as the Italia Steamship Company’s vessel
“Victorine” was passing a little before midnight the point
known as “the Spear of Ivan,” on the coast of the Blue
Mountains, the attention of the Captain, then on the bridge, was called by
the look-out man to a tiny floating light close inshore. It is the
custom of some South-going ships to run close to the Spear of Ivan in fine
weather, as the water is deep, and there is no settled current; also there
are no outlying rocks. Indeed, some years ago the local steamers had
become accustomed to hug the shore here so closely that an intimation was
sent from Lloyd’s that any mischance under the circumstances would
not be included in ordinary sea risks. Captain Mirolani is one of
those who insist on a wholesome distance from the promontory being kept;
but on his attention having been called to the circumstance reported, he
thought it well to investigate it, as it might be some case of personal
distress. Accordingly, he had the engines slowed down, and edged
cautiously in towards shore. He was joined on the bridge by two of
his officers, Signori Falamano and Destilia, and by one passenger on board,
Mr. Peter Caulfield, whose reports of Spiritual Phenomena in remote places
are well known to the readers of “The Journal of
Occultism.” The following account of the strange occurrence
written by him, and attested by the signatures of Captain Mirolani and the
other gentleman named, has been sent to us.
“ . . . It was eleven minutes before twelve midnight on Saturday,
the 9th day of January, 1907, when I saw the strange sight off the headland
known as the Spear of Ivan on the coast of the Land of the Blue
Mountains. It was a fine night, and I stood right on the bows of the
ship, where there was nothing to obstruct my view. We were some
distance from the Spear of Ivan, passing from northern to southern point of
the wide bay into which it projects. Captain Mirolani, the Master, is
a very careful seaman, and gives on his journeys a wide berth to the bay
which is tabooed by Lloyd’s. But when he saw in the moonlight,
though far off, a tiny white figure of a woman drifting on some strange
current in a small boat, on the prow of which rested a faint light (to me
it looked like a corpse-candle!), he thought it might be some person in
distress, and began to cautiously edge towards it. Two of his
officers were with him on the bridge—Signori Falamano and
Destilia. All these three, as well as myself, saw It. The rest
of the crew and passengers were below. As we got close the true
inwardness of It became apparent to me; but the mariners did not seem to
realize till the very last. This is, after all, not strange, for none
of them had either knowledge or experience in Occult matters, whereas for
over thirty years I have made a special study of this subject, and have
gone to and fro over the earth investigating to the nth all records of
Spiritual Phenomena. As I could see from their movements that the
officers did not comprehend that which was so apparent to myself, I took
care not to enlighten them, lest such should result in the changing of the
vessel’s course before I should be near enough to make accurate
observation. All turned out as I wished—at least, nearly
so—as shall be seen. Being in the bow, I had, of course, a
better view than from the bridge. Presently I made out that the
boat, which had all along seemed to be of a queer shape, was none other
than a Coffin, and that the woman standing up in it was clothed in a
shroud. Her back was towards us, and she had evidently not heard our
approach. As we were creeping along slowly, the engines were almost
noiseless, and there was hardly a ripple as our fore-foot cut the dark
water. Suddenly there was a wild cry from the bridge—Italians
are certainly very excitable; hoarse commands were given to the
Quartermaster at the wheel; the engine-room bell clanged. On the
instant, as it seemed, the ship’s head began to swing round to
starboard; full steam ahead was in action, and before one could understand,
the Apparition was fading in the distance. The last thing I saw was
the flash of a white face with dark, burning eyes as the figure sank down
into the coffin—just as mist or smoke disappears under a
breeze.”
BOOK I: THE WILL OF ROGER MELTON
The Reading of the Will of Roger Melton and all that Followed
Record made by Ernest Roger Halbard Melton,
law-student of the Inner Temple, eldest son of Ernest Halbard Melton,
eldest son of Ernest Melton, elder brother of the said Roger Melton and his
next of kin.
I consider it at least useful—perhaps necessary—to have a
complete and accurate record of all pertaining to the Will of my late
grand-uncle Roger Melton.
To which end let me put down the various members of his family, and
explain some of their occupations and idiosyncrasies. My father,
Ernest Halbard Melton, was the only son of Ernest Melton, eldest son of Sir
Geoffrey Halbard Melton of Humcroft, in the shire of Salop, a Justice of
the Peace, and at one time Sheriff. My great-grandfather, Sir
Geoffrey, had inherited a small estate from his father, Roger Melton.
In his time, by the way, the name was spelled Milton; but my
great-great-grandfather changed the spelling to the later form, as he was a
practical man not given to sentiment, and feared lest he should in the
public eye be confused with others belonging to the family of a Radical
person called Milton, who wrote poetry and was some sort of official in the
time of Cromwell, whilst we are Conservatives. The same practical
spirit which originated the change in the spelling of the family name
inclined him to go into business. So he became, whilst still young, a
tanner and leather-dresser. He utilized for the purpose the ponds and
streams, and also the oak-woods on his estate—Torraby in
Suffolk. He made a fine business, and accumulated a considerable
fortune, with a part of which he purchased the Shropshire estate, which he
entailed, and to which I am therefore heir-apparent.
Sir Geoffrey had, in addition to my grandfather, three sons and a
daughter, the latter being born twenty years after her youngest
brother. These sons were: Geoffrey, who died without issue, having
been killed in the Indian Mutiny at Meerut in 1857, at which he took up a
sword, though a civilian, to fight for his life; Roger (to whom I shall
refer presently); and John—the latter, like Geoffrey, dying
unmarried. Out of Sir Geoffrey’s family of five, therefore,
only three have to be considered: My grandfather, who had three children,
two of whom, a son and a daughter, died young, leaving only my father,
Roger and Patience. Patience, who was born in 1858, married an
Irishman of the name of Sellenger—which was the usual way of
pronouncing the name of St. Leger, or, as they spelled it, Sent
Leger—restored by later generations to the still older form. He
was a reckless, dare-devil sort of fellow, then a Captain in the Lancers, a
man not without the quality of bravery—he won the Victoria Cross at
the Battle of Amoaful in the Ashantee Campaign. But I fear he lacked
the seriousness and steadfast strenuous purpose which my father always says
marks the character of our own family. He ran through nearly all of
his patrimony—never a very large one; and had it not been for my
grand-aunt’s little fortune, his days, had he lived, must have ended
in comparative poverty. Comparative, not actual; for the Meltons, who
are persons of considerable pride, would not have tolerated a
poverty-stricken branch of the family. We don’t think much of
that lot—any of us.
Fortunately, my great-aunt Patience had only one child, and the
premature decease of Captain St. Leger (as I prefer to call the name) did
not allow of the possibility of her having more. She did not marry
again, though my grandmother tried several times to arrange an alliance for
her. She was, I am told, always a stiff, uppish person, who would not
yield herself to the wisdom of her superiors. Her own child was a
son, who seemed to take his character rather from his father’s family
than from my own. He was a wastrel and a rolling stone, always in
scrapes at school, and always wanting to do ridiculous things. My
father, as Head of the House and his own senior by eighteen years, tried
often to admonish him; but his perversity of spirit and his truculence were
such that he had to desist. Indeed, I have heard my father say that
he sometimes threatened his life. A desperate character he was, and
almost devoid of reverence. No one, not even my father, had any
influence—good influence, of course, I mean—over him, except
his mother, who was of my family; and also a woman who lived with
her—a sort of governess—aunt, he called her. The way of
it was this: Captain St. Leger had a younger brother, who made an
improvident marriage with a Scotch girl when they were both very
young. They had nothing to live on except what the reckless Lancer
gave them, for he had next to nothing himself, and she was
“bare”—which is, I understand, the indelicate Scottish
way of expressing lack of fortune. She was, however, I understand, of
an old and somewhat good family, though broken in fortune—to use an
expression which, however, could hardly be used precisely in regard to a
family or a person who never had fortune to be broken in! It was so
far well that the MacKelpies—that was the maiden name of Mrs. St.
Leger—were reputable—so far as fighting was concerned. It
would have been too humiliating to have allied to our family, even on the
distaff side, a family both poor and of no account. Fighting alone
does not make a family, I think. Soldiers are not everything, though
they think they are. We have had in our family men who fought; but I
never heard of any of them who fought because they wanted to.
Mrs. St. Leger had a sister; fortunately there were only those two children
in the family, or else they would all have had to be supported by the money
of my family.
Mr. St. Leger, who was only a subaltern, was killed at Maiwand; and his
wife was left a beggar. Fortunately, however, she died—her
sister spread a story that it was from the shock and grief—before the
child which she expected was born. This all happened when my
cousin—or, rather, my father’s cousin, my
first-cousin-once-removed, to be accurate—was still a very small
child. His mother then sent for Miss MacKelpie, her
brother-in-law’s sister-in-law, to come and live with her, which she
did—beggars can’t be choosers; and she helped to bring up young
St. Leger.
I remember once my father giving me a sovereign for making a witty
remark 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 round—he is only
a young boy, ma’am, for all he is so big—I saw that the tears
were rolling down his cheeks. With that I laid his head on my
breast—I’ve had children of my own, ma’am, as you know,
though they’re all gone. He came willing enough, and sobbed for
a little bit. Then he straightened himself up, and I stood
respectfully beside him.
“‘Tell Mr. Melton,’ he said, ‘that I shall not
trouble him about the trustee business.’
“‘But won’t you tell him yourself, sir, when you see
him?’ I says.
“‘I shall not see him again,’ he says; ‘I am
going back now!’
“Well, ma’am, I knew he’d had no breakfast, though he
was hungry, and that he would walk as he come, so I ventured to say:
‘If you won’t take it a liberty, sir, may I do anything to make
your going easier? Have you sufficient money, sir? If not, may
I give, or lend, you some? I shall be very proud if you will allow me
to.’
“‘Yes,’ he says quite hearty. ‘If you
will, you might lend me a shilling, as I have no money. I shall not
forget it.’ He said, as he took the coin: ‘I shall return
the amount, though I never can the kindness. I shall keep the
coin.’ He took the shilling, sir—he wouldn’t take
any more—and then he said good-bye. At the door he turned and
walked back to me, and put his arms round me like a real boy does, and gave
me a hug, and says he:
“‘Thank you a thousand times, Mrs. Martindale, for your
goodness to me, for your sympathy, and for the way you have spoken of my
father and mother. You have seen me cry, Mrs. Martindale,’ he
said; ‘I don’t often cry: the last time was when I came back to
the lonely house after my poor dear was laid to rest. But you nor any
other shall ever see a tear of mine again.’ And with that he
straightened out his big back and held up his fine proud head, and walked
out. I saw him from the window striding down the avenue. My!
but he is a proud boy, sir—an honour to your family, sir, say I
respectfully. And there, the proud child has gone away hungry, and he
won’t, I know, ever use that shilling to buy food!”
Father was not going to have that, you know, so he said to her:
“He does not belong to my family, I would have you to know.
True, he is allied to us through the female side; but we do not count him
or his in my family.” He turned away and began to read a
book. It was a decided snub to her.
But mother had a word to say before Mrs. Martindale was done with.
Mother has a pride of her own, and doesn’t brook insolence from
inferiors; and the housekeeper’s conduct seemed to be rather
presuming. Mother, of course, isn’t quite our class, though her
folk are quite worthy and enormously rich. She is one of the
Dalmallingtons, the salt people, one of whom got a peerage when the
Conservatives went out. She said to the housekeeper:
“I think, Mrs. Martindale, that I shall not require your services
after this day month! And as I don’t keep servants in my
employment when I dismiss them, here is your month’s wages due on the
25th of this month, and another month in lieu of notice. Sign this
receipt.” She was writing a receipt as she spoke. The
other signed it without a word, and handed it to her. She seemed
quite flabbergasted. Mother got up and sailed—that is the way
that mother moves when she is in a wax—out of the room.
Lest I should forget it, let me say here that the dismissed housekeeper
was engaged the very next day by the Countess of Salop. I may say in
explanation that the Earl of Salop, K.G., who is Lord-Lieutenant of the
County, is jealous of father’s position and his growing
influence. Father is going to contest the next election on the
Conservative side, and is sure to be made a Baronet before long.
Letter from Major-General Sir Colin Alexander MacKelpie,
V.C., K.C.B., of Croom, Ross, N.B.,
to Rupert Sent Leger, Esq., 14, Newland Park,
Dulwich, London, S.E.
July 4, 1892.
My Dear Godson,
I am truly sorry I am unable to agree with your request that I should
acquiesce in your desire to transfer to Miss Janet MacKelpie the property
bequeathed to you by your mother, of which property I am a trustee.
Let me say at once that, had it been possible to me to do so, I should have
held it a privilege to further such a wish—not because the
beneficiare whom you would create is a near kinswoman of my own.
That, in truth, is my real difficulty. I have undertaken a trust made
by an honourable lady on behalf of her only son—son of a man of
stainless honour, and a dear friend of my own, and whose son has a rich
heritage of honour from both parents, and who will, I am sure, like to look
back on his whole life as worthy of his parents, and of those whom his
parents trusted. You will see, I am sure, that whatsoever I might
grant regarding anyone else, my hands are tied in this matter.
And now let me say, my dear boy, that your letter has given me the most
intense pleasure. It is an unspeakable delight to me to find in the
son of your father—a man whom I loved, and a boy whom I
love—the same generosity of spirit which endeared your father to all
his comrades, old as well as young. Come what may, I shall always be
proud of you; and if the sword of an old soldier—it is all I
have—can ever serve you in any way, it and its master’s life
are, and shall be, whilst life remains to him, yours.
It grieves me to think that Janet cannot, through my act, be given that
ease and tranquillity of spirit which come from competence. But, my
dear Rupert, you will be of full age in seven years more. Then, if
you are in the same mind—and I am sure you will not change—you,
being your own master, can do freely as you will. In the meantime, to
secure, so far as I can, my dear Janet against any malign stroke of
fortune, I have given orders to my factor to remit semi-annually to Janet
one full half of such income as may be derived in any form from my estate
of Croom. It is, I am sorry to say, heavily mortgaged; but of such as
is—or may be, free from such charge as the mortgage
entails—something at least will, I trust, remain to her. And,
my dear boy, I can frankly say that it is to me a real pleasure that you
and I can be linked in one more bond in this association of purpose.
I have always held you in my heart as though you were my own son. Let
me tell you now that you have acted as I should have liked a son of my own,
had I been blessed with one, to have acted. God bless you, my
dear.
Yours ever,
Colin Alex. Mackelpie.
Letter from Roger Melton, of Openshaw Grange, to Rupert
Sent Leger, Esq., 14, Newland Park, Dulwich,
London, S.E.
July 1, 1892.
My dear Nephew,
Your letter of the 30th ult. received. Have carefully considered
matter stated, and have come to the conclusion that my duty as a trustee
would not allow me to give full consent, as you wish. Let me
explain. The testator, in making her will, intended that such fortune
as she had at disposal should be used to supply to you her son such
benefits as its annual product should procure. To this end, and to
provide against wastefulness or foolishness on your part, or, indeed,
against any generosity, howsoever worthy, which might impoverish you and so
defeat her benevolent intentions regarding your education, comfort, and
future good, she did not place the estate directly in your hands, leaving
you to do as you might feel inclined about it. But, on the contrary,
she entrusted the corpus of it in the hands of men whom she believed should
be resolute enough and strong enough to carry out her intent, even against
any cajolements or pressure which might be employed to the contrary.
It being her intention, then, that such trustees as she appointed would use
for your benefit the interest accruing annually from the capital at
command, and that only (as specifically directed in the will), so
that on your arriving at full age the capital entrusted to us should be
handed over to you intact, I find a hard-and-fast duty in the matter of
adhering exactly to the directions given. I have no doubt that my
co-trustees regard the matter in exactly the same light. Under the
circumstances, therefore, we, the trustees, have not only a single and
united duty towards you as the object of the testator’s wishes, but
towards each other as regards the manner of the carrying out of that
duty. I take it, therefore, that it would not be consonant with the
spirit of the trust or of our own ideas in accepting it that any of us
should take a course pleasant to himself which would or might involve a
stern opposition on the part of other of the co-trustees. We have
each of us to do the unpleasant part of this duty without fear or
favour. You understand, of course, that the time which must elapse
before you come into absolute possession of your estate is a limited
one. As by the terms of the will we are to hand over our trust when
you have reached the age of twenty-one, there are only seven years to
expire. But till then, though I should gladly meet your wishes if I
could, I must adhere to the duty which I have undertaken. At the
expiration of that period you will be quite free to divest yourself of your
estate without protest or comment of any man.
Having now expressed as clearly as I can the limitations by which I am
bound with regard to the corpus of your estate, let me say that in any
other way which is in my power or discretion I shall be most happy to see
your wishes carried out so far as rests with me. Indeed, I shall
undertake to use what influence I may possess with my co-trustees to induce
them to take a similar view of your wishes. In my own thinking you
are quite free to use your own property in your own way. But as,
until you shall have attained your majority, you have only life-user in
your mother’s bequest, you are only at liberty to deal with the
annual increment. On our part as trustees we have a first charge on
that increment to be used for purposes of your maintenance, clothes, and
education. As to what may remain over each half-year, you will be
free to deal with it as you choose. On receiving from you a written
authorization to your trustees, if you desire the whole sum or any part of
it to be paid over to Miss Janet MacKelpie, I shall see that it is
effected. Believe me, that our duty is to protect the corpus of the
estate, and to this end we may not act on any instruction to imperil
it. But there our warranty stops. We can deal during our
trusteeship with the corpus only. Further, lest there should arise
any error on your part, we can deal with any general instruction for only
so long as it may remain unrevoked. You are, and must be, free to
alter your instructions or authorizations at any time. Thus your
latest document must be used for our guidance.
As to the general principle involved in your wish I make no
comment. You are at liberty to deal with your own how you will.
I quite understand that your impulse is a generous one, and I fully believe
that it is in consonance with what had always been the wishes of my
sister. Had she been happily alive and had to give judgment of your
intent, I am convinced that she would have approved. Therefore, my
dear nephew, should you so wish, I shall be happy for her sake as well as
your own to pay over on your account (as a confidential matter between you
and me), but from my own pocket, a sum equal to that which you wish
transferred to Miss Janet MacKelpie. On hearing from you I shall know
how to act in the matter. With all good wishes,
Believe me to be,
Your affectionate uncle,
Roger Melton.
To Rupert Sent Leger, Esq.
Letter from Rupert Sent Leger to Roger Melton,
July 5, 1892.
My Dear Uncle,
Thank you heartily for your kind letter. I quite understand, and
now see that I should not have asked you as a trustee, such a thing.
I see your duty clearly, and agree with your view of it. I enclose a
letter directed to my trustees, asking them to pay over annually till
further direction to Miss Janet MacKelpie at this address whatever sum may
remain over from the interest of my mother’s bequest after deduction
of such expenses as you may deem fit for my maintenance, clothing, and
education, together with a sum of one pound sterling per month, which was
the amount my dear mother always gave me for my personal
use—“pocket-money,” she called it.
With regard to your most kind and generous offer to give to my dear Aunt
Janet the sum which I would have given myself, had such been in my power, I
thank you most truly and sincerely, both for my dear aunt (to whom, of
course, I shall not mention the matter unless you specially authorize me)
and myself. But, indeed, I think it will be better not to offer
it. Aunt Janet is very proud, and would not accept any benefit.
With me, of course, it is different, for since I was a wee child she has
been like another mother to me, and I love her very much. Since my
mother died—and she, of course, was all-in-all to me—there has
been no other. And in such a love as ours pride has no place.
Thank you again, dear uncle, and God bless you.
Your loving nephew,
Rupert Sent Leger.
ERNEST ROGER HALBARD MELTON’S RECORD—Continued.
And now re the remaining one of Sir Geoffrey’s children,
Roger. He was the third child and third son, the only daughter,
Patience, having been born twenty years after the last of the four
sons. Concerning Roger, I shall put down all I have heard of him from
my father and grandfather. From my grand-aunt I heard nothing, I was
a very small kid when she died; but I remember seeing her, but only
once. A very tall, handsome woman of a little over thirty, with very
dark hair and light-coloured eyes. I think they were either grey or
blue, but I can’t remember which. She looked very proud and
haughty, but I am bound to say that she was very nice to me. I
remember feeling very jealous of Rupert because his mother looked so
distinguished. Rupert was eight years older than me, and I was afraid
he would beat me if I said anything he did not like. So I was silent
except when I forgot to be, and Rupert said very unkindly, and I think very
unfairly, that I was “A sulky little beast.” I
haven’t forgot that, and I don’t mean to. However, it
doesn’t matter much what he said or thought. There he
is—if he is at all—where no one can find him, with no money or
nothing, for what little he had he settled when he came of age, on the
MacSkelpie. He wanted to give it to her when his mother died, but
father, who was a trustee, refused; and Uncle Roger, as I call him, who is
another, thought the trustees had no power to allow Rupert to throw away
his matrimony, as I called it, making a joke to father when he called it
patrimony. Old Sir Colin MacSkelpie, who is the third, said he
couldn’t take any part in such a permission, as the MacSkelpie was
his niece. He is a rude old man, that. I remember when, not
remembering his relationship, I spoke of the MacSkelpie, he caught me a
clip on the ear that sent me across the room. His Scotch is very
broad. I can hear him say, “Hae some attempt at even Soothern
manners, and dinna misca’ yer betters, ye young puddock, or
I’ll wring yer snoot!” Father was, I could see, very much
offended, but he didn’t say anything. He remembered, I think,
that the General is a V.C. man, and was fond of fighting duels. But
to show that the fault was not his, he wrung my ear—and
the same ear too! I suppose he thought that was justice! But
it’s only right to say that he made up for it afterwards. When
the General had gone he gave me a five-pound note.
I don’t think Uncle Roger was very pleased with the way Rupert
behaved about the legacy, for I don’t think he ever saw him from that
day to this. Perhaps, of course, it was because Rupert ran away
shortly afterwards; but I shall tell about that when I come to him.
After all, why should my uncle bother about him? He is not a Melton
at all, and I am to be Head of the House—of course, when the Lord
thinks right to take father to Himself! Uncle Roger has tons of
money, and he never married, so if he wants to leave it in the right
direction he needn’t have any trouble. He made his money in
what he calls “the Eastern Trade.” This, so far as I can
gather, takes in the Levant and all east of it. I know he has what
they call in trade “houses” in all sorts of
places—Turkey, and Greece, and all round them, Morocco, Egypt, and
Southern Russia, and the Holy Land; then on to Persia, India, and all round
it; the Chersonese, China, Japan, and the Pacific Islands. It is not
to be expected that we landowners can know much about trade, but my uncle
covers—or alas! I must say “covered”—a lot of
ground, I can tell you. Uncle Roger was a very grim sort of man, and
only that I was brought up to try and be kind to him I shouldn’t ever
have dared to speak to him. But when was a child father and
mother—especially mother—forced me to go and see him and be
affectionate to him. He wasn’t ever even civil to me, that I
can remember—grumpy old bear! But, then, he never saw Rupert at
all, so that I take it Master R--- is out of the running altogether for
testamentary honours. The last time I saw him myself he was
distinctly rude. He treated me as a boy, though I was getting on for
eighteen years of age. I came into his office without knocking; and
without looking up from his desk, where he was writing, he said: “Get
out! Why do you venture to disturb me when I’m busy? Get
out, and be damned to you!” I waited where I was, ready to
transfix him with my eye when he should look up, for I cannot forget that
when my father dies I shall be Head of my House. But when he did
there was no transfixing possible. He said quite coolly:
“Oh, it’s you, is it? I thought it was one of my
office boys. Sit down, if you want to see me, and wait till I am
ready.” So I sat down and waited. Father always said that
I should try to conciliate and please my uncle. Father is a very
shrewd man, and Uncle Roger is a very rich one.
But I don’t think Uncle R--- is as shrewd as he thinks he
is. He sometimes makes awful mistakes in business. For
instance, some years ago he bought an enormous estate on the Adriatic, in
the country they call the “Land of Blue Mountains.” At
least, he says he bought it. He told father so in confidence.
But he didn’t show any title-deeds, and I’m greatly afraid he
was “had.” A bad job for me that he was, for father
believes he paid an enormous sum for it, and as I am his natural heir, it
reduces his available estate to so much less.
And now about Rupert. As I have said, he ran away when he was
about fourteen, and we did not hear about him for years. When
we—or, rather, my father—did hear of him, it was no good that
he heard. He had gone as a cabin-boy on a sailing ship round the
Horn. Then he joined an exploring party through the centre of
Patagonia, and then another up in Alaska, and a third to the Aleutian
Islands. After that he went through Central America, and then to
Western Africa, the Pacific Islands, India, and a lot of places. We
all know the wisdom of the adage that “A rolling stone gathers no
moss”; and certainly, if there be any value in moss, Cousin Rupert
will die a poor man. Indeed, nothing will stand his idiotic, boastful
wastefulness. Look at the way in which, when he came of age, he made
over all his mother’s little fortune to the MacSkelpie! I am sure
that, though Uncle Roger made no comment to my father, who, as Head of our
House, should, of course, have been informed, he was not pleased. My
mother, who has a good fortune in her own right, and has had the sense to
keep it in her own control—as I am to inherit it, and it is not in
the entail, I am therefore quite impartial—I can approve of her
spirited conduct in the matter. We never did think much of Rupert,
anyhow; but now, since he is in the way to be a pauper, and therefore a
dangerous nuisance, we look on him as quite an outsider. We know what
he really is. For my own part, I loathe and despise him. Just
now we are irritated with him, for we are all kept on tenterhooks regarding
my dear Uncle Roger’s Will. For Mr. Trent, the attorney who
regulated my dear uncle’s affairs and has possession of the Will,
says it is necessary to know where every possible beneficiary is to be
found before making the Will public, so we all have to wait. It is
especially hard on me, who am the natural heir. It is very
thoughtless indeed of Rupert to keep away like that. I wrote to old
MacSkelpie about it, but he didn’t seem to understand or to be at all
anxious—he is not the heir! He said that probably Rupert Sent
Leger—he, too, keeps to the old spelling—did not know of his
uncle’s death, or he would have taken steps to relieve our
anxiety. Our anxiety, forsooth! We are not anxious; we only
wish to know. And if we—and especially me—who have
all the annoyance of thinking of the detestable and unfair death-duties,
are anxious, we should be so. Well, anyhow, he’ll get a
properly bitter disappointment and set down when he does turn up and
discovers that he is a pauper without hope!
* * * * *
To-day we (father and I) had letters from Mr. Trent, telling us that the
whereabouts of “Mr. Rupert Sent Leger” had been discovered, and
that a letter disclosing the fact of poor Uncle Roger’s death had
been sent to him. He was at Titicaca when last heard of. So
goodness only knows when he may get the letter, which “asks him to
come home at once, but only gives to him such information about the Will as
has already been given to every member of the testator’s
family.” And that is nil. I dare say we shall be kept
waiting for months before we get hold of the estate which is ours. It
is too bad!
Letter from Edward Bingham Trent to Ernest Roger Halbard
Melton.
176, Lincoln’s Inn
Fields,
December 28, 1906.
Dear Sir,
I am glad to be able to inform you that I have just heard by letter from
Mr. Rupert St. Leger that he intended leaving Rio de Janeiro by the S.S.
Amazon, of the Royal Mail Company, on December 15. He further
stated that he would cable just before leaving Rio de Janeiro, to say on
what day the ship was expected to arrive in London. As all the others
possibly interested in the Will of the late Roger Melton, and whose names
are given to me in his instructions regarding the reading of the Will, have
been advised, and have expressed their intention of being present at that
event on being apprised of the time and place, I now beg to inform you that
by cable message received the date scheduled for arrival at the Port of
London was January 1 prox. I therefore beg to notify you, subject to
postponement due to the non-arrival of the Amazon, the reading of
the Will of the late Roger Melton, Esq., will take place in my office on
Thursday, January 3 prox., at eleven o’clock a.m.
I have the honour to be, sir,
Yours faithfully,
Edward Bingham Trent.
To Ernest Roger Halbard
Melton, Esq.,
Humcroft,
Salop.
Cable: Rupert Sent Leger to Edward Bingham Trent.
Amazon arrives London January 1. Sent
Leger.
Telegram (per Lloyd’s): Rupert Sent Leger to
Edward Bingham Trent.
The Lizard,
December 31.
Amazon arrives London to-morrow morning. All
well.—Leger.
Telegram: Edward Bingham Trent to Ernest Roger Halbard
Mellon.
Rupert Sent Leger arrived. Reading Will takes place as
arranged.—Trent.
ERNEST ROGER HALBARD MELTON’S RECORD.
January 4, 1907.
The reading of Uncle Roger’s Will is over. Father got a
duplicate of Mr. Trent’s letter to me, and of the cable and two
telegrams pasted into this Record. We both waited patiently till the
third—that is, we did not say anything. The only impatient
member of our family was my mother. She did say things, and if
old Trent had been here his ears would have been red. She said what
ridiculous nonsense it was delaying the reading of the Will, and keeping
the Heir waiting for the arrival of an obscure person who wasn’t even
a member of the family, inasmuch as he didn’t bear the name. I
don’t think it’s quite respectful to one who is some day to be
Head of the House! I thought father was weakening in his patience
when he said: “True, my dear—true!” and got up and left
the room. Some time afterwards when I passed the library I heard him
walking up and down.
Father and I went up to town on the afternoon of Wednesday, January
2. We stayed, of course, at Claridge’s, where we always stay
when we go to town. Mother wanted to come, too, but father thought it
better not. She would not agree to stay at home till we both promised
to send her separate telegrams after the reading.
At five minutes to eleven we entered Mr. Trent’s office.
Father would not go a moment earlier, as he said it was bad form to seem
eager at any time, but most of all at the reading of a will. It was a
rotten grind, for we had to be walking all over the neighbourhood for half
an hour before it was time, not to be too early.
When we went into the room we found there General Sir Colin MacKelpie
and a big man, very bronzed, whom I took to be Rupert St. Leger—not a
very creditable connection to look at, I thought! He and old
MacKelpie took care to be in time! Rather low, I thought it.
Mr. St. Leger was reading a letter. He had evidently come in but
lately, for though he seemed to be eager about it, he was only at the first
page, and I could see that there were many sheets. He did not look up
when we came in, or till he had finished the letter; and you may be sure
that neither I nor my father (who, as Head of the House, should have had
more respect from him) took the trouble to go to him. After all, he
is a pauper and a wastrel, and he has not the honour of bearing our
Name. The General, however, came forward and greeted us both
cordially. He evidently had forgotten—or pretended to
have—the discourteous way he once treated me, for he spoke to me
quite in a friendly way—I thought more warmly than he did to
father. I was pleased to be spoken to so nicely, for, after all,
whatever his manners may be, he is a distinguished man—has won the
V.C. and a Baronetcy. He got the latter not long ago, after the
Frontier War in India. I was not, however, led away into cordiality
myself. I had not forgotten his rudeness, and I thought that he might
be sucking up to me. I knew that when I had my dear Uncle
Roger’s many millions I should be a rather important person; and, of
course, he knew it too. So I got even with him for his former
impudence. When he held out his hand I put one finger in it, and
said, “How do?” He got very red and turned away.
Father and he had ended by glaring at each other, so neither of us was
sorry to be done with him. All the time Mr. St. Leger did not seem to
see or hear anything, but went on reading his letter. I thought the
old MacSkelpie was going to bring him into the matter between us, for as he
turned away I heard him say something under his breath. It sounded
like “Help!” but Mr. S--- did not hear. He certainly no
notice of it.
As the MacS--- and Mr. S--- sat quite silent, neither looking at us, and
as father was sitting on the other side of the room with his chin in his
hand, and as I wanted to show that I was indifferent to the two S’s,
I took out this notebook, and went on with the Record, bringing it up to
this moment.
THE RECORD—Continued.
When I had finished writing I looked over at Rupert.
When he saw us, he jumped up and went over to father and shook his hand
quite warmly. Father took him very coolly. Rupert, however, did
not seem to see it, but came towards me heartily. I happened to be
doing something else at the moment, and at first I did not see his hand;
but just as I was looking at it the clock struck eleven. Whilst it
was striking Mr. Trent came into the room. Close behind him came his
clerk, carrying a locked tin box. There were two other men
also. He bowed to us all in turn, beginning with me. I was
standing opposite the door; the others were scattered about. Father
sat still, but Sir Colin and Mr. St. Leger rose. Mr. Trent not did
shake hands with any of us—not even me. Nothing but his
respectful bow. That is the etiquette for an attorney, I understand,
on such formal occasions.
He sat down at the end of the big table in the centre of the room, and
asked us to sit round. Father, of course, as Head of the Family, took
the seat at his right hand. Sir Colin and St. Leger went to the other
side, the former taking the seat next to the attorney. The General
knows, of course, that a Baronet takes precedence at a ceremony. I
may be a Baronet some day myself, and have to know these things.
The clerk took the key which his master handed to him, opened the tin
box, and took from it a bundle of papers tied with red tape. This he
placed before the attorney, and put the empty box behind him on the
floor. Then he and the other man sat at the far end of the table; the
latter took out a big notebook and several pencils, and put them before
him. He was evidently a shorthand-writer. Mr. Trent removed
the tape from the bundle of papers, which he placed a little distance in
front of him. He took a sealed envelope from the top, broke the seal,
opened the envelope, and from it took a parchment, in the folds of which
were some sealed envelopes, which he laid in a heap in front of the other
paper. Then he unfolded the parchment, and laid it before him with
the outside page up. He fixed his glasses, and said:
“Gentlemen, the sealed envelope which you have seen me open is
endorsed ‘My Last Will and Testament—Roger
Melton, June, 1906.’ This
document”—holding it up—“is as follows:
“‘I Roger Melton of Openshaw Grange in the County of Dorset;
of number one hundred and twenty-three Berkeley Square London; and of the
Castle of Vissarion in the Land of the Blue Mountains, being of sound mind
do make this my Last Will and Testament on this day Monday the eleventh day
of the month of June in the year of Our Lord one thousand nine hundred and
six at the office of my old friend and Attorney Edward Bingham Trent in
number one hundred and seventy-six Lincoln’s Inn Fields London hereby
revoking all other wills that I may have formerly made and giving this as
my sole and last Will making dispositions of my property as follows:
“‘1. To my kinsman and nephew Ernest Halbard Melton
Esquire, justice of the Peace, Humcroft the County of Salop, for his sole
use and benefit the sum of twenty thousand pounds sterling free of all
Duties Taxes and charges whatever to be paid out of my Five per centum
Bonds of the City of Montreal, Canada.
“‘2. To my respected friend and colleague as
co-trustee to the Will of my late sister Patience late widow of the late
Captain Rupert Sent Leger who predeceased her, Major-General Sir Colin
Alexander MacKelpie, Baronet, holder of the Victoria Cross, Knight
Commander of the Order of the Bath, of Croom in the county of Ross Scotland
a sum of Twenty thousand pounds sterling free of all Taxes and charges
whatsoever; to be paid out of my Five per centum Bonds of the City of
Toronto, Canada.
“‘3. To Miss Janet MacKelpie presently residing at
Croom in the County of Ross Scotland the sum of Twenty thousand pounds
sterling free of all Duties Taxes and Charges whatsoever, to be paid out of
my Five per centum Bonds of the London County Council.
“‘4. To the various persons charities and Trustees
named in the schedule attached to this Will and marked A. the various sums
mentioned therein, all free of Duties and Taxes and charges
whatsoever.’”
Here Mr. Trent read out the list here following, and announced for our
immediate understanding of the situation the total amount as two hundred
and fifty thousand pounds. Many of the beneficiaries were old
friends, comrades, dependents, and servants, some of them being left quite
large sums of money and specific objects, such as curios and pictures.
“‘5. To my kinsman and nephew Ernest Roger Halbard
Melton presently living in the house of his father at Humcroft Salop the
sum of Ten thousand pounds sterling.
“‘6. To my old and valued friend Edward Bingham Trent
of one hundred and seventy-six Lincoln’s Inn Fields sum of Twenty
thousand pounds sterling free from all Duties Taxes and Charges whatsoever
to be paid out of my Five per centum Bonds of the city of Manchester
England.
“‘7. To my dear nephew Rupert Sent Leger only son of
my dear sister Patience Melton by her marriage with Captain Rupert Sent
Leger the sum of one thousand pounds sterling. I also bequeath to the
said Rupert Sent Leger a further sum conditional upon his acceptance of the
terms of a letter addressed to him marked B, and left in the custody of the
above Edward Bingham Trent and which letter is an integral part of this my
Will. In case of the non-acceptance of the conditions of such letter,
I devise and bequeath the whole of the sums and properties reserved therein
to the executors herein appointed Colin Alexander MacKelpie and Edward
Bingham Trent in trust to distribute the same in accordance with the terms
of the letter in the present custody of Edward Bingham Trent marked C, and
now deposited sealed with my seal in the sealed envelope containing my last
Will to be kept in the custody of the said Edward Bingham Trent and which
said letter C is also an integral part of my Will. And in case any
doubt should arise as to my ultimate intention as to the disposal of my
property the above-mentioned Executors are to have full power to arrange
and dispose all such matters as may seem best to them without further
appeal. And if any beneficiary under this Will shall challenge the
same or any part of it, or dispute the validity thereof, he shall forfeit
to the general estate the bequest made herein to him, and any such bequest
shall cease and be void to all intents and purposes whatsoever.
“‘8. For proper compliance with laws and duties
connected with testamentary proceedings and to keep my secret trusts secret
I direct my Executors to pay all Death, Estate, Settlement, Legacy,
Succession, or other duties charges impositions and assessments whatever on
the residue of my estate beyond the bequests already named, at the scale
charged in the case of most distant relatives or strangers in blood.
“‘9. I hereby appoint as my Executors Major-General
Sir Colin Alexander MacKelpie, Baronet, of Croom in the County of Ross, and
Edward Bingham Trent Attorney at Law of one hundred and seventy-six
Lincoln’s Inn Fields London West Central with full power to exercise
their discretion in any circumstance which may arise in the carrying out my
wishes as expressed in this Will. As reward for their services in
this capacity as Executors they are to receive each out of the general
estate a sum of one hundred thousand pounds sterling free of all Duties and
impositions whatsoever.
“12. The two Memoranda contained in the letters marked B and
C are Integral Parts of this my Last Will are ultimately at the Probate of
the Will to be taken as Clauses 10 and 11 of it. The envelopes are
marked B and C on both envelope and contents and the contents of each is
headed thus: B to be read as Clause 10 of my Will and the other C to be
read as Clause 11 of my Will.
“13. Should either of the above-mentioned Executors die
before the completion of the above year and a half from the date of the
Reading of my Will or before the Conditions rehearsed in Letter C the
remaining Executor shall have all and several the Rights and Duties
entrusted by my Will to both. And if both Executors should die then
the matter of interpretation and execution of all matters in connection
with this my Last Will shall rest with the Lord Chancellor of England for
the time being or with whomsoever he may appoint for the purpose.
“‘This my Last Will is given by me on the first day of
January in the year of Our Lord one thousand nine hundred and seven.
“‘Roger
Melton.
“We Andrew Rossiter and John Colson here in the presence of each
other and of the Testator have seen the Testator Roger Melton sign and seal
this document. In witness thereof we hereby set our names
“‘Andrew Rossiter clerk of 9
Primrose Avenue London W.C.
“‘John Colson caretaker of 176
Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Verger of St. Tabitha’s Church
Clerkenwell London.’”
When Mr. Trent had finished the reading he put all the papers together,
and tied them up in a bundle again with the red tape. Holding the
bundle in his hand, he stood up, saying as he did so:
“That is all, gentlemen, unless any of you wish to ask me any
questions; in which case I shall answer, of course, to the best of my
power. I shall ask you, Sir Colin, to remain with me, as we have to
deal with some matters, or to arrange a time when we may meet to do
so. And you also, Mr. Sent Leger, as there is this letter to submit
to you. It is necessary that you should open it in the presence of
the executors, but there is no necessity that anyone else should be
present.”
The first to speak was my father. Of course, as a county gentleman
of position and estate, who is sometimes asked to take the chair at
Sessions—of course, when there is not anyone with a title
present—he found himself under the duty of expressing himself
first. Old MacKelpie has superior rank; but this was a family affair,
in which my father is Head of the House, whilst old MacKelpie is only an
outsider brought into it—and then only to the distaff side, by the
wife of a younger brother of the man who married into our family.
Father spoke with the same look on his face as when he asks important
questions of witnesses at Quarter Sessions.
“I should like some points elucidated.” The attorney
bowed (he gets his 120 thou’, any way, so he can afford to be
oily—suave, I suppose he would call it); so father looked at a slip
of paper in his hand and asked:
“How much is the amount of the whole estate?”
The attorney answered quickly, and I thought rather rudely. He was
red in the face, and didn’t bow this time; I suppose a man of his
class hasn’t more than a very limited stock of manners:
“That, sir, I am not at liberty to tell you. And I may say
that I would not if I could.”
“Is it a million?” said father again. He was angry
this time, and even redder than the old attorney. The attorney said
in answer, very quietly this time:
“Ah, that’s cross-examining. Let me say, sir, that no
one can know that until the accountants to be appointed for the purpose
have examined the affairs of the testator up to date.”
Mr. Rupert St. Leger, who was looking all this time angrier than even
the attorney or my father—though at what he had to be angry about I
can’t imagine—struck his fist on the table and rose up as if to
speak, but as he caught sight of both old MacKelpie and the attorney he sat
down again. Mem.—Those three seem to agree too
well. I must keep a sharp eye on them. I didn’t think of
this part any more at the time, for father asked another question which
interested me much:
“May I ask why the other matters of the Will are not shown to
us?” The attorney wiped his spectacles carefully with a big
silk bandanna handkerchief before he answered:
“Simply because each of the two letters marked ‘B’ and
‘C’ is enclosed with instructions regarding their opening and
the keeping secret of their contents. I shall call your attention to
the fact that both envelopes are sealed, and that the testator and both
witnesses have signed their names across the flap of each envelope. I
shall read them. The letter marked ‘B,’ directed to
‘Rupert Sent Leger,’ is thus endorsed:
“‘This letter is to be given to Rupert Sent Leger by the
Trustees and is to be opened by him in their presence. He is to take
such copy or make such notes as he may wish and is then to hand the letter
with envelope to the Executors who are at once to read it, each of them
being entitled to make copy or notes if desirous of so doing. The
letter is then to be replaced in its envelope and letter and envelope are
to be placed in another envelope to be endorsed on outside as to its
contents and to be signed across the flap by both the Executors and by the
said Rupert Sent Leger.
“‘(Signed) Roger Melton 1/6/’06.
“The letter marked ‘C,’ directed to ‘Edward
Bingham Trent,’ is thus endorsed:
“‘This letter directed to Edward Bingham Trent is to be kept
by him unopened for a term of two years after the reading of my Last Will
unless said period is earlier terminated by either the acceptance or
refusal of Rupert Sent Leger to accept the conditions mentioned in my
letter to him marked ‘B’ which he is to receive and read in the
presence of my Executors at the same meeting as but subsequent to the
Reading of the clauses (except those to be ultimately numbers ten and
eleven) of my Last Will. This letter contains instructions as to what
both the Executors and the said Rupert Sent Leger are to do when such
acceptance or refusal of the said Rupert Sent Leger has been made known, or
if he omit or refuse to make any such acceptance or refusal, at the end of
two years next after my decease.
“‘(Signed) Roger Melton
1/6/’06.’”
When the attorney had finished reading the last letter he put it
carefully in his pocket. Then he took the other letter in his hand,
and stood up. “Mr. Rupert Sent Leger,” he said,
“please to open this letter, and in such a way that all present may
see that the memorandum at top of the contents is given as—
“‘B. To be read as clause ten of my
Will.’”
St. Leger rolled up his sleeves and cuffs just as if he was going to
perform some sort of prestidigitation—it was very theatrical and
ridiculous—then, his wrists being quite bare, he opened the envelope
and took out the letter. We all saw it quite well. It was
folded with the first page outward, and on the top was written a line just
as the attorney said. In obedience to a request from the attorney, he
laid both letter and envelope on the table in front of him. The clerk
then rose up, and, after handing a piece of paper to the attorney, went
back to his seat. Mr. Trent, having written something on the paper,
asked us all who were present, even the clerk and the shorthand man, to
look at the memorandum on the letter and what was written on the envelope,
and to sign the paper, which ran:
“We the signatories of this paper hereby declare that we have seen
the sealed letter marked B and enclosed in the Will of Roger Melton opened
in the presence of us all including Mr. Edward Bingham Trent and Sir Colin
Alexander MacKelpie and we declare that the paper therein contained was
headed ‘B. To be read as clause ten of my Will’ and that
there were no other contents in the envelope. In attestation of which
we in the presence of each other append our signatures.”
The attorney motioned to my father to begin. Father is a cautious
man, and he asked for a magnifying-glass, which was shortly brought to him
by a clerk for whom the clerk in the room called. Father examined the
envelope all over very carefully, and also the memorandum at top of the
paper. Then, without a word, he signed the paper. Father is a
just man. Then we all signed. The attorney folded the paper and
put it in an envelope. Before closing it he passed it round, and we
all saw that it had not been tampered with. Father took it out and
read it, and then put it back. Then the attorney asked us all to sign
it across the flap, which we did. Then he put the sealing-wax on it
and asked father to seal it with his own seal. He did so. Then
he and MacKelpie sealed it also with their own seals, Then he put it in
another envelope, which he sealed himself, and he and MacKelpie signed it
across the flap.
Then father stood up, and so did I. So did the two men—the
clerk and the shorthand writer. Father did not say a word till we got
out into the street. We walked along, and presently we passed an open
gate into the fields. He turned back, saying to me:
“Come in here. There is no one about, and we can be
quiet. I want to speak to you.” When we sat down on a
seat with none other near it, father said:
“You are a student of the law. What does all that
mean?” I thought it a good occasion for an epigram, so I said
one word:
“Bilk!”
“H’m!” said father; “that is so far as you and I
are concerned. You with a beggarly ten thousand, and I with
twenty. But what is, or will be, the effect of those secret
trusts?”
“Oh, that,” I said, “will, I dare say, be all
right. Uncle Roger evidently did not intend the older generation to
benefit too much by his death. But he only gave Rupert St. Leger one
thousand pounds, whilst he gave me ten. That looks as if he had more
regard for the direct line. Of course—” Father
interrupted me:
“But what was the meaning of a further sum?”
“I don’t know, father. There was evidently some
condition which he was to fulfil; but he evidently didn’t expect that
he would. Why, otherwise, did he leave a second trust to Mr.
Trent?”
“True!” said father. Then he went on: “I wonder
why he left those enormous sums to Trent and old MacKelpie. They seem
out of all proportion as executors’ fees, unless—”
“Unless what, father?”
“Unless the fortune he has left is an enormous one. That is
why I asked.”
“And that,” I laughed, “is why he refused to
answer.”
“Why, Ernest, it must run into big figures.”
“Right-ho, father. The death-duties will be annoying.
What a beastly swindle the death-duties are! Why, I shall suffer even
on your own little estate . . . ”
“That will do!” he said curtly. Father is so
ridiculously touchy. One would think he expects to live for
ever. Presently he spoke again:
“I wonder what are the conditions of that trust. They are as
important—almost—as the amount of the bequest—whatever it
is. By the way, there seems to be no mention in the will of a
residuary legatee. Ernest, my boy, we may have to fight over
that.”
“How do you make that out, father?” I asked. He had
been very rude over the matter of the death-duties of his own estate,
though it is entailed and I must inherit. So I determined to
let him see that I know a good deal more than he does—of law, at any
rate. “I fear that when we come to look into it closely that
dog won’t fight. In the first place, that may be all arranged
in the letter to St. Leger, which is a part of the Will. And if that
letter should be inoperative by his refusal of the conditions (whatever
they may be), then the letter to the attorney begins to work. What it
is we don’t know, and perhaps even he doesn’t—I looked at
it as well as I could—and we law men are trained to
observation. But even if the instructions mentioned as being in
Letter C fail, then the corpus of the Will gives full power to Trent to act
just as he darn pleases. He can give the whole thing to himself if he
likes, and no one can say a word. In fact, he is himself the final
court of appeal.”
“H’m!” said father to himself. “It is a
queer kind of will, I take it, that can override the Court of
Chancery. We shall perhaps have to try it before we are done with
this!” With that he rose, and we walked home
together—without saying another word.
My mother was very inquisitive about the whole thing—women always
are. Father and I between us told her all it was necessary for her to
know. I think we were both afraid that, woman-like, she would make
trouble for us by saying or doing something injudicious. Indeed, she
manifested such hostility towards Rupert St. Leger that it is quite on the
cards that she may try to injure him in some way. So when father said
that he would have to go out shortly again, as he wished to consult his
solicitor, I jumped up and said I would go with him, as I, too, should take
advice as to how I stood in the matter.
The Contents of Letter marked “B” attached
as an Integral Part to the Last Will of Roger Melton.
June 11, 1907.
“This letter an integral part of my Last Will regards the entire
residue of my estate beyond the specific bequests made in the body of my
Will. It is to appoint as Residuary Legatee of such Will—in
case he may accept in due form the Conditions herein laid down—my
dear Nephew Rupert Sent Leger only son of my sister Patience Melton now
deceased by her marriage with Captain Rupert Sent Leger also now
deceased. On his acceptance of the Conditions and the fulfilment of
the first of them the Entire residue of my estate after payments of all
specific Legacies and of all my debts and other obligations is to become
his absolute property to be dealt with or disposed of as he may
desire. The following are the conditions.
“1. He is to accept provisionally by letter addressed to my
Executors a sum of nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand pounds sterling
free of all Duties Taxes or other imposts. This he will hold for a
period of six months from the date of the Reading of my Last Will and have
user of the accruements thereto calculated at the rate of ten per centum
per annum which amount he shall under no circumstances be required to
replace. At the end of said six months he must express in writing
directed to the Executors of my Will his acceptance or refusal of the other
conditions herein to follow. But if he may so choose he shall be free
to declare in writing to the Executors within one week from the time of the
Reading of the Will his wish to accept or to withdraw altogether from the
responsibility of this Trust. In case of withdrawal he is to retain
absolutely and for his own use the above-mentioned sum of nine hundred and
ninety-nine thousand pounds sterling free of all Duties Taxes and imposts
whatsoever making with the specific bequest of one thousand pounds a clear
sum of one million pounds sterling free of all imposts. And he will
from the moment of the delivery of such written withdrawal cease to have
any right or interest whatsoever in the further disposition of my estate
under this instrument. Should such written withdrawal be received by
my Executors they shall have possession of such residue of my estate as
shall remain after the payment of the above sum of nine hundred and
ninety-nine thousand pounds sterling and the payment of all Duties Taxes
assessments or Imposts as may be entailed by law by its conveyance to the
said Rupert Sent Leger and these my Executors shall hold the same for the
further disposal of it according to the instructions given in the letter
marked C and which is also an integral part of my Last Will and
Testament.
“2. If at or before the expiration of the six months
above-mentioned the said Rupert Sent Leger shall have accepted the further
conditions herein stated, he is to have user of the entire income produced
by such residue of my estate the said income being paid to him Quarterly on
the usual Quarter Days by the aforesaid Executors to wit Major General Sir
Colin Alexander MacKelpie Bart. and Edward Bingham Trent to be used by him
in accordance with the terms and conditions hereinafter mentioned.
“3. The said Rupert Sent Leger is to reside for a period of
at least six months to begin not later than three months from the reading
of my Will in the Castle of Vissarion in the Land of the Blue
Mountains. And if he fulfil the Conditions imposed on him and shall
thereby become possessed of the residue of my estate he is to continue to
reside there in part for a period of one year. He is not to change
his British Nationality except by a formal consent of the Privy Council of
Great Britain.
“At the end of a year and a half from the Reading of my Will he is
to report in person to my Executors of the expenditure of amounts paid or
due by him in the carrying out of the Trust and if they are satisfied that
same are in general accord with the conditions named in above-mentioned
letter marked C and which is an integral part of my Will they are to record
their approval on such Will which can then go for final Probate and
Taxation. On the Completion of which the said Rupert Sent Leger shall
become possessed absolutely and without further act or need of the entire
residue of my estate. In witness whereof, etc.
“(Signed) Roger
Melton.”
This document is attested by the witnesses to the Will on the same
date.
(Personal and Confidential.)
Memoranda made by Edward Bingham Trent in Connection
with the Will of Roger Melton.
January 3, 1907.
The interests and issues of all concerned in the Will and estate of the
late Roger Melton of Openshaw Grange are so vast that in case any
litigation should take place regarding the same, I, as the solicitor,
having the carriage of the testator’s wishes, think it well to make
certain memoranda of events, conversations, etc., not covered by
documentary evidence. I make the first memorandum immediately after
the event, whilst every detail of act and conversation is still fresh in my
mind. I shall also try to make such comments thereon as may serve to
refresh my memory hereafter, and which in case of my death may perhaps
afford as opinions contemporaneously recorded some guiding light to other
or others who may later on have to continue and complete the tasks
entrusted to me.
I.
Concerning the Reading of the Will of Roger
Melton.
When, beginning at 11 o’clock a.m. on this the forenoon of
Thursday, the 3rd day of January, 1907, I opened the Will and read it in
full, except the clauses contained in the letters marked “B”
and “C”; there were present in addition to myself, the
following:
1. Ernest Halbard Melton, J.P, nephew of the testator.
2. Ernest Roger Halbard Melton, son of the above.
3. Rupert Sent Leger, nephew of the testator.
4. Major-General Sir Colin Alexander MacKelpie, Bart., co-executor
with myself of the Will.
5. Andrew Rossiter, my clerk, one of the witnesses of the
testator’s Will.
6. Alfred Nugent, stenographer (of Messrs. Castle’s office,
21, Bream’s Buildings, W.C.).
When the Will had been read, Mr. E. H. Melton asked the value of the
estate left by the testator, which query I did not feel empowered or
otherwise able to answer; and a further query, as to why those present were
not shown the secret clauses of the Will. I answered by reading the
instructions endorsed on the envelopes of the two letters marked
“B” and “C,” which were sufficiently
explanatory.
But, lest any question should hereafter arise as to the fact that the
memoranda in letters marked “B” and “C,” which were
to be read as clauses 10 and 11 of the Will, I caused Rupert Sent Leger to
open the envelope marked “B” in the presence of all in the
room. These all signed a paper which I had already prepared, to the
effect that they had seen the envelope opened, and that the memorandum
marked “B. To be read as clause ten of my Will,” was
contained in the envelope, of which it was to be the sole contents.
Mr. Ernest Halbard Melton, J.P., before signing, carefully examined with a
magnifying-glass, for which he had asked, both the envelope and the heading
of the memorandum enclosed in the letter. He was about to turn the
folded paper which was lying on the table over, by which he might have been
able to read the matter of the memorandum had he so desired. I at
once advised him that the memorandum he was to sign dealt only with the
heading of the page, and not with the matter. He looked very angry,
but said nothing, and after a second scrutiny signed. I put the
memorandum in an envelope, which we all signed across the flap.
Before signing, Mr Ernest Halbard Melton took out the paper and verified
it. I then asked him to close it, which he did, and when the
sealing-wax was on it he sealed it with his own seal. Sir Colin A.
MacKelpie and I also appended our own seals. I put the envelope in
another, which I sealed with my own seal, and my co-executor and I signed
it across the flap and added the date. I took charge of this.
When the others present had taken their departure, my co-executor and I,
together with Mr. Rupert Sent Leger, who had remained at my request, went
into my private room.
Here Mr. Rupert Sent Leger read the memorandum marked “B,”
which is to be read as clause 10 of the Will. He is evidently a man
of considerable nerve, for his face was quite impassive as he read the
document, which conveyed to him (subject to the conditions laid down) a
fortune which has no equal in amount in Europe, even, so far as I know,
amongst the crowned heads. When he had read it over a second time he
stood up and said:
“I wish I had known my uncle better. He must have had the
heart of a king. I never heard of such generosity as he has shown
me. Mr. Trent, I see, from the conditions of this memorandum, or
codicil, or whatever it is, that I am to declare within a week as to
whether I accept the conditions imposed on me. Now, I want you to
tell me this: must I wait a week to declare?” In answer, I told
him that the testator’s intention was manifestly to see that he had
full time to consider fully every point before making formal decision and
declaration. But, in answer to the specific question, I could answer
that he might make declaration when he would, provided it was
within, or rather not after, the week named. I added:
“But I strongly advise you not to act hurriedly. So enormous
a sum is involved that you may be sure that all possible efforts will be
made by someone or other to dispossess you of your inheritance, and it will
be well that everything shall be done, not only in perfect order, but with
such manifest care and deliberation that there can be no question as to
your intention.”
“Thank you, sir,” he answered; “I shall do as you
shall kindly advise me in this as in other things. But I may tell you
now—and you, too, my dear Sir Colin—that I not only accept my
Uncle Roger’s conditions in this, but that when the time comes in the
other matters I shall accept every condition that he had in his
mind—and that I may know of—in everything.” He
looked exceedingly in earnest, and it gave me much pleasure to see and hear
him. It was just what a young man should do who had seen so
generously treated. As the time had now come, I gave him the bulky
letter addressed to him, marked “D” which I had in my
safe. As I fulfilled my obligation in the matter, I said:
“You need not read the letter here. You can take it away
with you, and read it by yourself at leisure. It is your own
property, without any obligation whatever attached to it. By the way,
perhaps it would be well if you knew. I have a copy sealed up in an
envelope, and endorsed, ‘To be opened if occasion should
arise,’ but not otherwise. Will you see me to-morrow, or,
better still, dine with me alone here to-night? I should like to have
a talk with you, and you may wish to ask me some questions.” He
answered me cordially. I actually felt touched by the way he said
good-bye before he went away. Sir Colin MacKelpie went with him, as
Sent Leger was to drop him at the Reform.
Letter from Roger Melton to Rupert Sent Leger, endorsed
“D. re Rupert Sent Leger. To be given to him by
Edward Bingham Trent if and as soon as he has declared (formally or
informally) his intention of accepting the conditions named in
Letter B., forming Clause 10 in my Will. R.
M., 1/1/’07.
“Mem.—Copy (sealed) left in custody of E. B. Trent,
to be opened if necessary, as directed.”
June 11, 1906.
My Dear Nephew,
When (if ever) you receive this you will know that (with the exception
of some definite bequests) I have left to you, under certain conditions,
the entire bulk of my fortune—a fortune so great that by its aid as a
help, a man of courage and ability may carve out for himself a name and
place in history. The specific conditions contained in Clause 10 of
my Will have to be observed, for such I deem to be of service to your own
fortune; but herein I give my advice, which you are at liberty to follow or
not as you will, and my wishes, which I shall try to explain fully and
clearly, so that you may be in possession of my views in case you should
desire to carry them out, or, at least, to so endeavour that the results I
hope for may be ultimately achieved. First let me explain—for
your understanding and your guidance—that the power, or perhaps it
had better be called the pressure, behind the accumulation of my fortune
has been ambition. In obedience to its compulsion, I toiled early and
late until I had so arranged matters that, subject to broad supervision, my
ideas could be carried out by men whom I had selected and tested, and not
found wanting. This was for years to the satisfaction, and ultimately
to the accumulation by these men of fortune commensurate in some measure to
their own worth and their importance to my designs. Thus I had
accumulated, whilst still a young man, a considerable fortune. This I
have for over forty years used sparingly as regards my personal needs,
daringly with regard to speculative investments. With the latter I
took such very great care, studying the conditions surrounding them so
thoroughly, that even now my schedule of bad debts or unsuccessful
investments is almost a blank. Perhaps by such means things
flourished with me, and wealth piled in so fast that at times I could
hardly use it to advantage. This was all done as the forerunner of
ambition, but I was over fifty years of age when the horizon of ambition
itself opened up to me. I speak thus freely, my dear Rupert, as when
you read it I shall have passed away, and not ambition nor the fear of
misunderstanding, nor even of scorn can touch me. My ventures in
commerce and finance covered not only the Far East, but every foot of the
way to it, so that the Mediterranean and all its opening seas were familiar
to me. In my journeyings up and down the Adriatic I was always struck
by the great beauty and seeming richness—native richness—of the
Land of the Blue Mountains. At last Chance took me into that
delectable region. When the “Balkan Struggle” of
’90 was on, one of the great Voivodes came to me in secret to arrange
a large loan for national purposes. It was known in financial circles
of both Europe and Asia that I took an active part in the haute
politique of national treasuries, and the Voivode Vissarion came to me
as to one able and willing to carry out his wishes. After
confidential pour-parlers, he explained to me that his nation was in the
throes of a great crisis. As you perhaps know, the gallant little
Nation in the Land of the Blue Mountains has had a strange history.
For more than a thousand years—ever since its settlement after the
disaster of Rossoro—it had maintained its national independence under
several forms of Government. At first it had a King whose successors
became so despotic that they were dethroned. Then it was governed by
its Voivodes, with the combining influence of a Vladika somewhat similar in
power and function to the Prince-Bishops of Montenegro; afterwards by a
Prince; or, as at present, by an irregular elective Council, influenced in
a modified form by the Vladika, who was then supposed to exercise a purely
spiritual function. Such a Council in a small, poor nation did not
have sufficient funds for armaments, which were not immediately and
imperatively necessary; and therefore the Voivode Vissarion, who had vast
estates in his own possession, and who was the present representative a
family which of old had been leaders in the land, found it a duty to do on
his own account that which the State could not do. For security as to
the loan which he wished to get, and which was indeed a vast one, he
offered to sell me his whole estate if I would secure to him a right to
repurchase it within a given time (a time which I may say has some time ago
expired). He made it a condition that the sale and agreement should
remain a strict secret between us, as a widespread knowledge that his
estate had changed hands would in all probability result in my death and
his own at the hands of the mountaineers, who are beyond everything loyal,
and were jealous to the last degree. An attack by Turkey was feared,
and new armaments were required; and the patriotic Voivode was sacrificing
his own great fortune for the public good. What a sacrifice this was
he well knew, for in all discussions regarding a possible change in the
Constitution of the Blue Mountains it was always taken for granted that if
the principles of the Constitution should change to a more personal rule,
his own family should be regarded as the Most Noble. It had ever been
on the side of freedom in olden time; before the establishment of the
Council, or even during the rule of the Voivodes, the Vissarion had every
now and again stood out against the King or challenged the Princedom.
The very name stood for freedom, for nationality, against foreign
oppression; and the bold mountaineers were devoted to it, as in other free
countries men follow the flag.
Such loyalty was a power and a help in the land, for it knew danger in
every form; and anything which aided the cohesion of its integers was a
natural asset. On every side other powers, great and small, pressed
the land, anxious to acquire its suzerainty by any means—fraud or
force. Greece, Turkey, Austria, Russia, Italy, France, had all tried
in vain. Russia, often hurled back, was waiting an opportunity to
attack. Austria and Greece, although united by no common purpose or
design, were ready to throw in their forces with whomsoever might seem most
likely to be victor. Other Balkan States, too, were not lacking in
desire to add the little territory of the Blue Mountains to their more
ample possessions. Albania, Dalmatia, Herzegovina, Servia, Bulgaria,
looked with lustful eyes on the land, which was in itself a vast natural
fortress, having close under its shelter perhaps the finest harbour between
Gibraltar and the Dardanelles.
But the fierce, hardy mountaineers were unconquerable. For
centuries they had fought, with a fervour and fury that nothing could
withstand or abate, attacks on their independence. Time after time,
century after century, they had opposed with dauntless front invading
armies sent against them. This unquenchable fire of freedom had had
its effect. One and all, the great Powers knew that to conquer that
little nation would be no mean task, but rather that of a tireless
giant. Over and over again had they fought with units against
hundreds, never ceasing until they had either wiped out their foes entirely
or seen them retreat across the frontier in diminished numbers.
For many years past, however, the Land of the Blue Mountains had
remained unassailable, for all the Powers and States had feared lest the
others should unite against the one who should begin the attack.
At the time I speak of there was a feeling throughout the Blue
Mountains—and, indeed, elsewhere—that Turkey was preparing for
a war of offence. The objective of her attack was not known anywhere,
but here there was evidence that the Turkish “Bureau of Spies”
was in active exercise towards their sturdy little neighbour. To
prepare for this, the Voivode Peter Vissarion approached me in order to
obtain the necessary “sinews of war.”
The situation was complicated by the fact that the Elective Council was
at present largely held together by the old Greek Church, which was the
religion of the people, and which had had since the beginning its destinies
linked in a large degree with theirs. Thus it was possible that if a
war should break out, it might easily become—whatever might have been
its cause or beginnings—a war of creeds. This in the Balkans
must be largely one of races, the end of which no mind could diagnose or
even guess at.
I had now for some time had knowledge of the country and its people, and
had come to love them both. The nobility of Vissarion’s
self-sacrifice at once appealed to me, and I felt that I, too, should like
to have a hand in the upholding of such a land and such a people.
They both deserved freedom. When Vissarion handed me the completed
deed of sale I was going to tear it up; but he somehow recognized my
intention, and forestalled it. He held up his hand arrestingly as he
said:
“I recognize your purpose, and, believe me, I honour you for it
from the very depths of my soul. But, my friend, it must not
be. Our mountaineers are proud beyond belief. Though they would
allow me—who am one of themselves, and whose fathers have been in
some way leaders and spokesmen amongst them for many centuries—to do
all that is in my power to do—and what, each and all, they would be
glad to do were the call to them—they would not accept aid from one
outside themselves. My good friend, they would resent it, and might
show to you, who wish us all so well, active hostility, which might end in
danger, or even death. That was why, my friend, I asked to put a
clause in our agreement, that I might have right to repurchase my estate,
regarding which you would fain act so generously.”
Thus it is, my dear nephew Rupert, only son of my dear sister, that I
hereby charge you solemnly as you value me—as you value
yourself—as you value honour, that, should it ever become known that
that noble Voivode, Peter Vissarion, imperilled himself for his
country’s good, and if it be of danger or evil repute to him that
even for such a purpose he sold his heritage, you shall at once and to the
knowledge of the mountaineers—though not necessarily to
others—reconvey to him or his heirs the freehold that he was willing
to part with—and that he has de facto parted with by the
effluxion of the time during which his right of repurchase existed.
This is a secret trust and duty which is between thee and me alone in the
first instance; a duty which I have undertaken on behalf of my heirs, and
which must be carried out, at whatsoever cost may ensue. You must not
take it that it is from any mistrust of you or belief that you will fail
that I have taken another measure to insure that this my cherished idea is
borne out. Indeed, it is that the law may, in case of need—for
no man can know what may happen after his own hand be taken from the
plough—be complied with, that I have in another letter written for
the guidance of others, directed that in case of any failure to carry out
this trust—death or other—the direction become a clause or
codicil to my Will. But in the meantime I wish that this be kept a
secret between us two. To show you the full extent of my confidence,
let me here tell you that the letter alluded to above is marked
“C,” and directed to my solicitor and co-executor, Edward
Bingham Trent, which is finally to be regarded as clause eleven of my
Will. To which end he has my instructions and also a copy of this
letter, which is, in case of need, and that only, to be opened, and is to
be a guide to my wishes as to the carrying out by you of the conditions on
which you inherit.
And now, my dear nephew, let me change to another subject more dear to
me—yourself. When you read this I shall have passed away, so
that I need not be hampered now by that reserve which I feel has grown upon
me through a long and self-contained life. Your mother was very dear
to me. As you know, she was twenty years younger than her youngest
brother, who was two years younger than me. So we were all young men
when she was a baby, and, I need not say, a pet amongst us—almost
like our own child to each of us, as well as our sister. You knew her
sweetness and high quality, so I need say nothing of these; but I should
like you to understand that she was very dear to me. When she and
your father came to know and love each other I was far away, opening up a
new branch of business in the interior of China, and it was not for several
months that I got home news. When I first heard of him they had
already been married. I was delighted to find that they were very
happy. They needed nothing that I could give. When he died so
suddenly I tried to comfort her, and all I had was at her disposal, did she
want it. She was a proud woman—though not with me. She
had come to understand that, though I seemed cold and hard (and perhaps was
so generally), I was not so to her. But she would not have help of
any kind. When I pressed her, she told me that she had enough for
your keep and education and her own sustenance for the time she must still
live; that your father and she had agreed that you should be brought up to
a healthy and strenuous life rather than to one of luxury; and she thought
that it would be better for the development of your character that you
should learn to be self-reliant and to be content with what your dear
father had left you. She had always been a wise and thoughtful girl,
and now all her wisdom and thought were for you, your father’s and
her child. When she spoke of you and your future, she said many
things which I thought memorable. One of them I remember to this
day. It was apropos of my saying that there is a danger of its own
kind in extreme poverty. A young man might know too much want.
She answered me: “True! That is so! But there is a danger
that overrides it;” and after a time went on:
“It is better not to know wants than not to know
want!” I tell you, boy, that is a great truth, and I hope you
will remember it for yourself as well as a part of the wisdom of your
mother. And here let me say something else which is a sort of
corollary of that wise utterance:
I dare say you thought me very hard and unsympathetic that time I would
not, as one of your trustees, agree to your transferring your little
fortune to Miss MacKelpie. I dare say you bear a grudge towards me
about it up to this day. Well, if you have any of that remaining, put
it aside when you know the truth. That request of yours was an
unspeakable delight to me. It was like your mother coming back from
the dead. That little letter of yours made me wish for the first time
that I had a son—and that he should be like you. I fell into a
sort of reverie, thinking if I were yet too old to marry, so that a son
might be with me in my declining years—if such were to ever be for
me. But I concluded that this might not be. There was no woman
whom I knew or had ever met with that I could love as your mother loved
your father and as he loved her. So I resigned myself to my
fate. I must go my lonely road on to the end. And then came a
ray of light into my darkness: there was you. Though you might not
feel like a son to me—I could not expect it when the memory of that
sweet relationship was more worthily filled. But I could feel like a
father to you. Nothing could prevent that or interfere with it, for I
would keep it as my secret in the very holy of holies of my heart, where
had been for thirty years the image of a sweet little child—your
mother. My boy, when in your future life you shall have happiness and
honour and power, I hope you will sometimes give a thought to the lonely
old man whose later years your very existence seemed to brighten.
The thought of your mother recalled me to my duty. I had
undertaken for her a sacred task: to carry out her wishes regarding her
son. I knew how she would have acted. It
might—would—have been to her a struggle of inclination and
duty; and duty would have won. And so I carried out my duty, though I
tell you it was a harsh and bitter task to me at the time. But I may
tell you that I have since been glad when I think of the result. I
tried, as you may perhaps remember, to carry out your wishes in another
way, but your letter put the difficulty of doing so so clearly before me
that I had to give it up. And let me tell you that that letter
endeared you to me more than ever.
I need not tell you that thenceforth I followed your life very
closely. When you ran away to sea, I used in secret every part of the
mechanism of commerce to find out what had become of you. Then, until
you had reached your majority, I had a constant watch kept upon
you—not to interfere with you in any way, but so that I might be able
to find you should need arise. When in due course I heard of your
first act on coming of age I was satisfied. I had to know of the
carrying out of your original intention towards Janet Mac Kelpie, for the
securities had to be transferred.
From that time on I watched—of course through other
eyes—your chief doings. It would have been a pleasure to me to
have been able to help in carrying out any hope or ambition of yours, but I
realized that in the years intervening between your coming of age and the
present moment you were fulfilling your ideas and ambitions in your own
way, and, as I shall try to explain to you presently, my ambitions
also. You were of so adventurous a nature that even my own
widely-spread machinery of acquiring information—what I may call my
private “intelligence department”—was inadequate.
My machinery was fairly adequate for the East—in great part, at all
events. But you went North and South, and West also, and, in
addition, you essayed realms where commerce and purely real affairs have no
foothold—worlds of thought, of spiritual import, of psychic
phenomena—speaking generally, of mysteries. As now and again I
was baffled in my inquiries, I had to enlarge my mechanism, and to this end
started—not in my own name, of course—some new magazines
devoted to certain branches of inquiry and adventure. Should you ever
care to know more of these things, Mr. Trent, in whose name the stock is
left, will be delighted to give you all details. Indeed, these
stocks, like all else I have, shall be yours when the time comes, if you
care to ask for them. By means of The Journal of Adventure,
The Magazine of Mystery, Occultism, Balloon and
Aeroplane, The Submarine, Jungle and Pampas, The Ghost
World, The Explorer, Forest and Island, Ocean and
Creek, I was often kept informed when I should otherwise have been
ignorant of your whereabouts and designs. For instance, when you had
disappeared into the Forest of the Incas, I got the first whisper of your
strange adventures and discoveries in the buried cities of Eudori from a
correspondent of The Journal of Adventure long before the details
given in The Times of the rock-temple of the primeval savages, where
only remained the little dragon serpents, whose giant ancestors were rudely
sculptured on the sacrificial altar. I well remember how I thrilled
at even that meagre account of your going in alone into that veritable
hell. It was from Occultism that I learned how you had made a
stay alone in the haunted catacombs of Elora, in the far recesses of the
Himalayas, and of the fearful experiences which, when you came out
shuddering and ghastly, overcame to almost epileptic fear those who had
banded themselves together to go as far as the rock-cut approach to the
hidden temple.
All such things I read with rejoicing. You were shaping yourself
for a wider and loftier adventure, which would crown more worthily your
matured manhood. When I read of you in a description of Mihask, in
Madagascar, and the devil-worship there rarely held, I felt I had only to
wait for your home-coming in order to broach the enterprise I had so long
contemplated. This was what I read:
“He is a man to whom no adventure is too wild or too daring.
His reckless bravery is a byword amongst many savage peoples and amongst
many others not savages, whose fears are not of material things, but of the
world of mysteries in and beyond the grave. He dares not only wild
animals and savage men; but has tackled African magic and Indian
mysticism. The Psychical Research Society has long exploited his
deeds of valiance, and looked upon him as perhaps their most trusted agent
or source of discovery. He is in the very prime of life, of almost
giant stature and strength, trained to the use of all arms of all
countries, inured to every kind of hardship, subtle-minded and resourceful,
understanding human nature from its elemental form up. To say that he
is fearless would be inadequate. In a word, he is a man whose
strength and daring fit him for any enterprise of any kind. He would
dare and do anything in the world or out of it, on the earth or under it,
in the sea or—in the air, fearing nothing material or unseen, not man
or ghost, nor God nor Devil.”
If you ever care to think of it, I carried that cutting in my
pocket-book from that hour I read it till now.
Remember, again, I say, that I never interfered in the slightest way in
any of your adventures. I wanted you to “dree your own
weird,” as the Scotch say; and I wanted to know of it—that was
all. Now, as I hold you fully equipped for greater enterprise, I want
to set your feet on the road and to provide you with the most potent
weapon—beyond personal qualities—for the winning of great
honour—a gain, my dear nephew, which, I am right sure, does and will
appeal to you as it has ever done to me. I have worked for it for
more than fifty years; but now that the time has come when the torch is
slipping from my old hands, I look to you, my dearest kinsman, to lift it
and carry it on.
The little nation of the Blue Mountains has from the first appealed to
me. It is poor and proud and brave. Its people are well worth
winning, and I would advise you to throw in your lot with them. You
may find them hard to win, for when peoples, like individuals, are poor and
proud, these qualities are apt to react on each other to an endless
degree. These men are untamable, and no one can ever succeed with
them unless he is with them in all-in-all, and is a leader
recognized. But if you can win them they are loyal to death. If
you are ambitious—and I know you are—there may be a field for
you in such a country. With your qualifications, fortified by the
fortune which I am happy enough to be able to leave you, you may dare much
and go far. Should I be alive when you return from your exploration
in Northern South America, I may have the happiness of helping you to this
or any other ambition, and I shall deem it a privilege to share it with
you; but time is going on. I am in my seventy-second year . . . the
years of man are three-score and ten—I suppose you understand; I do .
. . Let me point out this: For ambitious projects the great nationalities
are impossible to a stranger—and in our own we are limited by loyalty
(and common-sense). It is only in a small nation that great ambitions
can be achieved. If you share my own views and wishes, the Blue
Mountains is your ground. I hoped at one time that I might yet become
a Voivode—even a great one. But age has dulled my personal
ambitions as it has cramped my powers. I no longer dream of such
honour for myself, though I do look on it as a possibility for you if you
care for it. Through my Will you will have a great position and a
great estate, and though you may have to yield up the latter in accordance
with my wish, as already expressed in this letter, the very doing so will
give you an even greater hold than this possession in the hearts of the
mountaineers, should they ever come to know it. Should it be that at
the time you inherit from me the Voivode Vissarion should not be alive, it
may serve or aid you to know that in such case you would be absolved from
any conditions of mine, though I trust you would in that, as in all other
matters, hold obligation enforced by your own honour as to my wishes.
Therefore the matter stands thus: If Vissarion lives, you will relinquish
the estates. Should such not be the case, you will act as you believe
that I would wish you to. In either case the mountaineers should not
know from you in any way of the secret contracts between Vissarion and
myself. Enlightenment of the many should (if ever) come from others
than yourself. And unless such take place, you would leave the
estates without any quid pro quo whatever. This you need not
mind, for the fortune you will inherit will leave you free and able to
purchase other estates in the Blue Mountains or elsewhere that you may
select in the world.
If others attack, attack them, and quicker and harder than they can, if
such be a possibility. Should it ever be that you inherit the Castle
of Vissarion on the Spear of Ivan, remember that I had it secretly
fortified and armed against attack. There are not only massive
grilles, but doors of chilled bronze where such be needed. My
adherent Rooke, who has faithfully served me for nearly forty years, and
has gone on my behalf on many perilous expeditions, will, I trust, serve
you in the same way. Treat him well for my sake, if not for your
own. I have left him provision for a life of ease; but he would
rather take a part in dangerous enterprises. He is silent as the
grave and as bold as a lion. He knows every detail of the
fortification and of the secret means of defence. A word in your
ear—he was once a pirate. He was then in his extreme youth, and
long since changed his ways in this respect; but from this fact you can
understand his nature. You will find him useful should occasion ever
arise. Should you accept the conditions of my letter, you are to make
the Blue Mountains—in part, at least—your home, living there a
part of the year, if only for a week, as in England men of many estates
share the time amongst them. To this you are not bound, and no one
shall have power to compel you or interfere with you. I only express
a hope. But one thing I do more than hope—I desire, if you will
honour my wishes, that, come what may, you are to keep your British
nationality, unless by special arrangement with and consent of the Privy
Council. Such arrangement to be formally made by my friend, Edward
Bingham Trent, or whomsoever he may appoint by deed or will to act in the
matter, and made in such a way that no act save that alone of Parliament in
all its estates, and endorsed by the King, may or can prevail against
it.
My last word to you is, Be bold and honest, and fear not. Most
things—even kingship—somewhere may now and again be won
by the sword. A brave heart and a strong arm may go far. But
whatever is so won cannot be held merely by the sword. Justice alone
can hold in the long run. Where men trust they will follow, and the
rank and file of people want to follow, not to lead. If it be your
fortune to lead, be bold. Be wary, if you will; exercise any other
faculties that may aid or guard. Shrink from nothing. Avoid
nothing that is honourable in itself. Take responsibility when such
presents itself. What others shrink from, accept. That is to be
great in what world, little or big, you move. Fear nothing, no matter
of what kind danger may be or whence it come. The only real way to
meet danger is to despise it—except with your brains. Meet it
in the gate, not the hall.
My kinsman, the name of my race and your own, worthily mingled in your
own person, now rests with you!
Letter from Rupert Sent Leger, 32 Bodmin Street,
Victoria, S.W., to Miss Janet MacKelpie, Croom,
Ross-shire.
January 3, 1907.
My dearest Aunt Janet,
You will, I know, be rejoiced to hear of the great good-fortune which
has come to me through the Will of Uncle Roger. Perhaps Sir Colin
will have written to you, as he is one of the executors, and there is a
bequest to you, so I must not spoil his pleasure of telling you of that
part himself. Unfortunately, I am not free to speak fully of my own
legacy yet, but I want you to know that at worst I am to receive an amount
many times more than I ever dreamt of possessing through any possible
stroke of fortune. So soon as I can leave London—where, of
course, I must remain until things are settled—I am coming up to
Croom to see you, and I hope I shall by then be able to let you know so
much that you will be able to guess at the extraordinary change that has
come to my circumstances. It is all like an impossible dream: there
is nothing like it in the “Arabian Nights.” However, the
details must wait, I am pledged to secrecy for the present. And you
must be pledged too. You won’t mind, dear, will you? What
I want to do at present is merely to tell you of my own good-fortune, and
that I shall be going presently to live for a while at Vissarion.
Won’t you come with me, Aunt Janet? We shall talk more of this
when I come to Croom; but I want you to keep the subject in your mind.
Your loving
Rupert.
From Rupert Sent Leger’s Journal.
January 4, 1907.
Things have been humming about me so fast that I have had hardly time to
think. But some of the things have been so important, and have so
changed my entire outlook on life, that it may be well to keep some
personal record of them. I may some day want to remember some
detail—perhaps the sequence of events, or something like
that—and it may be useful. It ought to be, if there is any
justice in things, for it will be an awful swot to write it when I have so
many things to think of now. Aunt Janet, I suppose, will like to keep
it locked up for me, as she does with all my journals and papers.
That is one good thing about Aunt Janet amongst many: she has no curiosity,
or else she has some other quality which keeps her from prying as other
women would. It would seem that she has not so much as opened the
cover of one of my journals ever in her life, and that she would not
without my permission. So this can in time go to her also.
I dined last night with Mr. Trent, by his special desire. The
dinner was in his own rooms. Dinner sent in from the hotel. He
would not have any waiters at all, but made them send in the dinner all at
once, and we helped ourselves. As we were quite alone, we could talk
freely, and we got over a lot of ground while we were dining. He
began to tell me about Uncle Roger. I was glad of that, for, of
course, I wanted to know all I could of him, and the fact was I had seen
very little of him. Of course, when I was a small kid he was often in
our house, for he was very fond of mother, and she of him. But I
fancy that a small boy was rather a nuisance to him. And then I was
at school, and he was away in the East. And then poor mother died
while he was living in the Blue Mountains, and I never saw him again.
When I wrote to him about Aunt Janet he answered me very kindly but he was
so very just in the matter that I got afraid of him. And after that I
ran away, and have been roaming ever since; so there was never a chance of
our meeting. But that letter of his has opened my eyes. To
think of him following me that way all over the world, waiting to hold out
a helping hand if I should want it, I only wish I had known, or even
suspected, the sort of man he was, and how he cared for me, and I would
sometimes have come back to see him, if I had to come half round the
world. Well, all I can do now is to carry out his wishes; that will
be my expiation for my neglect. He knew what he wanted exactly, and I
suppose I shall come in time to know it all and understand it, too.
I was thinking something like this when Mr. Trent began to talk, so that
all he said fitted exactly into my own thought. The two men were
evidently great friends—I should have gathered that, anyhow, from the
Will—and the letters—so I was not surprised when Mr. Trent told
me that they had been to school together, Uncle Roger being a senior when
he was a junior; and had then and ever after shared each other’s
confidence. Mr. Trent, I gathered, had from the very first been in
love with my mother, even when she was a little girl; but he was poor and
shy, and did not like to speak. When he had made up his mind to do
so, he found that she had by then met my father, and could not help seeing
that they loved each other. So he was silent. He told me he had
never said a word about it to anyone—not even to my Uncle Roger,
though he knew from one thing and another, though he never spoke of it,
that he would like it. I could not help seeing that the dear old man
regarded me in a sort of parental way—I have heard of such romantic
attachments being transferred to the later generation. I was not
displeased with it; on the contrary, I liked him better for it. I
love my mother so much—I always think of her in the
present—that I cannot think of her as dead. There is a tie
between anyone else who loved her and myself. I tried to let Mr.
Trent see that I liked him, and it pleased him so much that I could see his
liking for me growing greater. Before we parted he told me that he
was going to give up business. He must have understood how
disappointed I was—for how could I ever get along at all without
him?—for he said, as he laid a hand quite affectionately, I
thought—on my shoulder:
“I shall have one client, though, whose business I always hope to
keep, and for whom I shall be always whilst I live glad to act—if he
will have me.” I did not care to speak as I took his
hand. He squeezed mine, too, and said very earnestly:
“I served your uncle’s interests to the very best of my
ability for nearly fifty years. He had full confidence in me, and I
was proud of his trust. I can honestly say, Rupert—you
won’t mind me using that familiarity, will you?—that, though
the interests which I guarded were so vast that without abusing my trust I
could often have used my knowledge to my personal advantage, I never once,
in little matters or big, abused that trust—no, not even rubbed the
bloom off it. And now that he has remembered me in his Will so
generously that I need work no more, it will be a very genuine pleasure and
pride to me to carry out as well as I can the wishes that I partly knew,
and now realize more fully towards you, his nephew.”
In the long chat which we had, and which lasted till midnight, he told
me many very interesting things about Uncle Roger. When, in the
course of conversation, he mentioned that the fortune Uncle Roger left must
be well over a hundred millions, I was so surprised that I said out
loud—I did not mean to ask a question:
“How on earth could a man beginning with nothing realize such a
gigantic fortune?”
“By all honest ways,” he answered, “and his clever
human insight. He knew one half of the world, and so kept abreast of
all public and national movements that he knew the critical moment to
advance money required. He was always generous, and always on the
side of freedom. There are nations at this moment only now entering
on the consolidation of their liberty, who owe all to him, who knew when
and how to help. No wonder that in some lands they will drink to his
memory on great occasions as they used to drink his health.”
“As you and I shall do now, sir!” I said, as I filled my
glass and stood up. We drank it in bumpers. We did not say a
word, either of us; but the old gentleman held out his hand, and I took
it. And so, holding hands, we drank in silence. It made me feel
quite choky; and I could see that he, too, was moved.
From E. B. Trent’s Memoranda.
January 4, 1907.
I asked Mr. Rupert Sent Leger to dine with me at my office alone, as I
wished to have a chat with him. To-morrow Sir Colin and I will have a
formal meeting with him for the settlement of affairs, but I thought it
best to have an informal talk with him alone first, as I wished to tell him
certain matters which will make our meeting to-morrow more productive of
utility, as he can now have more full understanding of the subjects which
we have to discuss. Sir Colin is all that can be in manhood, and I
could wish no better colleague in the executorship of this phenomenal Will;
but he has not had the privilege of a lifelong friendship with the testator
as I have had. And as Rupert Sent Leger had to learn intimate details
regarding his uncle, I could best make my confidences alone.
To-morrow we shall have plenty of formality. I was delighted with
Rupert. He is just what I could have wished his mother’s boy to
be—or a son of my own to be, had I had the good-fortune to have been
a father. But this is not for me. I remember long, long ago
reading a passage in Lamb’s Essays which hangs in my mind: “The
children of Alice call Bartrum father.” Some of my old friends
would laugh to see me write this, but these memoranda are for my
eyes alone, and no one shall see them till after my death, unless by my own
permission. The boy takes some qualities after his father; he has a
daring that is disturbing to an old dryasdust lawyer like me. But
somehow I like him more than I ever liked anyone—any man—in my
life—more even than his uncle, my old friend, Roger Melton; and Lord
knows I had much cause to like him. I have more than ever now.
It was quite delightful to see the way the young adventurer was touched by
his uncle’s thought of him. He is a truly gallant fellow, but
venturesome exploits have not affected the goodness of heart. It is a
pleasure to me to think that Roger and Colin came together apropos of the
boy’s thoughtful generosity towards Miss MacKelpie. The old
soldier will be a good friend to him, or I am much mistaken. With an
old lawyer like me, and an old soldier like him, and a real old gentlewoman
like Miss MacKelpie, who loves the very ground he walks on, to look after
him, together with all his own fine qualities and his marvellous experience
of the world, and the gigantic wealth that will surely be his, that young
man will go far.
Letter from Rupert Sent Leger to Miss Janet MacKelpie,
Croom.
January 5, 1907.
My dearest Aunt Janet,
It is all over—the first stage of it; and that is as far as I can
get at present. I shall have to wait for a few days—or it may
be weeks—in London for the doing of certain things now necessitated
by my acceptance of Uncle Roger’s bequest. But as soon as I
can, dear, I shall come down to Croom and spend with you as many days as
possible. I shall then tell you all I am at liberty to tell, and I
shall thank you personally for your consent to come with me to
Vissarion. Oh, how I wish my dear mother had lived to be with
us! It would have made her happy, I know, to have come; and then we
three who shared together the old dear, hard days would have shared in the
same way the new splendour. I would try to show all my love and
gratitude to you both . . . You must take the whole burden of it now, dear,
for you and I are alone. No, not alone, as we used to be, for I have
now two old friends who are already dear to me. One is so to you
already. Sir Colin is simply splendid, and so, in his own way, is Mr.
Trent. I am lucky, Aunt Janet, to have two such men to think of
affairs for me. Am I not? I shall send you a wire as soon as
ever I can see my way to get through my work; and I want you to think over
all the things you ever wished for in your life, so that I may—if
there is any mortal way of doing so—get them for you. You will
not stand in the way of my having this great pleasure, will you,
dear? Good-bye.
Your loving
Rupert.
E. B. Trent’s Memoranda.
January 6, 1907.
The formal meeting of Sir Colin and myself with Rupert Sent Leger went
off quite satisfactorily. From what he had said yesterday, and again
last night, I had almost come to expect an unreserved acceptance of
everything stated or implied in Roger Melton’s Will; but when we had
sat round the table—this appeared, by the way, to be a formality for
which we were all prepared, for we sat down as if by instinct—the
very first words he said were:
“As I suppose I must go through this formality, I may as well say
at once that I accept every possible condition which was in the mind of
Uncle Roger; and to this end I am prepared to sign, seal, and
deliver—or whatever is the ritual—whatever document you,
sir”—turning to me—“may think necessary or
advisable, and of which you both approve.” He stood up and
walked about the room for a few moments, Sir Colin and I sitting quite
still, silent. He came back to his seat, and after a few seconds of
nervousness—a rare thing with him, I fancy—said: “I hope
you both understand—of course, I know you do; I only speak because
this is an occasion for formality—that I am willing to accept, and at
once! I do so, believe me, not to get possession of this vast
fortune, but because of him who has given it. The man who was fond of
me, and who trusted me, and yet had strength to keep his own feelings in
check—who followed me in spirit to far lands and desperate
adventures, and who, though he might be across the world from me, was ready
to put out a hand to save or help me, was no common man; and his care of my
mother’s son meant no common love for my dear mother. And so
she and I together accept his trust, come of it what may. I have been
thinking it over all night, and all the time I could not get out of the
idea that mother was somewhere near me. The only thought that could
debar me from doing as I wished to do—and intend to do—would be
that she would not approve. Now that I am satisfied she would
approve, I accept. Whatever may result or happen, I shall go on
following the course that he has set for me. So help me,
God!” Sir Colin stood up, and I must say a more martial figure
I never saw. He was in full uniform, for he was going on to the
King’s levee after our business. He drew his sword from the
scabbard and laid it naked on the table before Rupert, and said:
“You are going, sir, into a strange and danger country—I
have been reading about it since we met—and you will be largely alone
amongst fierce mountaineers who resent the very presence of a stranger, and
to whom you are, and must be, one. If you should ever be in any
trouble and want a man to stand back to back with you, I hope you will give
me the honour!” As he said this pointed to his sword.
Rupert and I were also standing now—one cannot sit down in the
presence of such an act as that. “You are, I am proud to say,
allied with my family: and I only wish to God it was closer to
myself.” Rupert took him by the hand and bent his head before
him as answered:
“The honour is mine, Sir Colin; and no greater can come to any man
than that which you have just done me. The best way I can show how I
value it will be to call on you if I am ever in such a tight place.
By Jove, sir, this is history repeating itself. Aunt Janet used to
tell me when I was a youngster how MacKelpie of Croom laid his sword before
Prince Charlie. I hope I may tell her of this; it would make her so
proud and happy. Don’t imagine, sir, that I am thinking myself
a Charles Edward. It is only that Aunt Janet is so good to me that I
might well think I was.”
Sir Colin bowed grandly:
“Rupert Sent Leger, my dear niece is a woman of great discretion
and discernment. And, moreover, I am thinking she has in her some of
the gift of Second Sight that has been a heritage of our blood. And I
am one with my niece—in everything!” The whole thing was
quite regal in manner; it seemed to take me back to the days of the
Pretender.
It was not, however, a time for sentiment, but for action—we had
met regarding the future, not the past; so I produced the short document I
had already prepared. On the strength of his steadfast declaration
that he would accept the terms of the Will and the secret letters, I had
got ready a formal acceptance. When I had once again formally asked
Mr. Sent Leger’s wishes, and he had declared his wish to accept, I
got in a couple of my clerks as witnesses.
Then, having again asked him in their presence if it was his wish to
declare acceptance of the conditions, the document was signed and
witnessed, Sir Colin and I both appending our signatures to the
Attestation.
And so the first stage of Rupert Sent Leger’s inheritance is
completed. The next step will not have to be undertaken on my part
until the expiration of six months from his entry on his estate at
Vissarion. As he announces his intention of going within a fortnight,
this will mean practically a little over six months from now.
BOOK II: VISSARION
Letter from Rupert Sent Leger, Castle of Vissarion, the
Spear of Ivan, Land of the Blue Mountains, to Miss Janet
MacKelpie, Croom Castle, Ross-shire, N.B.
January 23, 1907.
My dearest Aunt Janet,
As you see, I am here at last. Having got my formal duty done, as
you made me promise—my letters reporting arrival to Sir Colin and Mr.
Trent are lying sealed in front of me ready to post (for nothing shall go
before yours)—I am free to speak to you.
This is a most lovely place, and I hope you will like it. I am
quite sure you will. We passed it in the steamer coming from Trieste
to Durazzo. I knew the locality from the chart, and it was pointed
out to me by one of the officers with whom I had become quite friendly, and
who kindly showed me interesting places whenever we got within sight of
shore. The Spear of Ivan, on which the Castle stands, is a headland
running well out into the sea. It is quite a peculiar place—a
sort of headland on a headland, jutting out into a deep, wide bay, so that,
though it is a promontory, it is as far away from the traffic of coast life
as anything you can conceive. The main promontory is the end of a
range of mountains, and looms up vast, towering over everything, a mass of
sapphire blue. I can well understand how the country came to be
called the “Land of the Blue Mountains,” for it is all
mountains, and they are all blue! The coast-line is
magnificent—what is called “iron-bound”—being all
rocky; sometimes great frowning precipices; sometimes jutting spurs of
rock; again little rocky islets, now and again clad with trees and verdure,
at other places stark and bare. Elsewhere are little rocky bays and
indentations—always rock, and often with long, interesting
caves. Some of the shores of the bays are sandy, or else ridges of
beautiful pebbles, where the waves make endless murmur.
But of all the places I have seen—in this land or any
other—the most absolutely beautiful is Vissarion. It stands at
the ultimate point of the promontory—I mean the little, or, rather,
lesser promontory—that continues on the spur of the mountain
range. For the lesser promontory or extension of the mountain is in
reality vast; the lowest bit of cliff along the sea-front is not less than
a couple of hundred feet high. That point of rock is really very
peculiar. I think Dame Nature must, in the early days of her
housekeeping—or, rather, house-building—have intended to
give her little child, man, a rudimentary lesson in self-protection.
It is just a natural bastion such as a titanic Vauban might have designed
in primeval times. So far as the Castle is concerned, it is alone
visible from the sea. Any enemy approaching could see only that
frowning wall of black rock, of vast height and perpendicular
steepness. Even the old fortifications which crown it are not built,
but cut in the solid rock. A long narrow creek of very deep water,
walled in by high, steep cliffs, runs in behind the Castle, bending north
and west, making safe and secret anchorage. Into the creek falls over
a precipice a mountain-stream, which never fails in volume of water.
On the western shore of that creek is the Castle, a huge pile of buildings
of every style of architecture, from the Twelfth century to where such
things seemed to stop in this dear old-world land—about the time of
Queen Elizabeth. So it is pretty picturesque. I can tell
you. When we got the first glimpse of the place from the steamer the
officer, with whom I was on the bridge, pointed towards it and said:
“That is where we saw the dead woman floating in a
coffin.” That was rather interesting, so I asked him all about
it. He took from his pocket-book a cutting from an Italian paper,
which he handed to me. As I can read and speak Italian fairly well,
it was all right; but as you, my dear Aunt Janet, are not skilled in
languages, and as I doubt if there is any assistance of the kind to be had
at Croom, I do not send it. But as I have heard that the item has
been produced in the last number of The Journal of Occultism, you
will be easily able to get it. As he handed me the cutting he said:
“I am Destilia!” His story was so strange that I asked
him a good many questions about it. He answered me quite frankly on
every point, but always adhering stoutly to the main point—namely,
that it was no phantom or mirage, no dream or imperfect vision in a
fog. “We were four in all who saw it,” he
said—“three from the bridge and the Englishman,
Caulfield—from the bows—whose account exactly agreed with what
we saw. Captain Mirolani and Falamano and I were all awake and in
good trim. We looked with our night-glasses, which are more than
usually powerful. You know, we need good glasses for the east shore
of the Adriatic and for among the islands to the south. There was a
full moon and a brilliant light. Of course we were a little way off,
for though the Spear of Ivan is in deep water, one has to be careful of
currents, for it is in just such places that the dangerous currents
run.” The agent of Lloyd’s told me only a few weeks ago
that it was only after a prolonged investigation of the tidal and sea
currents that the house decided to except from ordinary sea risks losses
due to a too close course by the Spear of Ivan. When I tried to get a
little more definite account of the coffin-boat and the dead lady that is
given in The Journal of Occultism he simply shrugged his
shoulders. “Signor, it is all,” he said.
“That Englishman wrote everything after endless
questioning.”
So you see, my dear, that our new home is not without superstitious
interests of its own. It is rather a nice idea, is it not, to have a
dead woman cruising round our promontory in a coffin? I doubt if even
at Croom you can beat that. “Makes the place kind of
homey,” as an American would say. When you come, Aunt Janet,
you will not feel lonesome, at any rate, and it will save us the trouble of
importing some of your Highland ghosts to make you feel at home in the new
land. I don’t know, but we might ask the stiff to come to tea
with us. Of course, it would be a late tea. Somewhere between
midnight and cock-crow would be about the etiquette of the thing, I
fancy!
But I must tell you all the realities of the Castle and around it.
So I will write again within a day or two, and try to let you know enough
to prepare you for coming here. Till then adieu, my dear.
Your loving
Rupert.
From Rupert Sent Leger, Vissarion, to Janet
MacKelpie, Croom.
January 25, 1907.
I hope I did not frighten you, dear Aunt Janet, by the yarn of the lady
in the coffin. But I know you are not afraid; you have told me too
many weird stories for me to dread that. Besides, you have Second
Sight—latent, at all events. However, there won’t be any
more ghosts, or about ghosts, in this letter. I want to tell you all
about our new home. I am so glad you are coming out so soon; I am
beginning to feel so lonesome—I walk about sometimes aimlessly, and
find my thoughts drifting in such an odd way. If I didn’t know
better, I might begin to think I was in love! There is no one here to
be in love with; so make your mind easy, Aunt Janet. Not that you
would be unhappy, I know, dear, if I did fall in love. I
suppose I must marry some day. It is a duty now, I know, when there
is such an estate as Uncle Roger has left me. And I know this: I
shall never marry any woman unless I love her. And I am right sure
that if I do love her you will love her, too, Aunt Janet! Won’t
you, dear? It wouldn’t be half a delight if you
didn’t. It won’t if you don’t. There,
now!
But before I begin to describe Vissarion I shall throw a sop to you as a
chatelaine; that may give you patience to read the rest. The Castle
needs a lot of things to make it comfortable—as you would consider
it. In fact, it is absolutely destitute of everything of a domestic
nature. Uncle Roger had it vetted on the defence side, and so far it
could stand a siege. But it couldn’t cook a dinner or go
through a spring-cleaning! As you know, I am not much up in domestic
matters, and so I cannot give you details; but you may take it that it
wants everything. I don’t mean furniture, or silver, or even
gold-plate, or works of art, for it is full of the most magnificent old
things that you can imagine. I think Uncle Roger must have been a
collector, and gathered a lot of good things in all sorts of places, stored
them for years, and then sent them here. But as to glass, china,
delft, all sorts of crockery, linen, household appliances and machinery,
cooking utensils—except of the simplest—there are none. I
don’t think Uncle Roger could have lived here more than on a
temporary picnic. So far as I only am concerned, I am all right; a
gridiron and a saucepan are all I want—and I can use them
myself. But, dear Aunt Janet, I don’t want you to pig it.
I would like you to have everything you can imagine, and all of the very
best. Cost doesn’t count now for us, thanks to Uncle Roger; and
so I want you to order all. I know you, dear—being a
woman—won’t object to shopping. But it will have to be
wholesale. This is an enormous place, and will swallow up all you can
buy—like a quicksand. Do as you like about choosing, but get
all the help you can. Don’t be afraid of getting too
much. You can’t, or of being idle when you are here. I
assure you that when you come there will be so much to do and so many
things to think of that you will want to get away from it all. And,
besides, Aunt Janet, I hope you won’t be too long. Indeed, I
don’t wish to be selfish, but your boy is lonely, and wants
you. And when you get here you will be an Empress. I don’t altogether like doing so,
lest I should offend a millionairess like you; but it may facilitate
matters, and the way’s of commerce are strict, though devious.
So I send you a cheque for £1,000 for the little things: and a letter
to the bank to honour your own cheques for any amount I have got.
I think, by the way, I should, if I were you, take or send out a few
servants—not too many at first, only just enough to attend on our two
selves. You can arrange to send for any more you may want
later. Engage them, and arrange for their being paid—when they
are in our service we must treat them well—and then they can be at
our call as you find that we want them. I think you should secure,
say, fifty or a hundred—’tis an awfu’ big place, Aunt
Janet! And in the same way will you secure—and, of course,
arrange for pay similarly—a hundred men, exclusive of any servants
you think it well to have. I should like the General, if he can give
the time, to choose or pass them. I want clansmen that I can depend
on, if need be. We are going to live in a country which is at present
strange to us, and it is well to look things in the face. I know Sir
Colin will only have men who are a credit to Scotland and to Ross and to
Croom—men who will impress the Blue Mountaineers. I know they
will take them to their hearts—certainly if any of them are bachelors
the girls will! Forgive me! But if we are to settle here, our
followers will probably want to settle also. Moreover, the Blue
Mountaineers may want followers also! And will want them to settle,
too, and have successors!
Now for the description of the place. Well, I simply can’t
just now. It is all so wonderful and so beautiful. The
Castle—I have written so much already about other things that I
really must keep the Castle for another letter! Love to Sir Colin if
he is at Croom. And oh, dear Aunt Janet, how I wish that my dear
mother was coming out! It all seems so dark and empty without
her. How she would have enjoyed it! How proud she would have
been! And, my dear, if she could be with us again, how grateful she
would have been to you for all you have done for her boy! As I am,
believe me, most truly and sincerely and affectionately grateful.
Your loving
Rupert.
Rupert Sent Leger, Vissarion, to Janet MacKelpie,
Croom.
January 26, 1907.
My dear Aunt Janet,
Please read this as if it was a part of the letter I wrote
yesterday.
The Castle itself is so vast that I really can’t describe it in
detail. So I am waiting till you come; and then you and I will go
over it together and learn all that we can about it. We shall take
Rooke with us, and, as he is supposed to know every part of it, from the
keep to the torture-chamber, we can spend a few days over it. Of
course, I have been over most of it, since I came—that, is, I went at
various times to see different portions—the battlements, the
bastions, the old guard-room, the hall, the chapel, the walls, the
roof. And I have been through some of the network of rock
passages. Uncle Roger must have spent a mint of money on it, so far
as I can see; and though I am not a soldier, I have been in so many places
fortified in different ways that I am not entirely ignorant of the
subject. He has restored it in such an up-to-date way that it is
practically impregnable to anything under big guns or a siege-train.
He has gone so far as to have certain outworks and the keep covered with
armoured plating of what looks like harveyized steel. You will wonder
when you see it. But as yet I really know only a few rooms, and am
familiar with only one—my own room. The drawing-room—not
the great hall, which is a vast place; the library—a magnificent one,
but in sad disorder—we must get a librarian some day to put it in
trim; and the drawing-room and boudoir and bedroom suite which I have
selected for you, are all fine. But my own room is what suits me
best, though I do not think you would care for it for yourself. If
you do, you shall have it. It was Uncle Roger’s own room when
he stayed here; living in it for a few days served to give me more insight
to his character—or rather to his mind—than I could have
otherwise had. It is just the kind of place I like myself; so,
naturally, I understand the other chap who liked it too. It is a fine
big room, not quite within the Castle, but an outlying part of it. It
is not detached, or anything of that sort, but is a sort of garden-room
built on to it. There seems to have been always some sort of place
where it is, for the passages and openings inside seem to accept or
recognize it. It can be shut off if necessary—it would be in
case of attack—by a great slab of steel, just like the door of a
safe, which slides from inside the wall, and can be operated from either
inside or outside—if you know how. That is from my room or from
within the keep. The mechanism is a secret, and no one but Rooke and
I know it. The room opens out through a great French window—the
French window is modern, I take it, and was arranged by or for Uncle Roger;
I think there must have been always a large opening there, for centuries at
least—which opens on a wide terrace or balcony of white marble,
extending right and left. From this a white marble stair lies
straight in front of the window, and leads down to the garden. The
balcony and staircase are quite ancient—of old Italian work,
beautifully carved, and, of course, weather-worn through centuries.
There is just that little tinging of green here and there which makes all
outdoor marble so charming. It is hard to believe at times that it is
a part of a fortified castle, it is so elegant and free and open. The
first glance of it would make a burglar’s heart glad. He would
say to himself: “Here is the sort of crib I like when I’m on
the job. You can just walk in and out as you choose.”
But, Aunt Janet, old Roger was cuter than any burglar. He had the
place so guarded that the burglar would have been a baffled burglar.
There are two steel shields which can slide out from the wall and lock into
the other side right across the whole big window. One is a grille of
steel bands that open out into diamond-shaped lozenges. Nothing
bigger than a kitten could get through; and yet you can see the garden and
the mountains and the whole view—much the same as you ladies can see
through your veils. The other is a great sheet of steel, which slides
out in a similar way in different grooves. It is not, of course, so
heavy and strong as the safe-door which covers the little opening in the
main wall, but Rooke tells me it is proof against the heaviest
rifle-hall.
Having told you this, I must tell you, too, Aunt Janet, lest you should
be made anxious by the arrière-pensée of all these
warlike measures of defence, that I always sleep at night with one of these
iron screens across the window. Of course, when I am awake I leave it
open. As yet I have tried only, but not used, the grille; and I
don’t think I shall ever use anything else, for it is a perfect
guard. If it should be tampered with from outside it would sound an
alarm at the head of the bed, and the pressing of a button would roll out
the solid steel screen in front of it. As a matter of fact, I have
been so used to the open that I don’t feel comfortable shut in.
I only close windows against cold or rain. The weather here is
delightful—as yet, at all events—but they tell me that the
rainy season will be on us before very long.
I think you will like my den, aunty dear, though it will doubtless be a
worry to you to see it so untidy. But that can’t be
helped. I must be untidy somewhere; and it is best in my own
den!
Again I find my letter so long that I must cut it off now and go on
again to-night. So this must go as it stands. I shall not cause
you to wait to hear all I can tell you about our new home.
Your loving
Rupert.
From Rupert Sent Leger, Vissarion, to Janet
MacKelpie, Croom.
January 29, 1907.
My dear Aunt Janet,
My den looks out, as I told you in my last letter, on the garden, or, to
speak more accurately, on one of the gardens, for there are acres of
them. This is the old one, which must be almost as old as the Castle
itself, for it was within the defences in the old days of bows. The
wall that surrounds the inner portion of it has long ago been levelled, but
sufficient remains at either end where it joined the outer defences to show
the long casemates for the bowmen to shoot through and the raised stone
gallery where they stood. It is just the same kind of building as the
stone-work of the sentry’s walk on the roof and of the great old
guard-room under it.
But whatever the garden may have been, and no matter how it was guarded,
it is a most lovely place. There are whole sections of garden here of
various styles—Greek, Italian, French, German, Dutch, British,
Spanish, African, Moorish—all the older nationalities. I am
going to have a new one laid out for you—a Japanese garden. I
have sent to the great gardener of Japan, Minaro, to make the plans for it,
and to come over with workmen to carry it out. He is to bring trees
and shrubs and flowers and stone-work, and everything that can be required;
and you shall superintend the finishing, if not the doing, of it
yourself. We have such a fine head of water here, and the climate is,
they tell me, usually so lovely that we can do anything in the gardening
way. If it should ever turn out that the climate does not suit, we
shall put a great high glass roof over it, and make a suitable
climate.
This garden in front of my room is the old Italian garden. It must
have been done with extraordinary taste and care, for there is not a bit of
it which is not rarely beautiful. Sir Thomas Browne himself, for all
his Quincunx, would have been delighted with it, and have found
material for another “Garden of Cyrus.” It is so big that
there are endless “episodes” of garden beauty I think all Italy
must have been ransacked in old times for garden stone-work of exceptional
beauty; and these treasures have been put together by some
master-hand. Even the formal borders of the walks are of old porous
stone, which takes the weather-staining so beautifully, and are carved in
endless variety. Now that the gardens have been so long neglected or
left in abeyance, the green staining has become perfect. Though the
stone-work is itself intact, it has all the picturesque effect of the wear
and ruin wrought by many centuries. I am having it kept for you just
as it is, except that I have had the weeds and undergrowth cleared away so
that its beauties might be visible.
But it is not merely the architect work of the garden that is so
beautiful, nor is the assembling there of the manifold wealth of floral
beauty—there is the beauty that Nature creates by the hand of her
servant, Time. You see, Aunt Janet, how the beautiful garden inspires
a danger-hardened old tramp like me to high-grade sentiments of poetic
fancy! Not only have limestone and sandstone, and even marble, grown
green in time, but even the shrubs planted and then neglected have
developed new kinds of beauty of their own. In some far-distant time
some master-gardener of the Vissarions has tried to realize an
idea—that of tiny plants that would grow just a little higher than
the flowers, so that the effect of an uneven floral surface would be
achieved without any hiding of anything in the garden seen from
anywhere. This is only my reading of what has been from the effect of
what is! In the long period of neglect the shrubs have outlived the
flowers. Nature has been doing her own work all the time in enforcing
the survival of the fittest. The shrubs have grown and grown, and
have overtopped flower and weed, according to their inherent varieties of
stature; to the effect that now you see irregularly scattered through the
garden quite a number—for it is a big place—of vegetable
products which from a landscape standpoint have something of the general
effect of statues without the cramping feeling of detail. Whoever it
was that laid out that part of the garden or made the choice of items, must
have taken pains to get strange specimens, for all those taller shrubs are
in special colours, mostly yellow or white—white cypress, white
holly, yellow yew, grey-golden box, silver juniper, variegated maple,
spiraea, and numbers of dwarf shrubs whose names I don’t know.
I only know that when the moon shines—and this, my dear Aunt Janet,
is the very land of moonlight itself!—they all look ghastly
pale. The effect is weird to the last degree, and I am sure that you
will enjoy it. For myself, as you know, uncanny things hold no
fear. I suppose it is that I have been up against so many different
kinds of fears, or, rather, of things which for most people have terrors of
their own, that I have come to have a contempt—not an active
contempt, you know, but a tolerative contempt—for the whole family of
them. And you, too, will enjoy yourself here famously, I know.
You’ll have to collect all the stories of such matters in our new
world and make a new book of facts for the Psychical Research
Society. It will be nice to see your own name on a title-page,
won’t it, Aunt Janet?
From Rupert Sent Leger, Vissarion, to Janet
MacKelpie, Croom.
January 30, 1907.
My dear Aunt Janet,
I stopped writing last night—do you know why? Because I
wanted to write more! This sounds a paradox, but it is true.
The fact is that, as I go on telling you of this delightful place, I keep
finding out new beauties myself. Broadly speaking, it is all
beautiful. In the long view or the little view—as the telescope
or the microscope directs—it is all the same. Your eye can turn
on nothing that does not entrance you. I was yesterday roaming about
the upper part of time Castle, and came across some delightful nooks, which
at once I became fond of, and already like them as if I had known them all
my life. I felt at first a sense of greediness when I had
appropriated to myself several rooms in different places—I who have
never in my life had more than one room which I could call my own—and
that only for a time! But when I slept on it the feeling changed, and
its aspect is now not half bad. It is now under another
classification—under a much more important
label—proprietorship. If I were writing philosophy, I
should here put in a cynical remark:
“Selfishness is an appanage of poverty. It might appear in
the stud-book as by ‘Morals’ out of
‘Wants.’”
I have now three bedrooms arranged as my own particular dens. One
of the other two was also a choice of Uncle Roger’s. It is at
the top of one of the towers to the extreme east, and from it I can catch
the first ray of light over the mountains. I slept in it last night,
and when I woke, as in my travelling I was accustomed to do, at dawn, I saw
from my bed through an open window—a small window, for it is in a
fortress tower—the whole great expanse to the east. Not far
off, and springing from the summit of a great ruin, where long ago a seed
had fallen, rose a great silver-birch, and the half-transparent, drooping
branches and hanging clusters of leaf broke the outline of the grey hills
beyond, for the hills were, for a wonder, grey instead of blue. There
was a mackerel sky, with the clouds dropping on the mountain-tops till you
could hardly say which was which. It was a mackerel sky of a very
bold and extraordinary kind—not a dish of mackerel, but a world of
mackerel! The mountains are certainly most lovely. In this
clear air they usually seem close at hand. It was only this morning,
with the faint glimpse of the dawn whilst the night clouds were still
unpierced by the sunlight, that I seemed to realize their greatness.
I have seen the same enlightening effect of aerial perspective a few times
before—in Colorado, in Upper India, in Thibet, and in the uplands
amongst the Andes.
There is certainly something in looking at things from above which tends
to raise one’s own self-esteem. From the height, inequalities
simply disappear. This I have often felt on a big scale when
ballooning, or, better still, from an aeroplane. Even here from the
tower the outlook is somehow quite different from below. One realizes
the place and all around it, not in detail, but as a whole. I shall
certainly sleep up here occasionally, when you have come and we have
settled down to our life as it is to be. I shall live in my own room
downstairs, where I can have the intimacy of the garden. But I shall
appreciate it all the more from now and again losing the sense of intimacy
for a while, and surveying it without the sense of one’s own
self-importance.
I hope you have started on that matter of the servants. For
myself, I don’t care a button whether or not there are any servants
at all; but I know well that you won’t come till you have made your
arrangements regarding them! Another thing, Aunt Janet. You
must not be killed with work here, and it is all so vast . . . Why
can’t you get some sort of secretary who will write your letters and
do all that sort of thing for you? I know you won’t have a man
secretary; but there are lots of women now who can write shorthand and
typewrite. You could doubtless get one in the clan—someone with
a desire to better herself. I know you would make her happy
here. If she is not too young, all the better; she will have learned
to hold her tongue and mind her own business, and not be too
inquisitive. That would be a nuisance when we are finding our way
about in a new country and trying to reconcile all sorts of opposites in a
whole new country with new people, whom at first we shan’t
understand, and who certainly won’t understand us; where every man
carries a gun with as little thought of it as he has of buttons!
Good-bye for a while.
Your loving
Rupert.
From Rupert Sent Leger, Vissarion, to Janet
MacKelpie, Croom.
February 3, 1907.
I am back in my own room again. Already it seems to me that to get
here again is like coming home. I have been going about for the last
few days amongst the mountaineers and trying to make their
acquaintance. It is a tough job; and I can see that there will be
nothing but to stick to it. They are in reality the most primitive
people I ever met—the most fixed to their own ideas, which belong to
centuries back. I can understand now what people were like in
England—not in Queen Elizabeth’s time, for that was civilized
time, but in the time of Coeur-de-Lion, or even earlier—and all the
time with the most absolute mastery of weapons of precision. Every
man carries a rifle—and knows how to use it, too. I do believe
they would rather go without their clothes than their guns if they had to
choose between them. They also carry a handjar, which used to be
their national weapon. It is a sort of heavy, straight cutlass, and
they are so expert with it as well as so strong that it is as facile in the
hands of a Blue Mountaineer as is a foil in the hands of a Persian
maître d’armes. They are so proud and reserved
that they make one feel quite small, and an “outsider” as
well. I can see quite well that they rather resent my being here at
all. It is not personal, for when alone with me they are genial,
almost brotherly; but the moment a few of them get together they are like a
sort of jury, with me as the criminal before them. It is an odd
situation, and quite new to me. I am pretty well accustomed to all
sorts of people, from cannibals to Mahatmas, but I’m blessed if I
ever struck such a type as this—so proud, so haughty, so reserved, so
distant, so absolutely fearless, so honourable, so hospitable. Uncle
Roger’s head was level when he chose them out as a people to live
amongst. Do you know, Aunt Janet, I can’t help feeling that
they are very much like your own Highlanders—only more so.
I’m sure of one thing: that in the end we shall get on capitally
together. But it will be a slow job, and will need a lot of
patience. I have a feeling in my bones that when they know me better
they will be very loyal and very true; and I am not a hair’s-breadth
afraid of them or anything they shall or might do. That is, of
course, if I live long enough for them to have time to know me.
Anything may happen with such an indomitable, proud people to whom pride is
more than victuals. After all, it only needs one man out of a crowd
to have a wrong idea or to make a mistake as to one’s
motive—and there you are. But it will be all right that way, I
am sure. I am come here to stay, as Uncle Roger wished. And
stay I shall even if it has to be in a little bed of my own beyond the
garden—seven feet odd long, and not too narrow—or else a
stone-box of equal proportions in the vaults of St. Sava’s Church
across the Creek—the old burial-place of the Vissarions and other
noble people for a good many centuries back . . .
I have been reading over this letter, dear Aunt Janet, and I am afraid
the record is rather an alarming one. But don’t you go building
up superstitious horrors or fears on it. Honestly, I am only joking
about death—a thing to which I have been rather prone for a good many
years back. Not in very good taste, I suppose, but certainly very
useful when the old man with the black wings goes flying about you day and
night in strange places, sometimes visible and at others invisible.
But you can always hear wings, especially in the dark, when you cannot see
them. You know that, Aunt Janet, who come of a race of
warriors, and who have special sight behind or through the black
curtain.
Honestly, I am in no whit afraid of the Blue Mountaineers, nor have I a
doubt of them. I love them already for their splendid qualities, and
I am prepared to love them for themselves. I feel, too, that they
will love me (and incidentally they are sure to love you). I have a
sort of undercurrent of thought that there is something in their minds
concerning me—something not painful, but disturbing; something that
has a base in the past; something that has hope in it and possible pride,
and not a little respect. As yet they can have had no opportunity of
forming such impression from seeing me or from any thing I have done.
Of course, it may be that, although they are fine, tall, stalwart men, I am
still a head and shoulders over the tallest of them that I have yet
seen. I catch their eyes looking up at me as though they were
measuring me, even when they are keeping away from me, or, rather, keeping
me from them at arm’s length. I suppose I shall understand what
it all means some day. In the meantime there is nothing to do but to
go on my own way—which is Uncle Roger’s—and wait and be
patient and just. I have learned the value of that, any way, in my
life amongst strange peoples. Good-night.
Your loving
Rupert.
From Rupert Sent Leger, Vissarion, to Janet
MacKelpie, Croom.
February 24, 1907.
My dear Aunt Janet,
I am more than rejoiced to hear that you are coming here so soon.
This isolation is, I think, getting on my nerves. I thought for a
while last night that I was getting on, but the reaction came all too
soon. I was in my room in the east turret, the room on the
corbeille, and saw here and there men passing silently and swiftly
between the trees as though in secret. By-and-by I located their
meeting-place, which was in a hollow in the midst of the wood just outside
the “natural” garden, as the map or plan of the castle calls
it. I stalked that place for all I was worth, and suddenly walked
straight into the midst of them. There were perhaps two or three
hundred gathered, about the very finest lot of men I ever saw in my
life. It was in its way quite an experience, and one not likely to be
repeated, for, as I told you, in this country every man carries a rifle,
and knows how to use it. I do not think I have seen a single man (or
married man either) without his rifle since I came here. I wonder if
they take them with them to bed! Well, the instant after I stood
amongst them every rifle in the place was aimed straight at me.
Don’t be alarmed, Aunt Janet; they did not fire at me. If they
had I should not be writing to you now. I should be in that little
bit of real estate or the stone box, and about as full of lead as I could
hold. Ordinarily, I take it, they would have fired on the instant;
that is the etiquette here. But this time they—all separately
but all together—made a new rule. No one said a word or, so far
as I could see, made a movement. Here came in my own
experience. I had been more than once in a tight place of something
of the same kind, so I simply behaved in the most natural way I
could. I felt conscious—it was all in a flash,
remember—that if I showed fear or cause for fear, or even
acknowledged danger by so much as even holding up my hands, I should have
drawn all the fire. They all remained stock-still, as though they had
been turned into stone, for several seconds. Then a queer kind of
look flashed round them like wind over corn—something like the
surprise one shows unconsciously on waking in a strange place. A
second after they each dropped the rifle to the hollow of his arm and stood
ready for anything. It was all as regular and quick and simultaneous
as a salute at St. James’s Palace.
Happily I had no arms of any kind with me, so that there could be no
complication. I am rather a quick hand myself when there is any
shooting to be done. However, there was no trouble here, but the
contrary; the Blue Mountaineers—it sounds like a new sort of Bond
Street band, doesn’t it?—treated me in quite a different way
than they did when I first met them. They were amazingly civil,
almost deferential. But, all time same, they were more distant than
ever, and all the time I was there I could get not a whit closer to
them. They seemed in a sort of way to be afraid or in awe of
me. No doubt that will soon pass away, and when we know one another
better we shall become close friends. They are too fine fellows not
to be worth a little waiting for. (That sentence, by the way, is a
pretty bad sentence! In old days you would have slippered me for
it!) Your journey is all arranged, and I hope you will be
comfortable. Rooke will meet you at Liverpool Street and look after
everything.
I shan’t write again, but when we meet at Fiume I shall begin to
tell you all the rest. Till then, good-bye. A good journey to
you, and a happy meeting to us both.
Rupert.
Letter from Janet MacKelpie, Vissarion, to Sir Colin
MacKelpie, United Service Club, London.
February 28, 1907.
Dearest Uncle,
I had a very comfortable journey all across Europe. Rupert wrote
to me some time ago to say that when I got to Vissarion I should be an
Empress, and he certainly took care that on the way here I should be
treated like one. Rooke, who seems a wonderful old man, was in the
next compartment to that reserved for me. At Harwich he had
everything arranged perfectly, and so right on to Fiume. Everywhere
there were attentive officials waiting. I had a carriage all to
myself, which I joined at Antwerp—a whole carriage with a suite of
rooms, dining-room, drawing-room, bedroom, even bath-room. There was
a cook with a kitchen of his own on board, a real chef like a French
nobleman in disguise. There were also a waiter and a
servant-maid. My own maid Maggie was quite awed at first. We
were as far as Cologne before she summoned up courage to order them
about. Whenever we stopped Rooke was on the platform with local
officials, and kept the door of my carriage like a sentry on duty.
At Fiume, when the train slowed down, I saw Rupert waiting on the
platform. He looked magnificent, towering over everybody there like a
giant. He is in perfect health, and seemed glad to see me. He
took me off at once on an automobile to a quay where an electric launch was
waiting. This took us on board a beautiful big steam-yacht, which was
waiting with full steam up and—how he got there I don’t
know—Rooke waiting at the gangway.
I had another suite all to myself. Rupert and I had dinner
together—I think the finest dinner I ever sat down to. This was
very nice of Rupert, for it was all for me. He himself only ate a
piece of steak and drank a glass of water. I went to bed early, for,
despite the luxury of the journey, I was very tired.
I awoke in the grey of the morning, and came on deck. We were
close to the coast. Rupert was on the bridge with the Captain, and
Rooke was acting as pilot. When Rupert saw me, he ran down the ladder
and took me up on the bridge. He left me there while he ran down
again and brought me up a lovely fur cloak which I had never seen. He
put it on me and kissed me. He is the tenderest-hearted boy in the
world, as well as the best and bravest! He made me take his arm
whilst he pointed out Vissarion, towards which we were steering. It
is the most lovely place I ever saw. I won’t stop to describe
it now, for it will be better that you see it for yourself and enjoy it all
fresh as I did.
The Castle is an immense place. You had better ship off, as soon
as all is ready here and you can arrange it, the servants whom I engaged;
and I am not sure that we shall not want as many more. There has
hardly been a mop or broom on the place for centuries, and I doubt if it
ever had a thorough good cleaning all over since it was built. And,
do you know, Uncle, that it might be well to double that little army of
yours that you are arranging for Rupert? Indeed, the boy told me
himself that he was going to write to you about it. I think old
Lachlan and his wife, Sandy’s Mary, had better be in charge of the
maids when they come over. A lot of lassies like yon will be iller to
keep together than a flock of sheep. So it will be wise to have
authority over them, especially as none of them speaks a word of foreign
tongues. Rooke—you saw him at the station at Liverpool
Street—will, if he be available, go over to bring the whole body
here. He has offered to do it if I should wish. And, by the
way, I think it will be well, when the time comes for their departure, if
not only the lassies, but Lachlan and Sandy’s Mary, too, will call
him Mister Rooke. He is a very important person indeed
here. He is, in fact, a sort of Master of the Castle, and though he
is very self-suppressing, is a man of rarely fine qualities. Also it
will be well to keep authority. When your clansmen come over, he will
have charge of them, too. Dear me! I find I have written such a
long letter, I must stop and get to work. I shall write again.
Your very affectionate
Janet.
From the Same to the Same.
March 3, 1907.
Dearest Uncle,
All goes well here, and as there is no news, I only write because you
are a dear, and I want to thank you for all the trouble you have taken for
me—and for Rupert. I think we had better wait awhile before
bringing out the servants. Rooke is away on some business for Rupert,
and will not be back for some time; Rupert thinks it may be a couple of
months. There is no one else that he could send to take charge of the
party from home, and I don’t like the idea of all those lassies
coming out without an escort. Even Lachlan and Sandy’s Mary are
ignorant of foreign languages and foreign ways. But as soon as Rooke
returns we can have them all out. I dare say you will have some of
your clansmen ready by then, and I think the poor girls, who may feel a bit
strange in a new country like this, where the ways are so different from
ours, will feel easier when they know that there are some of their own
mankind near them. Perhaps it might be well that those of them who
are engaged to each other—I know there are some—should marry
before they come out here. It will be more convenient in many ways,
and will save lodgment, and, besides, these Blue Mountaineers are very
handsome men. Good-night.
Janet.
Sir Colin MacKelpie, Croom, to Janet MacKelpie,
Vissarion.
March 9, 1907.
My Dear Janet,
I have duly received both your letters, and am delighted to find you are
so well pleased with your new home. It must certainly be a very
lovely and unique place, and I am myself longing to see it. I came up
here three days ago, and am, as usual, feeling all the better for a breath
of my native air. Time goes on, my dear, and I am beginning to feel
not so young as I was. Tell Rupert that the men are all fit, and
longing to get out to him. They are certainly a fine lot of
men. I don’t think I ever saw a finer. I have had them
drilled and trained as soldiers, and, in addition, have had them taught a
lot of trades just as they selected themselves. So he shall have nigh
him men who can turn their hands to anything—not, of course, that
they all know every trade, but amongst them there is someone who can do
whatever may be required. There are blacksmiths, carpenters,
farriers, saddle-makers, gardeners, plumbers, cutlers, gunsmiths, so, as
they all are farmers by origin and sportsmen by practice, they will make a
rare household body of men. They are nearly all first-class shots,
and I am having them practise with revolvers. They are being taught
fencing and broadsword and ju-jitsu; I have organized them in military
form, with their own sergeants and corporals. This morning I had an
inspection, and I assure you, my dear, they could give points to the
Household troop in matters of drill. I tell you I am proud of my
clansmen!
I think you are quite wise about waiting to bring out the lassies, and
wiser still about the marrying. I dare say there will be more
marrying when they all get settled in a foreign country. I shall be
glad of it, for as Rupert is going to settle there, it will be good for him
to have round him a little colony of his own people. And it will be
good for them, too, for I know he will be good to them—as you will,
my dear. The hills are barren here, and life is hard, and each year
there is more and more demand for crofts, and sooner or later our people
must thin out. And mayhap our little settlement of MacKelpie clan
away beyond the frontiers of the Empire may be some service to the nation
and the King. But this is a dream! I see that here I am
beginning to realise in myself one part of Isaiah’s prophecy:
“Your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream
dreams.”
By the way, my dear, talking about dreams, I am sending you out some
boxes of books which were in your rooms. They are nearly all on odd
subjects that we understand—Second Sight, Ghosts, Dreams (that
was what brought the matter to my mind just now), superstitions, Vampires,
Wehr-Wolves, and all such uncanny folk and things. I looked over some
of these books, and found your marks and underlining and comments, so I
fancy you will miss them in your new home. You will, I am sure, feel
more at ease with such old friends close to you. I have taken the
names and sent the list to London, so that when you pay me a visit again
you will be at home in all ways. If you come to me altogether, you
will be more welcome still—if possible. But I am sure that
Rupert, who I know loves you very much, will try to make you so happy that
you will not want to leave him. So I will have to come out often to
see you both, even at the cost of leaving Croom for so long. Strange,
is it not? that now, when, through Roger Melton’s more than kind
remembrance of me, I am able to go where I will and do what I will, I want
more and more to remain at home by my own ingle. I don’t think
that anyone but you or Rupert could get me away from it. I am working
very hard at my little regiment, as I call it. They are simply fine,
and will, I am sure, do us credit. The uniforms are all made, and
well made, too. There is not a man of them that does not look like an
officer. I tell you, Janet, that when we turn out the Vissarion Guard
we shall feel proud of them. I dare say that a couple of months will
do all that can be done here. I shall come out with them
myself. Rupert writes me that he thinks it will be more comfortable
to come out direct in a ship of our own. So when I go up to London in
a few weeks’ time I shall see about chartering a suitable
vessel. It will certainly save a lot of trouble to us and anxiety to
our people. Would it not be well when I am getting the ship, if I
charter one big enough to take out all your lassies, too? It is not
as if they were strangers. After all, my dear, soldiers are soldiers
and lassies are lassies. But these are all kinsfolk, as well as
clansmen and clanswomen, and I, their Chief, shall be there. Let me
know your views and wishes in this respect. Mr. Trent, whom I saw
before leaving London, asked me to “convey to you his most respectful
remembrances”—these were his very words, and here they
are. Trent is a nice fellow, and I like him. He has promised to
pay me a visit here before the month is up, and I look forward to our both
enjoying ourselves.
Good-bye, my dear, and the Lord watch over you and our dear boy.
Your affectionate Uncle,
Colin Alexander MacKelpie.
BOOK III: THE COMING OF THE LADY
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 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
régime. 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.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
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
Doppelgänger—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.
Doppelgänger, 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!
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
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.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
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.”
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
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.
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-dazed
condition, unable to think sensibly, hardly coherently. Indeed, it
was as much as I could do to preserve something of my habitual appearance
and manner. However, my first test happily came soon, and when I was
once through it I reacquired sufficient self-confidence to go through with
my purpose. Gradually the original phase of stupefaction passed, and
I was able to look the situation in the face. I knew the worst now,
at any rate; and when the lowest point has been reached things must begin
to mend. Still, I was wofully sensitive regarding anything which
might affect my Lady of the Shroud, or even my opinion of her. I even
began to dread Aunt Janet’s Second-Sight visions or dreams.
These had a fatal habit of coming so near to fact that they always made for
a danger of discovery. I had to realize now that the Lady of the
Shroud might indeed be a Vampire—one of that horrid race that
survives death and carries on a life-in-death existence eternally and only
for evil. Indeed, I began to expect that Aunt Janet would ere
long have some prophetic insight to the matter. She had been so
wonderfully correct in her prophetic surmises with regard to both the
visits to my room that it was hardly possible 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 suspect
that by any force or exercise of her occult gift she might cause me concern
by the discovery of my secret. Only once did I feel that actual
danger in that respect was close to me. That was when she came early
one morning and rapped at my door. When I called out, “Who is
that? What is it?” 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 a
nightmare in the grey of the morning. She thought she had seen me in
the crypt of a great church close beside a stone coffin; and, knowing that
such was an ominous subject to dream about, came as soon as she dared to
see 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 the cliff across the creek is St. Sava’s, where the great people
of the country used to be buried. I want you to take me there some
day. We shall go over it, and look at the tombs and monuments
together. I really think I should be afraid to go alone, but it will
be all right if you are with 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 old churches, and fill yourself up with a fresh supply
of horrors, I don’t know what will happen. You’ll be
dreaming dreadful things about me every night and neither you nor I shall
get any sleep.” It went to my heart to oppose her in any wish;
and also this kind of chaffy opposition might pain her. But I had no
alternative; the matter was too serious to be allowed to proceed.
Should Aunt Janet go to the church, she would surely want to visit the
crypt. Should she do so, and there notice the glass-covered
tomb—as she could not help doing—the Lord only knew what would
happen. She had already Second-Sighted a woman being married to me,
and before I myself knew that I had such a hope. What might she not
reveal did she know where the woman came from? It may have been that
her power of Second Sight had to rest on some basis of knowledge or belief,
and that her vision was but some intuitive perception of my own subjective
thought. But whatever it was it should be stopped—at all
hazards.
This whole episode set me thinking introspectively, and led me gradually
but imperatively to self-analysis—not of powers, but of
motives. I found myself before long examining myself as to what were
my real intentions. I thought at first that this intellectual process
was an exercise of pure reason; but soon discarded this as
inadequate—even impossible. Reason is a cold manifestation;
this feeling which swayed and dominated me is none other than passion,
which is quick, hot, and insistent.
As for myself, the self-analysis could lead to but one result—the
expression to myself of the reality and definiteness of an already-formed
though unconscious intention. I wished to do the woman good—to
serve her in some way—to secure her some benefit by any means, no
matter how difficult, which might be within my power. I knew that I
loved her—loved her most truly and fervently; there was no need for
self-analysis to tell me that. And, moreover, no self-analysis, or
any other mental process that I knew of, could help my one doubt: whether
she was an ordinary woman (or an extraordinary woman, for the matter of
that) in some sore and terrible straits; or else one who lay under some
dreadful condition, only partially alive, and not mistress of herself or
her acts. Whichever her condition might be, there was in my own
feeling a superfluity of affection for her. The self-analysis taught
me one thing, at any rate—that I had for her, to start with, an
infinite pity which had softened towards her my whole being, and had
already mastered merely selfish desire. Out of it I began to find
excuses for her every act. In the doing so I knew now, though perhaps
I did not at the time the process was going on, that my view in its true
inwardness was of her as a living woman—the woman I loved.
In the forming of our ideas there are different methods of work, as
though the analogy with material life holds good. In the building of
a house, for instance, there are many persons employed; men of different
trades and occupations—architect, builder, masons, carpenters,
plumbers, and a host of others—and all these with the officials of
each guild or trade. So in the world of thought and feelings:
knowledge and understanding come through various agents, each competent to
its task.
How far pity reacted with love I knew not; I only knew that whatever her
state might be, were she living or dead, I could find in my heart no blame
for the Lady of the Shroud. It could not be that she was dead in the
real conventional way; for, after all, the Dead do not walk the earth in
corporal substance, even if there be spirits which take the corporal
form. 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 she was not quite dead, and that it had been given to me to
restore her to life again? Ah! that would be, indeed, a privilege
well worth the giving my life to accomplish. That such a thing may be
is possible. Surely the old myths were not absolute inventions; they
must have had a basis somewhere in fact. May not the world-old story
of Orpheus and Eurydice have 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 the dead. Ay, and who has not felt that in himself
or herself was power in the deep love for our dead to make them quick
again, did we but know the secret of how it was to be done?
For myself, I have seen such mysteries that I am open to conviction
regarding things not yet explained. These have been, of course,
amongst savages or those old-world people who have brought unchecked
traditions and beliefs—ay, and powers too—down the ages from
the dim days when the world was young; when forces were elemental, and
Nature’s handiwork was experimental rather than completed. Some
of these wonders may have been older still than the accepted period of our
own period of creation. May we not have to-day other wonders,
different only in method, but not more susceptible of belief? Obi-ism
and Fantee-ism have been exercised in my own presence, and their results
proved by the evidence of my own eyes and other senses. So, too, have
stranger rites, with the same object and the same success, in the far
Pacific Islands. So, too, in India and China, in Thibet and in the
Golden Chersonese. On all and each of these occasions there was, on
my own part, enough belief to set in motion the powers of understanding;
and there were no moral scruples to stand in the way of realization.
Those whose lives are so spent that they achieve the reputation of not
fearing man or God or devil are not deterred in their doing or thwarted
from a set purpose by things which might deter others not so equipped for
adventure. Whatever may be before them—pleasant or painful,
bitter or sweet, arduous or facile, enjoyable or terrible, humorous or full
of awe and horror—they must accept, taking them in the onward course
as a good athlete takes hurdles in his stride. And there must be no
hesitating, no looking back. If the explorer or the adventurer has
scruples, he had better give up that special branch of effort and come
himself to a more level walk in life. Neither must there be
regrets. There is no need for such; savage life has this advantage:
it begets a certain toleration not to be found in conventional
existence.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
May 2, 1907.
I had heard long ago that Second Sight is a terrible gift, even to its
possessor. I am now inclined not only to believe, but to understand
it. Aunt Janet has made such a practice of it of late that I go in
constant dread of discovery of my secret. She seems to parallel me
all the time, whatever I may do. It is like a sort of dual existence
to her; for she is her dear old self all the time, and yet some other
person with a sort of intellectual kit of telescope and notebook, which are
eternally used on me. I know they are for me, too—for
what she considers my good. But all the same it makes an
embarrassment. Happily Second Sight cannot speak as clearly as it
sees, or, rather, as it understands. For the translation of the vague
beliefs which it inculcates is both nebulous and uncertain—a sort of
Delphic oracle which always says things which no one can make out at the
time, but which can be afterwards read in any one of several ways.
This is all right, for in my case it is a kind of safety; but, then, Aunt
Janet is a very clever woman, and some time she herself may be able to
understand. Then she may begin to put two and two together.
When she does that, it will not be long before she knows more than I do of
the facts of the whole affair. And her reading of them and of the
Lady of the Shroud, round whom they circle, may not be the same as
mine. Well, that will be all right too. Aunt Janet loves
me—God knows I have good reason to know that all through these
years—and whatever view she may take, her acts will be all I could
wish. But I shall come in for a good lot of scolding, I am
sure. By the way, I ought to think of that; if Aunt Janet scolds me,
it is a pretty good proof that I ought to be scolded. I wonder if I
dare tell her all. No! It is too strange. She is only a
woman, after all: and if she knew I loved . . . I wish I knew her name, and
thought—as I might myself do, only that I resist it—that she is
not alive at all. Well, what she would either think or do beats
me. I suppose she would want to slipper me as she used to do when I
was a wee kiddie—in a different way, of course.
May 3, 1907.
I really could not go on seriously last night. The idea of Aunt
Janet giving me a licking as in the dear old days made me laugh so much
that nothing in the world seemed serious then. Oh, Aunt Janet is all
right whatever comes. That I am sure of, so I needn’t worry
over it. A good thing too; there will be plenty to worry about
without that. I shall not check her telling me of her visions,
however; I may learn something from them.
For the last four-and-twenty hours I have, whilst awake, been looking
over Aunt Janet’s books, of which I brought a wheen down here.
Gee whizz! No wonder the old dear is superstitious, when she is
filled up to the back teeth with that sort of stuff! There may be
some truth in some of those yarns; those who wrote them may believe in
them, or some of them, at all events. But as to coherence or logic,
or any sort of reasonable or instructive deduction, they might as well have
been written by so many hens! These occult book-makers seem to gather
only a lot of bare, bald facts, which they put down in the most
uninteresting way possible. They go by quantity only. One story
of the kind, well examined and with logical comments, would be more
convincing to a third party than a whole hecatomb of them.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
May 4, 1907.
There is evidently something up in the country. The mountaineers
are more uneasy than they have been as yet. There is constant going
to and fro amongst them, mostly at night and in the grey of the
morning. I spend many hours in my room in the eastern tower, from
which I can watch the woods, and gather from signs the passing to and
fro. But with all this activity no one has said to me a word on the
subject. It is undoubtedly a disappointment to me. I had hoped
that the mountaineers had come to trust me; that gathering at which they
wanted to fire their guns for me gave me strong hopes. But now it is
apparent that they do not trust me in full—as yet, at all
events. Well, I must not complain. It is all only right and
just. As yet I have done nothing to prove to them the love and
devotion that I feel to the country. I know that such individuals as
I have met trust me, and I believe like me. But the trust of a nation
is different. That has to be won and tested; he who would win it must
justify, and in a way that only troublous times can allow. No nation
will—can—give full meed of honour to a stranger in times of
peace. Why should it? I must not forget that I am here a
stranger in the land, and that to the great mass of people even my name is
unknown. Perhaps they will know me better when Rooke comes back with
that store of arms and ammunition that he has bought, and the little
warship he has got from South America. When they see that I hand over
the whole lot to the nation without a string on them, they may begin to
believe. In the meantime all I can do is to wait. It will all
come right in time, I have no doubt. And if it doesn’t come
right, well, we can only die once!
Is that so? What about my Lady of the Shroud? I must not
think of that or of her in this gallery. Love and war are separate,
and may not mix—cannot mix, if it comes to that. I must be wise
in the matter; and if I have got the hump in any degree whatever, must not
show it.
But one thing is certain: something is up, and it must be the
Turks. From what the Vladika said at that meeting they have some
intention of an attack on the Blue Mountains. If that be so, we must
be ready; and perhaps I can help there. The forces must be organized;
we must have some method of communication. In this country, where are
neither roads nor railways nor telegraphs, we must establish a signalling
system of some sort. That I can begin at once. I can
make a code, or adapt one that I have used elsewhere already. I shall
rig up a semaphore on the top of the Castle which can be seen for an
enormous distance around. I shall train a number of men to be facile
in signalling. And then, should need come, I may be able to show the
mountaineers that I am fit to live in their hearts . . .
And all this work may prove an anodyne to pain of another kind. It
will help, at any rate, to keep my mind occupied whilst I am waiting for
another visit from my Lady of the Shroud.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
May 18, 1907.
The two weeks that have passed have been busy, and may, as time goes on,
prove eventful. I really think they have placed me in a different
position with the Blue Mountaineers—certainly so far as those in this
part of the country are concerned. They are no longer suspicious of
me—which is much; though they have not yet received me into their
confidence. I suppose this will come in time, but I must not try to
hustle them. Already they are willing, so far as I can see, to use me
to their own ends. They accepted the signalling idea very readily,
and are quite willing to drill as much as I like. This can be (and I
think is, in its way) a pleasure to them. They are born soldiers,
every man of them; and practice together is only a realization of their own
wishes and a further development of their powers. I think I can
understand the trend of their thoughts, and what ideas of public policy lie
behind them. In all that we have attempted together as yet they are
themselves in absolute power. It rests with them to carry out any
ideas I may suggest, so they do not fear any assumption of power or
governance on my part. Thus, so long as they keep secret from me both
their ideas of high policy and their immediate intentions, I am powerless
to do them ill, and I may be of service should occasion arise.
Well, all told, this is much. Already they accept me as an
individual, not merely one of the mass. I am pretty sure that they
are satisfied of my personal bona fides. It is policy and not
mistrust that hedges me in. Well, policy is a matter of time.
They are a splendid people, but if they knew a little more than they do
they would understand that the wisest of all policies is trust—when
it can be given. I must hold myself in check, and never be betrayed
into a harsh thought towards them. Poor souls! with a thousand years
behind them of Turkish aggression, strenuously attempted by both force and
fraud, no wonder they are suspicious. Likewise every other nation
with whom they have ever come in contact—except one, my own—has
deceived or betrayed them. Anyhow, they are fine soldiers, and before
long we shall have an army that cannot be ignored. If I can get so
that they trust me, I shall ask Sir Colin to come out here. He would
be a splendid head for their army. His great military knowledge and
tactical skill would come in well. It makes me glow to think of what
an army he would turn out of this splendid material, and one especially
adapted for the style of fighting which would be necessary in this
country.
If a mere amateur like myself, who has only had experience of organizing
the wildest kind of savages, has been able to advance or compact their
individual style of fighting into systematic effort, a great soldier like
MacKelpie will bring them to perfection as a fighting machine. Our
Highlanders, when they come out, will foregather with them, as mountaineers
always do with each other. Then we shall have a force which can hold
its own against any odds. I only hope that Rooke will be returning
soon. I want to see those Ingis-Malbron rifles either safely stored
in the Castle or, what is better, divided up amongst the
mountaineers—a thing which will be done at the very earliest moment
that I can accomplish it. I have a conviction that when these men
have received their arms and ammunition from me they will understand me
better, and not keep any secrets from me.
All this fortnight when I was not drilling or going about amongst the
mountaineers, and teaching them the code which I have now got perfected, I
was exploring the side of the mountain nearest to here. I could not
bear to be still. It is torture to me to be idle in my present
condition of mind regarding my Lady of the Shroud . . . Strange I do not
mind mentioning the word to myself now. I used to at first; but that
bitterness has all gone away.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
May 19, 1907.
I was so restless early this morning that before daylight I was out
exploring on the mountain-side. By chance I came across a secret
place just as the day was breaking. Indeed, it was by the change of
light as the first sun-rays seemed to fall down the mountain-side that my
attention was called to an opening shown by a light behind it. It
was, indeed, a secret place—so secret that I thought at first I
should keep it to myself. In such a place as this either to hide in
or to be able to prevent anyone else hiding in might on occasion be an
asset of safety.
When, however, I saw indications rather than traces that someone had
already used it to camp in, I changed my mind, and thought that whenever I
should get an opportunity I would tell the Vladika of it, as he is a man on
whose discretion I can rely. If we ever have a war here or any sort
of invasion, it is just such places that may be dangerous. Even in my
own case it is much too near the Castle to be neglected.
The indications were meagre—only where a fire had been on a little
shelf of rock; and it was not possible, through the results of burning
vegetation or scorched grass, to tell how long before the fire had been
alight. I could only guess. Perhaps the mountaineers might be
able to tell or even to guess better than I could. But I am not so
sure of this. I am a mountaineer myself, and with larger and more
varied experience than any of them. For myself, though I could not be
certain, I came to the conclusion that whoever had used the place had done
so not many days before. It could not have been quite recently; but
it may not have been very long ago. Whoever had used it had covered
up his tracks well. Even the ashes had been carefully removed, and
the place where they had lain was cleaned or swept in some way, so that
there was no trace on the spot. I applied some of my West African
experience, and looked on the rough bark of the trees to leeward, to where
the agitated air, however directed, must have come, unless it was wanted to
call attention to the place by the scattered wood-ashes, however
fine. I found traces of it, but they were faint. There had not
been rain for several days; so the dust must have been blown there since
the rain had fallen, for it was still dry.
The place was a tiny gorge, with but one entrance, which was hidden
behind a barren spur of rock—just a sort of long fissure, jagged and
curving, in the rock, like a fault in the stratification. I could
just struggle through it with considerable effort, holding my breath here
and there, so as to reduce my depth of chest. Within it was
tree-clad, and full of possibilities of concealment.
As I came away I marked well its direction and approaches, noting any
guiding mark which might aid in finding it by day or night. I
explored every foot of ground around it—in front, on each side, and
above. But from nowhere could I see an indication of its
existence. It was a veritable secret chamber wrought by the hand of
Nature itself. I did not return home till I was familiar with every
detail near and around it. This new knowledge added distinctly to my
sense of security.
Later in the day I tried to find the Vladika or any mountaineer of
importance, for I thought that such a hiding-place which had been used so
recently might be dangerous, and especially at a time when, as I had
learned at the meeting where they did not fire their guns that there
may have been spies about or a traitor in the land.
Even before I came to my own room to-night I had fully made up my mind
to go out early in the morning and find some proper person to whom to
impart the information, so that a watch might be kept on the place.
It is now getting on for midnight, and when I have had my usual last look
at the garden I shall turn in. Aunt Janet was uneasy all day, and
especially so this evening. I think it must have been my absence at
the usual breakfast-hour which got on her nerves; and that unsatisfied
mental or psychical irritation increased as the day wore on.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
May 20, 1907.
The clock on the mantelpiece in my room, which chimes on the notes of
the clock at St. James’s Palace, was striking midnight when I opened
the glass door on the terrace. I had put out my lights before I drew
the curtain, as I wished to see the full effect of the moonlight. Now
that the rainy season is over, the moon is quite as beautiful as it was in
the wet, and a great deal more comfortable. I was in evening dress,
with a smoking-jacket in lieu of a coat, and I felt the air mild and mellow
on the warm side, as I stood on the terrace.
But even in that bright moonlight the further corners of the great
garden were full of mysterious shadows. I peered into them as well as
I could—and my eyes are pretty good naturally, and are well
trained. There was not the least movement. The air was as still
as death, the foliage as still as though wrought in stone.
I looked for quite a long time in the hope of seeing something of my
Lady. The quarters chimed several times, but I stood on
unheeding. At last I thought I saw far off in the very corner of the
old defending wall a flicker of white. It was but momentary, and
could hardly have accounted in itself for the way my heart beat. I
controlled myself, and stood as though I, too, were a graven image. I
was rewarded by seeing presently another gleam of white. And then an
unspeakable rapture stole over me as I realized that my Lady was coming as
she had come before. I would have hurried out to meet her, but that I
knew well that this would not be in accord with her wishes. So,
thinking to please her, I drew back into the room. I was glad I had
done so when, from the dark corner where I stood, I saw her steal up the
marble steps and stand timidly looking in at the door. Then, after a
long pause, came a whisper as faint and sweet as the music of a distant
Æolian harp:
“Are you there? May I come in? Answer me! I am
lonely and in fear!” For answer I emerged from my dim corner so
swiftly that she was startled. I could hear from the quivering intake
of her breath that she was striving—happily with success—to
suppress a shriek.
“Come in,” I said quietly. “I was waiting for
you, for I felt that you would come. I only came in from the terrace
when I saw you coming, lest you might fear that anyone might see us.
That is not possible, but I thought you wished that I should be
careful.”
“I did—I do,” she answered in a low, sweet voice, but
very firmly. “But never avoid precaution. There is
nothing that may not happen here. There may be eyes where we least
expect—or suspect them.” As she spoke the last words
solemnly and in a low whisper, she was entering the room. I closed
the glass door and bolted it, rolled back the steel grille, and pulled the
heavy curtain. Then, when I had lit a candle, I went over and put a
light to the fire. In a few seconds the dry wood had caught, and the
flames were beginning to rise and crackle. She had not objected to my
closing the window and drawing the curtain; neither did she make any
comment on my lighting the fire. She simply acquiesced in it, as
though it was now a matter of course. When I made the pile of
cushions before it as on the occasion of her last visit, she sank down on
them, and held out her white, trembling hands to the warmth.
She was different to-night from what she had been on either of the two
former visits. From her present bearing I arrived at some gauge of
her self-concern, her self-respect. Now that she was dry, and not
overmastered by wet and cold, a sweet and gracious dignity seemed to shine
from her, enwrapping her, as it were, with a luminous veil. It was
not that she was by this made or shown as cold or distant, or in any way
harsh or forbidding. On the contrary, protected by this dignity, she
seemed much more sweet and genial than before. It was as though she
felt that she could afford to stoop now that her loftiness was
realized—that her position was recognized and secure. If her
inherent dignity made an impenetrable nimbus round her, this was against
others; she herself was not bound by it, or to be bound. So marked
was this, so entirely and sweetly womanly did she appear, that I caught
myself wondering in flashes of thought, which came as sharp periods of
doubting judgment between spells of unconscious fascination, how I had ever
come to think she was aught but perfect woman. As she rested, half
sitting and half lying on the pile of cushions, she was all grace, and
beauty, and charm, and sweetness—the veritable perfect woman of the
dreams of a man, be he young or old. To have such a woman sit by his
hearth and hold her holy of holies in his heart might well be a rapture to
any man. Even an hour of such entrancing joy might be well won by a
lifetime of pain, by the balance of a long life sacrificed, by the
extinction of life itself. Quick behind the record of such thoughts
came the answer to the doubt they challenged: if it should turn out that
she was not living at all, but one of the doomed and pitiful Un-Dead, then
so much more on account of her very sweetness and beauty would be the
winning of her back to Life and Heaven—even were it that she might
find happiness in the heart and in the arms of another man.
Once, when I leaned over the hearth to put fresh logs on the fire, my
face was so close to hers that I felt her breath on my cheek. It
thrilled me to feel even the suggestion of that ineffable contact.
Her breath was sweet—sweet as the breath of a calf, sweet as the
whiff of a summer breeze across beds of mignonette. How could anyone
believe for a moment that such sweet breath could come from the lips of the
dead—the dead in esse or in posse—that corruption
could send forth fragrance so sweet and pure? It was with satisfied
happiness that, as I looked at her from my stool, I saw the dancing of the
flames from the beech-logs reflected in her glorious black eyes, and the
stars that were hidden in them shine out with new colours and new lustre as
they gleamed, rising and falling like hopes and fears. As the light
leaped, so did smiles of quiet happiness flit over her beautiful face, the
merriment of the joyous flames being reflected in ever-changing
dimples.
At first I was a little disconcerted whenever my eyes took note of her
shroud, and there came a momentary regret that the weather had not been
again bad, so that there might have been compulsion for her putting on
another garment—anything lacking the loathsomeness of that pitiful
wrapping. Little by little, however, this feeling disappeared, and I
found no matter for even dissatisfaction in her wrapping. Indeed, my
thoughts found inward voice before the subject was dismissed from my
mind:
“One becomes accustomed to anything—even a
shroud!” But the thought was followed by a submerging wave of
pity that she should have had such a dreadful experience.
By-and-by we seemed both to forget everything—I know I
did—except that we were man and woman, and close together. The
strangeness of the situation and the circumstances did not seem of
moment—not worth even a passing thought. We still sat apart and
said little, if anything. I cannot recall a single word that either
of us spoke whilst we sat before the fire, but other language than speech
came into play; the eyes told their own story, as eyes can do, and more
eloquently than lips whilst exercising their function of speech.
Question and answer followed each other in this satisfying language, and
with an unspeakable rapture I began to realize that my affection was
returned. Under these circumstances it was unrealizable that there
should be any incongruity in the whole affair. I was not myself in
the mood of questioning. I was diffident with that diffidence which
comes alone from true love, as though it were a necessary emanation from
that delightful and overwhelming and commanding passion. In her
presence there seemed to surge up within me that which forbade
speech. Speech under present conditions would have seemed to me
unnecessary, imperfect, and even vulgarly overt. She, too, was
silent. But now that I am alone, and memory is alone with me, I am
convinced that she also had been happy. No, not that exactly.
“Happiness” is not the word to describe either her feeling or
my own. Happiness is more active, a more conscious enjoyment.
We had been content. That expresses our condition perfectly; and now
that I can analyze my own feeling, and understand what the word implies, I
am satisfied of its accuracy. “Content” has both a
positive and negative meaning or antecedent condition. It implies an
absence of disturbing conditions as well as of wants; also it implies
something positive which has been won or achieved, or which has
accrued. In our state of mind—for though it may be presumption
on my part, I am satisfied that our ideas were mutual—it meant that
we had reached an understanding whence all that might come must be for
good. God grant that it may be so!
As we sat silent, looking into each other’s eyes, and whilst the
stars in hers were now full of latent fire, perhaps from the reflection of
the flames, she suddenly sprang to her feet, instinctively drawing the
horrible shroud round her as she rose to her full height in a voice full of
lingering emotion, as of one who is acting under spiritual compulsion
rather than personal will, she said in a whisper:
“I must go at once. I feel the morning drawing nigh. I
must be in my place when the light of day comes.”
She was so earnest that I felt I must not oppose her wish; so I, too,
sprang to my feet and ran towards the window. I pulled the curtain
aside sufficiently far for me to press back the grille and reach the glass
door, the latch of which I opened. I passed behind the curtain again,
and held the edge of it back so that she could go through. For an
instant she stopped as she broke the long silence:
“You are a true gentleman, and my friend. You understand all
I wish. Out of the depth of my heart I thank you.” She
held out her beautiful high-bred hand. I took it in both mine as I
fell on my knees, and raised it to my lips. Its touch made me
quiver. She, too, trembled as she looked down at me with a glance
which seemed to search my very soul. The stars in her eyes, now that
the firelight was no longer on them, had gone back to their own mysterious
silver. Then she drew her hand from mine very, very gently, as though
it would fain linger; and she passed out behind the curtain with a gentle,
sweet, dignified little bow which left me on my knees.
When I heard the glass door pulled-to gently behind her, I rose from my
knees and hurried without the curtain, just in time to watch her pass down
the steps. I wanted to see her as long as I could. The grey of
morning was just beginning to war with the night gloom, and by the faint
uncertain light I could see dimly the white figure flit between shrub and
statue till finally it merged in the far darkness.
I stood for a long time on the terrace, sometimes looking into the
darkness in front of me, in case I might be blessed with another glimpse of
her; sometimes with my eyes closed, so that I might recall and hold in my
mind her passage down the steps. For the first time since I had met
her she had thrown back at me a glance as she stepped on the white path
below the terrace. With the glamour over me of that look, which was
all love and enticement, I could have dared all the powers that be.
When the grey dawn was becoming apparent through the lightening of the
sky I returned to my room. In a dazed condition—half hypnotized
by love—I went to bed, and in dreams continued to think, all happily,
of my Lady of the Shroud.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
May 27, 1907.
A whole week has gone since I saw my Love! There it is; no doubt
whatever is left in my mind about it now! Since I saw her my passion
has grown and grown by leaps and bounds, as novelists put it. It has
now become so vast as to overwhelm me, to wipe out all thought of doubt or
difficulty. I suppose it must be what men suffered—suffering
need not mean pain—under enchantments in old times. I am but as
a straw whirled in the resistless eddies of a whirlpool. I feel that
I must see her again, even if it be but in her tomb in the
crypt. I must, I suppose, prepare myself for the venture, for many
things have to be thought of. The visit must not be at night, for in
such case I might miss her, did she come to me again here . . .
The morning came and went, but my wish and intention still remained; and
so in the full tide of noon, with the sun in all its fiery force, I set out
for the old church of St. Sava. I carried with me a lantern with
powerful lens. I had wrapped it up secretly, for I had a feeling that
I should not like anyone to know that I had such a thing with me.
On this occasion I had no misgivings. On the former visit I had
for a moment been overwhelmed at the unexpected sight of the body of the
woman I thought I loved—I knew it now—lying in her tomb.
But now I knew all, and it was to see this woman, though in her tomb, that
I came.
When I had lit my lantern, which I did as soon as I had pushed open the
great door, which was once again unlocked, I turned my steps to the steps
of the crypt, which lay behind the richly carven wood screen. This I
could see, with the better light, was a noble piece of work of priceless
beauty and worth. I tried to keep my heart in full courage with
thoughts of my Lady, and of the sweetness and dignity of our last meeting;
but, despite all, it sank down, down, and turned to water as I passed with
uncertain feet down the narrow, tortuous steps. My concern, I am now
convinced, was not for myself, but that she whom I adored should have to
endure such a fearful place. As anodyne to my own pain I thought what
it would be, and how I should feel, when I should have won for her a way
out of that horror, at any rate. This thought reassured me somewhat,
and restored my courage. It was in something of the same fashion
which has hitherto carried me out of tight places as well as into them that
at last I pushed open the low, narrow door at the foot of the rock-hewn
staircase and entered the crypt.
Without delay I made my way to the glass-covered tomb set beneath the
hanging chain. I could see by the flashing of the light around me
that my hand which held the lantern trembled. With a great effort I
steadied myself, and raising the lantern, turned its light down into the
sarcophagus.
Once again the fallen lantern rang on the tingling glass, and I stood
alone in the darkness, for an instant almost paralyzed with surprised
disappointment.
The tomb was empty! Even the trappings of the dead had been
removed.
I knew not what happened till I found myself groping my way up the
winding stair. Here, in comparison with the solid darkness of the
crypt, it seemed almost light. The dim expanse of the church sent a
few straggling rays down the vaulted steps, and as I could see, be it never
so dimly, I felt I was not in absolute darkness. With the light came
a sense of power and fresh courage, and I groped my way back into the crypt
again. There, by now and again lighting matches, I found my way to
the tomb and recovered my lantern. Then I took my way
slowly—for I wished to prove, if not my own courage, at least such
vestiges of self-respect as the venture had left me—through the
church, where I extinguished my lantern, and out through the great door
into the open sunlight. I seemed to have heard, both in the darkness
of the crypt and through the dimness of the church, mysterious sounds as of
whispers and suppressed breathing; but the memory of these did not count
for much when once I was free. I was only satisfied of my own
consciousness and identity when I found myself on the broad rock terrace in
front of the church, with the fierce sunlight beating on my upturned face,
and, looking downward, saw far below me the rippled blue of the open
sea.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
June 3, 1907.
Another week has elapsed—a week full of movement of many kinds and
in many ways—but as yet I have had no tale or tidings of my Lady of
the Shroud. I have not had an opportunity of going again in daylight
to St. Sava’s as I should have liked to have done. I felt that
I must not go at night. The night is her time of freedom, and it must
be kept for her—or else I may miss her, or perhaps never see her
again.
The days have been full of national movement. The mountaineers
have evidently been organizing themselves, for some reason which I cannot
quite understand, and which they have hesitated to make known to me.
I have taken care not to manifest any curiosity, whatever I may have
felt. This would certainly arouse suspicion, and might ultimately
cause disaster to my hopes of aiding the nation in their struggle to
preserve their freedom.
These fierce mountaineers are strangely—almost
unduly—suspicious, and the only way to win their confidence is to
begin the trusting. A young American attaché of the Embassy at
Vienna, who had made a journey through the Land of the Blue Mountains, once
put it to me in this form:
“Keep your head shut, and they’ll open theirs. If you
don’t, they’ll open it for you—down to the
chine!”
It was quite apparent to me that they were completing some fresh
arrangements for signalling with a code of their own. This was
natural enough, and in no way inconsistent with the measure of friendliness
already shown to me. Where there are neither telegraphs, railways,
nor roads, any effective form of communication must—can only be
purely personal. And so, if they wish to keep any secret amongst
themselves, they must preserve the secret of their code. I should
have dearly liked to learn their new code and their manner of using it, but
as I want to be a helpful friend to them—and as this implies not only
trust, but the appearance of it—I had to school myself to
patience.
This attitude so far won their confidence that before we parted at our
last meeting, after most solemn vows of faith and secrecy, they took me
into the secret. This was, however, only to the extent of teaching me
the code and method; they still withheld from me rigidly the fact or
political secret, or whatever it was that was the mainspring of their
united action.
When I got home I wrote down, whilst it was fresh in my memory, all they
told me. This script I studied until I had it so thoroughly by heart
that I could not forget it. Then I burned the paper.
However, there is now one gain at least: with my semaphore I can send
through the Blue Mountains from side to side, with expedition, secrecy, and
exactness, a message comprehensible to all.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
June 6, 1907.
Last night I had a new experience of my Lady of the Shroud—in so
far as form was concerned, at any rate. I was in bed, and just
falling asleep, when I heard a queer kind of scratching at the glass door
of the terrace. I listened acutely, my heart beating hard. The
sound seemed to come from low down, close to the floor. I jumped out
of bed, ran to the window, and, pulling aside the heavy curtains, looked
out.
The garden looked, as usual, ghostly in the moonlight, but there was not
the faintest sign of movement anywhere, and no one was on or near the
terrace. I looked eagerly down to where the sound had seemed to come
from.
There, just inside the glass door, as though it had been pushed under
the door, lay a paper closely folded in several laps. I picked it up
and opened it. I was all in a tumult, for my heart told me whence it
came. Inside was written in English, in a large, sprawling hand, such
as might be from an English child of seven or eight:
“Meet me at the Flagstaff on the Rock!”
I knew the place, of course. On the farthermost point of the rock
on which the Castle stands is set a high flagstaff, whereon in old time the
banner of the Vissarion family flew. At some far-off time, when the
Castle had been liable to attack, this point had been strongly
fortified. Indeed, in the days when the bow was a martial weapon it
must have been quite impregnable.
A covered gallery, with loopholes for arrows, had been cut in the solid
rock, running right round the point, quite surrounding the flagstaff and
the great boss of rock on whose centre it was reared. A narrow
drawbridge of immense strength had connected—in peaceful times, and
still remained—the outer point of rock with an entrance formed in the
outer wall, and guarded with flanking towers and a portcullis. Its
use was manifestly to guard against surprise. From this point only
could be seen the line of the rocks all round the point. Thus, any
secret attack by boats could be made impossible.
Having hurriedly dressed myself, and taking with me both hunting-knife
and revolver, I went out on the terrace, taking the precaution, unusual to
me, of drawing the grille behind me and locking it. Matters around
the Castle are in far too disturbed a condition to allow the taking of any
foolish chances, either in the way of being unarmed or of leaving the
private entrance to the Castle open. I found my way through the rocky
passage, and climbed by the Jacob’s ladder fixed on the rock—a
device of convenience in time of peace—to the foot of the
flagstaff.
I was all on fire with expectation, and the time of going seemed
exceeding long; so I was additionally disappointed by the contrast when I
did not see my Lady there when I arrived. However, my heart beat
freely again—perhaps more freely than ever—when I saw her
crouching in the shadow of the Castle wall. From where she was she
could not be seen from any point save that alone which I occupied; even
from there it was only her white shroud that was conspicuous through the
deep gloom of the shadow. The moonlight was so bright that the
shadows were almost unnaturally black.
I rushed over towards her, and when close was about to say impulsively,
“Why did you leave your tomb?” when it suddenly struck me that
the question would be malapropos and embarrassing in many ways. So,
better judgment prevailing, I said instead:
“It has been so long since I saw you! It has seemed an
eternity to me!” Her answer came as quickly as even I could
have wished; she spoke impulsively and without thought:
“It has been long to me too! Oh, so long! so long! I
have asked you to come out here because I wanted to see you so much that I
could not wait any longer. I have been heart-hungry for a sight of
you!”
Her words, her eager attitude, the ineffable something which conveys the
messages of the heart, the longing expression in her eyes as the full
moonlight fell on her face, showing the stars as living gold—for in
her eagerness she had stepped out towards me from the shadow—all set
me on fire. Without a thought or a word—for it was Nature
speaking in the language of Love, which is a silent tongue—I stepped
towards her and took her in my arms. She yielded with that sweet
unconsciousness which is the perfection of Love, as if it was in obedience
to some command uttered before the beginning of the world. Probably
without any conscious effort on either side—I know there was none on
mine—our mouths met in the first kiss of love.
At the time nothing in the meeting struck me as out of the common.
But later in the night, when I was alone and in darkness, whenever I
thought of it all—its strangeness and its stranger rapture—I
could not but be sensible of the bizarre conditions for a love
meeting. The place lonely, the time night, the man young and strong,
and full of life and hope and ambition; the woman, beautiful and ardent
though she was, a woman seemingly dead, clothed in the shroud in which she
had been wrapped when lying in her tomb in the crypt of the old church.
Whilst we were together, anyhow, there was little thought of the kind;
no reasoning of any kind on my part. Love has its own laws and its
own logic. Under the flagstaff, where the Vissarion banner was wont
to flap in the breeze, she was in my arms; her sweet breath was on my face;
her heart was beating against my own. What need was there for reason
at all? Inter arma silent leges—the voice of reason is
silent in the stress of passion. Dead she may be, or Un-dead—a
Vampire with one foot in Hell and one on earth. But I love her; and
come what may, here or hereafter, she is mine. As my mate, we shall
fare along together, whatsoever the end may be, or wheresoever our path may
lead. If she is indeed to be won from the nethermost Hell, then be
mine the task!
But to go back to the record. When I had once started speaking to
her in words of passion I could not stop. I did not want to—if
I could; and she did not appear to wish it either. Can there be a
woman—alive or dead—who would not want to hear the rapture of
her lover expressed to her whilst she is enclosed in his arms?
There was no attempt at reticence on my part now; I took it for granted
that she knew all that I surmised, and, as she made neither protest nor
comment, that she accepted my belief as to her indeterminate
existence. Sometimes her eyes would be closed, but even then the
rapture of her face was almost beyond belief. Then, when the
beautiful eyes would open and gaze on me, the stars that were in them would
shine and scintillate as though they were formed of living fire. She
said little, very little; but though the words were few, every syllable was
fraught with love, and went straight to the very core of my heart.
By-and-by, when our transport had calmed to joy, I asked when I might
next see her, and how and where I might find her when I should want
to. She did not reply directly, but, holding me close in her arms,
whispered in my ear with that breathless softness which is a lover’s
rapture of speech:
“I have come here under terrible difficulties, not only because I
love you—and that would be enough—but because, as well as the
joy of seeing you, I wanted to warn you.”
“To warn me! Why?” I queried. Her reply came
with a bashful hesitation, with something of a struggle in it, as of one
who for some ulterior reason had to pick her words:
“There are difficulties and dangers ahead of you. You are
beset with them; and they are all the greater because they are, of grim
necessity, hidden from you. You cannot go anywhere, look in any
direction, do anything, say anything, but it may be a signal for
danger. My dear, it lurks everywhere—in the light as well as in
the darkness; in the open as well as in the secret places; from friends as
well as foes; when you are least prepared; when you may least expect
it. Oh, I know it, and what it is to endure; for I share it for
you—for your dear sake!”
“My darling!” was all I could say, as I drew her again
closer to me and kissed her. After a bit she was calmer; seeing this,
I came back to the subject that she had—in part, at all
events—come to me to speak about:
“But if difficulty and danger hedge me in so everlastingly, and if
I am to have no indication whatever of its kind or purpose, what can I
do? God knows I would willingly guard myself—not on my own
account, but for your dear sake. I have now a cause to live and be
strong, and to keep all my faculties, since it may mean much to you.
If you may not tell me details, may you not indicate to me some line of
conduct, of action, that would be most in accord with your wishes—or,
rather, with your idea of what would be best?”
She looked at me fixedly before speaking—a long, purposeful,
loving look which no man born of woman could misunderstand. Then she
spoke slowly, deliberately, emphatically:
“Be bold, and fear not. Be true to yourself, to me—it
is the same thing. These are the best guards you can use. Your
safety does not rest with me. Ah, I wish it did! I wish to God
it did!” In my inner heart it thrilled me not merely to hear
the expression of her wish, but to hear her use the name of God as she
did. I understand now, in the calm of this place and with the
sunlight before me, that my belief as to her being all woman—living
woman—was not quite dead: but though at the moment my heart did not
recognize the doubt, my brain did. And I made up my mind that we
should not part this time until she knew that I had seen her, and where;
but, despite my own thoughts, my outer ears listened greedily as she went
on.
“As for me, you may not find me, but I shall find
you, be sure! And now we must say ‘Good-night,’ my
dear, my dear! Tell me once again that you love me, for it is a
sweetness that one does not wish to forego—even one who wears such a
garment as this—and rests where I must rest.” As she
spoke she held up part of her cerements for me to see. What could I
do but take her once again in my arms and hold her close, close. God
knows it was all in love; but it was passionate love which surged through
my every vein as I strained her dear body to mine. But yet this
embrace was not selfish; it was not all an expression of my own
passion. It was based on pity—the pity which is twin-born with
true love. Breathless from our kisses, when presently we released
each other, she stood in a glorious rapture, like a white spirit in the
moonlight, and as her lovely, starlit eyes seemed to devour me, she spoke
in a languorous ecstasy:
“Oh, how you love me! how you love me! It is worth all I
have gone through for this, even to wearing this terrible
drapery.” And again she pointed to her shroud.
Here was my chance to speak of what I knew, and I took it.
“I know, I know. Moreover, I know that awful
resting-place.”
I was interrupted, cut short in the midst of my sentence, not by any
word, but by the frightened look in her eyes and the fear-mastered way in
which she shrank away from me. I suppose in reality she could not be
paler than she looked when the colour-absorbing moonlight fell on her; but
on the instant all semblance of living seemed to shrink and fall away, and
she looked with eyes of dread as if in I some awful way held in
thrall. But for the movement of the pitiful glance, she would have
seemed of soulless marble, so deadly cold did she look.
The moments that dragged themselves out whilst I waited for her to speak
seemed endless. At length her words came in an awed whisper, so faint
that even in that stilly night I could hardly hear it:
“You know—you know my resting-place! How—when
was that?” There was nothing to do now but to speak out the
truth:
“I was in the crypt of St. Sava. It was all by
accident. I was exploring all around the Castle, and I went there in
my course. I found the winding stair in the rock behind the screen,
and went down. Dear, I loved you well before that awful moment, but
then, even as the lantern fell tingling on the glass, my love multiplied
itself, with pity as a factor.” She was silent for a few
seconds. When she spoke, there was a new tone in her voice:
“But were you not shocked?”
“Of course I was,” I answered on the spur of the moment, and
I now think wisely. “Shocked is hardly the word. I was
horrified beyond anything that words can convey that you—you
should have to so endure! I did not like to return, for I feared lest
my doing so might set some barrier between us. But in due time I did
return on another day.”
“Well?” Her voice was like sweet music.
“I had another shock that time, worse than before, for you were
not there. Then indeed it was that I knew to myself how dear you
were—how dear you are to me. Whilst I live, you—living or
dead—shall always be in my heart.” She breathed
hard. The elation in her eyes made them outshine the moonlight, but
she said no word. I went on:
“My dear, I had come into the crypt full of courage and hope,
though I knew what dreadful sight should sear my eyes once again. But
we little know what may be in store for us, no matter what we expect.
I went out with a heart like water from that dreadful
desolation.”
“Oh, how you love me, dear!” Cheered by her words, and
even more by her tone, I went on with renewed courage. There was no
halting, no faltering in my intention now:
“You and I, my dear, were ordained for each other. I cannot
help it that you had already suffered before I knew you. It may be
that there may be for you still suffering that I may not prevent, endurance
that I may not shorten; but what a man can do is yours. Not Hell
itself will stop me, if it be possible that I may win through its torments
with you in my arms!”
“Will nothing stop you, then?” Her question was
breathed as softly as the strain of an Æolian harp.
“Nothing!” I said, and I heard my own teeth snap
together. There was something speaking within me stronger than I had
ever known myself to be. Again came a query, trembling, quavering,
quivering, as though the issue was of more than life or death:
“Not this?” She held up a corner of the shroud, and as
she saw my face and realized the answer before I spoke, went on:
“With all it implies?”
“Not if it were wrought of the cerecloths of the
damned!” There was a long pause. Her voice was more
resolute when she spoke again. It rang. Moreover, there was in
it a joyous note, as of one who feels new hope:
“But do you know what men say? Some of them, that I am dead
and buried; others, that I am not only dead and buried, but that I am one
of those unhappy beings that may not die the common death of man. Who
live on a fearful life-in-death, whereby they are harmful to all.
Those unhappy Un-dead whom men call Vampires—who live on the blood of
the living, and bring eternal damnation as well as death with the poison of
their dreadful kisses!
“I know what men say sometimes,” I answered.
“But I know also what my own heart says; and I rather choose to obey
its calling than all the voices of the living or the dead. Come what
may, I am pledged to you. If it be that your old life has to be rewon
for you out of the very jaws of Death and Hell, I shall keep the faith I
have pledged, and that here I pledge again!” As I finished
speaking I sank on my knees at her feet, and, putting my arms round her,
drew her close to me. Her tears rained down on my face as she stroked
my hair with her soft, strong hand and whispered to me:
“This is indeed to be one. What more holy marriage can God
give to any of His creatures?” We were both silent for a
time.
I think I was the first to recover my senses. That I did so was
manifest by my asking her: “When may we meet again?”—a
thing I had never remembered doing at any of our former partings. She
answered with a rising and falling of the voice that was just above a
whisper, as soft and cooing as the voice of a pigeon:
“That will be soon—as soon as I can manage it, be
sure. My dear, my dear!” The last four words of
endearment she spoke in a low but prolonged and piercing tone which made me
thrill with delight.
“Give me some token,” I said, “that I may have always
close to me to ease my aching heart till we meet again, and ever after, for
love’s sake!” Her mind seemed to leap to understanding,
and with a purpose all her own. Stooping for an instant, she tore off
with swift, strong fingers a fragment of her shroud. This, having
kissed it, she handed to me, whispering:
“It is time that we part. You must leave me now. Take
this, and keep it for ever. I shall be less unhappy in my terrible
loneliness whilst it lasts if I know that this my gift, which for good or
ill is a part of me as you know me, is close to you. It may be, my
very dear, that some day you may be glad and even proud of this hour, as I
am.” She kissed me as I took it.
“For life or death, I care not which, so long as I am with
you!” I said, as I moved off. Descending the Jacob’s
ladder, I made my way down the rock-hewn passage.
The last thing I saw was the beautiful face of my Lady of the Shroud as
she leaned over the edge of the opening. Her eyes were like glowing
stars as her looks followed me. That look shall never fade from my
memory.
After a few agitating moments of thought I half mechanically took my way
down to the garden. Opening the grille, I entered my lonely room,
which looked all the more lonely for the memory of the rapturous moments
under the Flagstaff. I went to bed as one in a dream. There I
lay till sunrise—awake and thinking.
BOOK V: A RITUAL AT MIDNIGHT
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
June 20, 1907.
The time has gone as quickly as work can effect since I saw my
Lady. As I told the mountaineers, Rooke, whom I had sent on the
service, had made a contract for fifty thousand Ingis-Malbron rifles, and
as many tons of ammunition as the French experts calculated to be a full
supply for a year of warfare. I heard from him by our secret
telegraph code that the order had been completed, and that the goods were
already on the way. The morning after the meeting at the Flagstaff I
had word that at night the vessel—one chartered by Rooke for the
purpose—would arrive at Vissarion during the night. We were all
expectation. I had always now in the Castle a signalling party, the
signals being renewed as fast as the men were sufficiently expert to
proceed with their practice alone or in groups. We hoped that every
fighting-man in the country would in time become an expert signaller.
Beyond these, again, we have always a few priests. The Church of the
country is a militant Church; its priests are soldiers, its Bishops
commanders. But they all serve wherever the battle most needs
them. Naturally they, as men of brains, are quicker at learning than
the average mountaineers; with the result that they learnt the code and the
signalling almost by instinct. We have now at least one such expert
in each community of them, and shortly the priests alone will be able to
signal, if need be, for the nation; thus releasing for active service the
merely fighting-man. The men at present with me I took into
confidence as to the vessel’s arrival, and we were all ready for work
when the man on the lookout at the Flagstaff sent word that a vessel
without lights was creeping in towards shore. We all assembled on the
rocky edge of the creek, and saw her steal up the creek and gain the
shelter of the harbour. When this had been effected, we ran out the
boom which protects the opening, and after that the great armoured
sliding-gates which Uncle Roger had himself had made so as to protect the
harbour in case of need.
We then came within and assisted in warping the steamer to the side of
the dock.
Rooke looked fit, and was full of fire and vigour. His
responsibility and the mere thought of warlike action seemed to have
renewed his youth.
When we had arranged for the unloading of the cases of arms and
ammunition, I took Rooke into the room which we call my
“office,” where he gave me an account of his doings. He
had not only secured the rifles and the ammunition for them, but he had
purchased from one of the small American Republics an armoured yacht which
had been especially built for war service. He grew quite
enthusiastic, even excited, as he told me of her:
“She is the last word in naval construction—a torpedo
yacht. A small cruiser, with turbines up to date, oil-fuelled, and
fully armed with the latest and most perfect weapons and explosives of all
kinds. The fastest boat afloat to-day. Built by Thorneycroft,
engined by Parsons, armoured by Armstrong, armed by Crupp. If she
ever comes into action, it will be bad for her opponent, for she need not
fear to tackle anything less than a Dreadnought.”
He also told me that from the same Government, whose nation had just
established an unlooked-for peace, he had also purchased a whole park of
artillery of the very latest patterns, and that for range and accuracy the
guns were held to be supreme. These would follow before long, and
with them their proper ammunition, with a shipload of the same to follow
shortly after.
When he had told me all the rest of his news, and handed me the
accounts, we went out to the dock to see the debarkation of the war
material. Knowing that it was arriving, I had sent word in the
afternoon to the mountaineers to tell them to come and remove it.
They had answered the call, and it really seemed to me that the whole of
the land must that night have been in motion.
They came as individuals, grouping themselves as they came within the
defences of the Castle; some had gathered at fixed points on the way.
They went secretly and in silence, stealing through the forests like
ghosts, each party when it grouped taking the place of that which had gone
on one of the routes radiating round Vissarion. Their coming and
going was more than ghostly. It was, indeed, the outward
manifestation of an inward spirit—a whole nation dominated by one
common purpose.
The men in the steamer were nearly all engineers, mostly British, well
conducted, and to be depended upon. Rooke had picked them separately,
and in the doing had used well his great experience of both men and
adventurous life. These men were to form part of the armoured
yacht’s crew when she should come into the Mediterranean
waters. They and the priests and fighting-men in the Castle worked
well together, and with a zeal that was beyond praise. The heavy
cases seemed almost of their own accord to leave the holds, so fast came
the procession of them along the gangways from deck to dock-wall. It
was a part of my design that the arms should be placed in centres ready for
local distribution. In such a country as this, without railways or
even roads, the distribution of war material in any quantity is a great
labour, for it has to be done individually, or at least from centres.
But of this work the great number of mountaineers who were arriving made
little account. As fast as the ship’s company, with the
assistance of the priests and fighting-men, placed the cases on the quay,
the engineers opened them and laid the contents ready for portage.
The mountaineers seemed to come in a continuous stream; each in turn
shouldered his burden and passed out, the captain of his section giving him
as he passed his instruction where to go and in what route. The
method had been already prepared in my office ready for such a distribution
when the arms should arrive, and descriptions and quantities had been noted
by the captains. The whole affair was treated by all as a matter of
the utmost secrecy. Hardly a word was spoken beyond the necessary
directions, and these were given in whispers. All night long the
stream of men went and came, and towards dawn the bulk of the imported
material was lessened by half. On the following night the remainder
was removed, after my own men had stored in the Castle the rifles and
ammunition reserved for its defence if necessary. It was advisable to
keep a reserve supply in case it should ever be required. The
following night Rooke went away secretly in the chartered vessel. He
had to bring back with him the purchased cannon and heavy ammunition, which
had been in the meantime stored on one of the Greek islands. The
second morning, having had secret word that the steamer was on the way, I
had given the signal for the assembling of the mountaineers.
A little after dark the vessel, showing no light, stole into the
creek. The barrier gates were once again closed, and when a
sufficient number of men had arrived to handle the guns, we began to
unload. The actual deportation was easy enough, for the dock had all
necessary appliances quite up to date, including a pair of shears for
gun-lifting which could be raised into position in a very short time.
The guns were well furnished with tackle of all sorts, and before many
hours had passed a little procession of them disappeared into the woods in
ghostly silence. A number of men surrounded each, and they moved as
well as if properly supplied with horses.
In the meantime, and for a week after the arrival of the guns, the
drilling went on without pause. The gun-drill was wonderful. In
the arduous work necessary for it the great strength and stamina of the
mountaineers showed out wonderfully. They did not seem to know
fatigue any more than they knew fear.
For a week this went on, till a perfect discipline and management was
obtained. They did not practise the shooting, for this would have
made secrecy impossible. It was reported all along the Turkish
frontier that the Sultan’s troops were being massed, and though this
was not on a war footing, the movement was more or less dangerous.
The reports of our own spies, although vague as to the purpose and extent
of the movement, were definite as to something being on foot. And
Turkey does not do something without a purpose that bodes ill to
someone. Certainly the sound of cannon, which is a far-reaching
sound, would have given them warning of our preparations, and would so have
sadly minimized their effectiveness.
When the cannon had all been disposed of—except, of course, those
destined for defence of the Castle or to be stored there—Rooke went
away with the ship and crew. The ship he was to return to the owners;
the men would be shipped on the war-yacht, of whose crew they would form a
part. The rest of them had been carefully selected by Rooke himself,
and were kept in secrecy at Cattaro, ready for service the moment
required. They were all good men, and quite capable of whatever work
they might be set to. So Rooke told me, and he ought to know.
The experience of his young days as a private made him an expert in such a
job.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
June 24, 1907.
Last night I got from my Lady a similar message to the last, and
delivered in a similar way. This time, however, our meeting was to be
on the leads of the Keep.
I dressed myself very carefully before going on this adventure, lest by
any chance of household concern, any of the servants should see me; for if
this should happen, Aunt Janet would be sure to hear of it, which would
give rise to endless surmises and questionings—a thing I was far from
desiring.
I confess that in thinking the matter over during the time I was making
my hurried preparations I was at a loss to understand how any human body,
even though it be of the dead, could go or be conveyed to such a place
without some sort of assistance, or, at least, collusion, on the part of
some of the inmates. At the visit to the Flagstaff circumstances were
different. This spot was actually outside the Castle, and in order to
reach it I myself had to leave the Castle privately, and from the garden
ascend to the ramparts. But here was no such possibility. The
Keep was an imperium in imperio. It stood within the Castle,
though separated from it, and it had its own defences against
intrusion. The roof of it was, so far as I knew, as little
approachable as the magazine.
The difficulty did not, however, trouble me beyond a mere passing
thought. In the joy of the coming meeting and the longing rapture at
the mere thought of it, all difficulties disappeared. Love makes its
own faith, and I never doubted that my Lady would be waiting for me at the
place designated. When I had passed through the little arched
passages, and up the doubly-grated stairways contrived in the massiveness
of the walls, I let myself out on the leads. It was well that as yet
the times were sufficiently peaceful not to necessitate guards or sentries
at all such points.
There, in a dim corner where the moonlight and the passing clouds threw
deep shadows, I saw her, clothed as ever in her shroud. Why, I know
not. I felt somehow that the situation was even more serious than
ever. But I was steeled to whatever might come. My mind had
been already made up. To carry out my resolve to win the woman I
loved I was ready to face death. But now, after we had for a few
brief moments held each other in our arms, I was willing to accept
death—or more than death. Now, more than before, was she sweet
and dear to me. Whatever qualms there might have been at the
beginning of our love-making, or during the progress of it, did not now
exist. We had exchanged vows and confidences, and acknowledged our
loves. What, then, could there be of distrust, or even doubt, that
the present might not set at naught? But even had there been such
doubts or qualms, they must have disappeared in the ardour of our mutual
embrace. I was by now mad for her, and was content to be so
mad. When she had breath to speak after the strictness of our
embrace, she said:
“I have come to warn you to be more than ever
careful.” It was, I confess, a pang to me, who thought only of
love, to hear that anything else should have been the initiative power of
her coming, even though it had been her concern for my own safety. I
could not but notice the bitter note of chagrin in my voice as I
answered:
“It was for love’s sake that I came.”
She, too, evidently felt the undercurrent of pain, for she said
quickly:
“Ah, dearest, I, too, came for love’s sake. It is
because I love you that I am so anxious about you. What would the
world—ay, or heaven—be to me without you?”
There was such earnest truth in her tone that the sense and realization
of my own harshness smote me. In the presence of such love as this
even a lover’s selfishness must become abashed. I could not
express myself in words, so simply raised her slim hand in mine and kissed
it. As it lay warm in my own I could not but notice, as well as its
fineness, its strength and the firmness of its clasp. Its warmth and
fervour struck into my heart—and my brain. Thereupon I poured
out to her once more my love for her, she listening all afire. When
passion had had its say, the calmer emotions had opportunity of
expression. When I was satisfied afresh of her affection, I began to
value her care for my safety, and so I went back to the subject. Her
very insistence, based on personal affection, gave me more solid ground for
fear. In the moment of love transports I had forgotten, or did not
think, of what wonderful power or knowledge she must have to be able to
move in such strange ways as she did. Why, at this very moment she
was within my own gates. Locks and bars, even the very seal of death
itself, seemed unable to make for her a prison-house. With such
freedom of action and movement, going when she would into secret places,
what might she not know that was known to others? How could anyone
keep secret from such an one even an ill intent? Such thoughts, such
surmises, had often flashed through my mind in moments of excitement rather
than of reflection, but never long enough to become fixed into
belief. But yet the consequences, the convictions, of them were with
me, though unconsciously, though the thoughts themselves were perhaps
forgotten or withered before development.
“And you?” I asked her earnestly. “What about
danger to you?” She smiled, her little pearl-white teeth
gleaming in the moonlight, as she spoke:
“There is no danger for me. I am safe. I am the safest
person, perhaps the only safe person, in all this land.” The
full significance of her words did not seem to come to me all at
once. Some base for understanding such an assertion seemed to be
wanting. It was not that I did not trust or believe her, but that I
thought she might be mistaken. I wanted to reassure myself, so in my
distress I asked unthinkingly:
“How the safest? What is your protection?” For
several moments that spun themselves out endlessly she looked me straight
in the face, the stars in her eyes seeming to glow like fire; then,
lowering her head, she took a fold of her shroud and held it up to me.
“This!”
The meaning was complete and understandable now. I could not speak
at once for the wave of emotion which choked me. I dropped on my
knees, and taking her in my arms, held her close to me. She saw that
I was moved, and tenderly stroked my hair, and with delicate touch pressed
down my head on her bosom, as a mother might have done to comfort a
frightened child.
Presently we got back to the realities of life again. I
murmured:
“Your safety, your life, your happiness are all-in-all to
me. When will you let them be my care?” She trembled in
my arms, nestling even closer to me. Her own arms seemed to quiver
with delight as she said:
“Would you indeed like me to be always with you? To me it
would be a happiness unspeakable; and to you, what would it be?”
I thought that she wished to hear me speak my love to her, and that,
woman-like, she had led me to the utterance, and so I spoke again of the
passion that now raged in me, she listening eagerly as we strained each
other tight in our arms. At last there came a pause, a long, long
pause, and our hearts beat consciously in unison as we stood
together. Presently she said in a sweet, low, intense whisper, as
soft as the sighing of summer wind:
“It shall be as you wish; but oh, my dear, you will have to first
go through an ordeal which may try you terribly! Do not ask me
anything! You must not ask, because I may not answer, and it would be
pain to me to deny you anything. Marriage with such an one as I am
has its own ritual, which may not be foregone. It may . . .
” I broke passionately into her speaking:
“There is no ritual that I fear, so long as it be that it is for
your good, and your lasting happiness. And if the end of it be that I
may call you mine, there is no horror in life or death that I shall not
gladly face. Dear, I ask you nothing. I am content to leave
myself in your hands. You shall advise me when the time comes, and I
shall be satisfied, content to obey. Content! It is but a poor
word to express what I long for! I shall shirk nothing which may come
to me from this or any other world, so long as it is to make you
mine!” Once again her murmured happiness was music to my
ears:
“Oh, how you love me! how you love me, dear, dear!”
She took me in her arms, and for a few seconds we hung together.
Suddenly she tore herself apart from me, and stood drawn up to the full
height, with a dignity I cannot describe or express. Her voice had a
new dominance, as with firm utterance and in staccato manner she said:
“Rupert Sent Leger, before we go a step further I must say
something to you, ask you something, and I charge you, on your most sacred
honour and belief, to answer me truly. Do you believe me to be one of
those unhappy beings who may not die, but have to live in shameful
existence between earth and the nether world, and whose hellish mission is
to destroy, body and soul, those who love them till they fall to their
level? You are a gentleman, and a brave one. I have found you
fearless. Answer me in sternest truth, no matter what the issue may
be!”
She stood there in the glamorous moonlight with a commanding dignity
which seemed more than human. In that mystic light her white shroud
seemed diaphanous, and she appeared like a spirit of power. What was
I to say? How could I admit to such a being that I had actually had
at moments, if not a belief, a passing doubt? It was a conviction
with me that if I spoke wrongly I should lose her for ever. I was in
a desperate strait. In such a case there is but one solid ground
which one may rest on—the Truth.
I really felt I was between the devil and the deep sea. There was
no avoiding the issue, and so, out of this all-embracing, all-compelling
conviction of truth, I spoke.
For a fleeting moment I felt that my tone was truculent, and almost
hesitated; but as I saw no anger or indignation on my Lady’s face,
but rather an eager approval, I was reassured. A woman, after all, is
glad to see a man strong, for all belief in him must be based on that.
“I shall speak the truth. Remember that I have no wish to
hurt your feelings, but as you conjure me by my honour, you must forgive me
if I pain. It is true that I had at first—ay, and later, when I
came to think matters over after you had gone, when reason came to the aid
of impression—a passing belief that you are a Vampire. How can
I fail to have, even now, though I love you with all my soul, though I have
held you in my arms and kissed you on the mouth, a doubt, when all the
evidences seem to point to one thing? Remember that I have only seen
you at night, except that bitter moment when, in the broad noonday of the
upper world, I saw you, clad as ever in a shroud, lying seemingly dead in a
tomb in the crypt of St. Sava’s Church . . . But let that pass.
Such belief as I have is all in you. Be you woman or Vampire, it is
all the same to me. It is you whom I love! Should it be
that you are—you are not woman, which I cannot believe, then it will
be my glory to break your fetters, to open your prison, and set you
free. To that I consecrate my life.” For a few seconds I
stood silent, vibrating with the passion which had been awakened in
me. She had by now lost the measure of her haughty isolation, and had
softened into womanhood again. It was really like a realization of
the old theme of Pygmalion’s statue. It was with rather a
pleading than a commanding voice that she said:
“And shall you always be true to me?”
“Always—so help me, God!” I answered, and I felt that
there could be no lack of conviction in my voice.
Indeed, there was no cause for such lack. She also stood for a
little while stone-still, and I was beginning to expand to the rapture
which was in store for me when she should take me again in her arms.
But there was no such moment of softness. All at once she started
as if she had suddenly wakened from a dream, and on the spur of the moment
said:
“Now go, go!” I felt the conviction of necessity to
obey, and turned at once. As I moved towards the door by which I had
entered, I asked:
“When shall I see you again?”
“Soon!” came her answer. “I shall let you know
soon—when and where. Oh, go, go!” She almost pushed
me from her.
When I had passed through the low doorway and locked and barred it
behind me, I felt a pang that I should have had to shut her out like that;
but I feared lest there should arise some embarrassing suspicion if the
door should be found open. Later came the comforting thought that, as
she had got to the roof though the door had been shut, she would be able to
get away by the same means. She had evidently knowledge of some
secret way into the Castle. The alternative was that she must have
some supernatural quality or faculty which gave her strange powers. I
did not wish to pursue that train of thought, and so, after an effort, shut
it out from my mind.
When I got back to my room I locked the door behind me, and went to
sleep in the dark. I did not want light just then—could not
bear it.
This morning I woke, a little later than usual, with a kind of
apprehension which I could not at once understand. Presently,
however, when my faculties became fully awake and in working order, I
realized that I feared, half expected, that Aunt Janet would come to me in
a worse state of alarm than ever apropos of some new Second-Sight
experience of more than usual ferocity.
But, strange to say, I had no such visit. Later on in the morning,
when, after breakfast, we walked together through the garden, I asked her
how she had slept, and if she had dreamt. She answered me that she
had slept without waking, and if she had had any dreams, they must have
been pleasant ones, for she did not remember them. “And you
know, Rupert,” she added, “that if there be anything bad or
fearsome or warning in dreams, I always remember them.”
Later still, when I was by myself on the cliff beyond the creek, I could
not help commenting on the absence of her power of Second Sight on the
occasion. Surely, if ever there was a time when she might have had
cause of apprehension, it might well have been when I asked the Lady whom
she did not know to marry me—the Lady of whose identity I knew
nothing, even whose name I did not know—whom I loved with all my
heart and soul—my Lady of the Shroud.
I have lost faith in Second Sight.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
July 1, 1907.
Another week gone. I have waited patiently, and I am at last
rewarded by another letter. I was preparing for bed a little while
ago, when I heard the same mysterious sound at the door as on the last two
occasions. I hurried to the glass door, and there found another
close-folded letter. But I could see no sign of my Lady, or of any
other living being. The letter, which was without direction, ran as
follows:
“If you are still of the same mind, and feel no misgivings, meet
me at the Church of St. Sava beyond the Creek to-morrow night at a quarter
before midnight. If you come, come in secret, and, of course,
alone. Do not come at all unless you are prepared for a terrible
ordeal. But if you love me, and have neither doubts nor fears,
come. Come!”
Needless to say, I did not sleep last night. I tried to, but
without success. It was no morbid happiness that kept me awake, no
doubting, no fear. I was simply overwhelmed with the idea of the
coming rapture when I should call my Lady my very, very own. In this
sea of happy expectation all lesser things were submerged. Even
sleep, which is an imperative force with me, failed in its usual
effectiveness, and I lay still, calm, content.
With the coming of the morning, however, restlessness began. I did
not know what to do, how to restrain myself, where to look for an
anodyne. Happily the latter came in the shape of Rooke, who turned up
shortly after breakfast. He had a satisfactory tale to tell me of the
armoured yacht, which had lain off Cattaro on the previous night, and to
which he had brought his contingent of crew which had waited for her
coming. He did not like to take the risk of going into any port with
such a vessel, lest he might be detained or otherwise hampered by forms,
and had gone out upon the open sea before daylight. There was on
board the yacht a tiny torpedo-boat, for which provision was made both for
hoisting on deck and housing there. This last would run into the
creek at ten o’clock that evening, at which time it would be
dark. The yacht would then run to near Otranto, to which she would
send a boat to get any message I might send. This was to be in a
code, which we arranged, and would convey instructions as to what night and
approximate hour the yacht would come to the creek.
The day was well on before we had made certain arrangements for the
future; and not till then did I feel again the pressure of my personal
restlessness. Rooke, like a wise commander, took rest whilst he
could. Well he knew that for a couple of days and nights at least
there would be little, if any, sleep for him.
For myself, the habit of self-control stood to me, and I managed to get
through the day somehow without exciting the attention of anyone
else. The arrival of the torpedo-boat and the departure of Rooke made
for me a welcome break in my uneasiness. An hour ago I said
good-night to Aunt Janet, and shut myself up alone here. My watch is
on the table before me, so that I may make sure of starting to the
moment. I have allowed myself half an hour to reach St. Sava.
My skiff is waiting, moored at the foot of the cliff on the hither side,
where the zigzag comes close to the water. It is now ten minutes past
eleven.
I shall add the odd five minutes to the time for my journey so as to
make safe. I go unarmed and without a light.
I shall show no distrust of anyone or anything this night.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
July 2, 1907.
When I was outside the church, I looked at my watch in the bright
moonlight, and found I had one minute to wait. So I stood in the
shadow of the doorway and looked out at the scene before me. Not a
sign of life was visible around me, either on land or sea. On the
broad plateau on which the church stands there was no movement of any
kind. The wind, which had been pleasant in the noontide, had fallen
completely, and not a leaf was stirring. I could see across the creek
and note the hard line where the battlements of the Castle cut the sky, and
where the keep towered above the line of black rock, which in the shadow of
the land made an ebon frame for the picture. When I had seen the same
view on former occasions, the line where the rock rose from the sea was a
fringe of white foam. But then, in the daylight, the sea was sapphire
blue; now it was an expanse of dark blue—so dark as to seem almost
black. It had not even the relief of waves or ripples—simply a
dark, cold, lifeless expanse, with no gleam of light anywhere, of
lighthouse or ship; neither was there any special sound to be heard that
one could distinguish—nothing but the distant hum of the myriad
voices of the dark mingling in one ceaseless inarticulate sound. It
was well I had not time to dwell on it, or I might have reached some
spiritually-disturbing melancholy.
Let me say here that ever since I had received my Lady’s message
concerning this visit to St. Sava’s I had been all on fire—not,
perhaps, at every moment consciously or actually so, but always, as it
were, prepared to break out into flame. Did I want a simile, I might
compare myself to a well-banked furnace, whose present function it is to
contain heat rather than to create it; whose crust can at any moment be
broken by a force external to itself, and burst into raging, all-compelling
heat. No thought of fear really entered my mind. Every other
emotion there was, coming and going as occasion excited or lulled, but not
fear. Well I knew in the depths of my heart the purpose which that
secret quest was to serve. I knew not only from my Lady’s
words, but from the teachings of my own senses and experiences, that some
dreadful ordeal must take place before happiness of any kind could be
won. And that ordeal, though method or detail was unknown to me, I
was prepared to undertake. This was one of those occasions when a man
must undertake, blindfold, ways that may lead to torture or death, or
unknown terrors beyond. But, then, a man—if, indeed, he have
the heart of a man—can always undertake; he can at least make the
first step, though it may turn out that through the weakness of mortality
he may be unable to fulfil his own intent, or justify his belief in his own
powers. Such, I take it, was the intellectual attitude of the brave
souls who of old faced the tortures of the Inquisition.
But though there was no immediate fear, there was a certain doubt.
For doubt is one of those mental conditions whose calling we cannot
control. The end of the doubting may not be a reality to us, or be
accepted as a possibility. These things cannot forego the existence
of the doubt. “For even if a man,” says Victor Cousin,
“doubt everything else, at least he cannot doubt that he
doubts.” The doubt had at times been on me that my Lady of the
Shroud was a Vampire. Much that had happened seemed to point that
way, and here, on the very threshold of the Unknown, when, through the door
which I was pushing open, my eyes met only an expanse of absolute
blackness, all doubts which had ever been seemed to surround me in a
legion. I have heard that, when a man is drowning, there comes a time
when his whole life passes in review during the space of time which cannot
be computed as even a part of a second. So it was to me in the moment
of my body passing into the church. In that moment came to my mind
all that had been, which bore on the knowledge of my Lady; and the general
tendency was to prove or convince that she was indeed a Vampire. Much
that had happened, or become known to me, seemed to justify the resolving
of doubt into belief. Even my own reading of the books in Aunt
Janet’s little library, and the dear lady’s comments on them,
mingled with her own uncanny beliefs, left little opening for doubt.
My having to help my Lady over the threshold of my house on her first entry
was in accord with Vampire tradition; so, too, her flying at cock-crow from
the warmth in which she revelled on that strange first night of our
meeting; so, too, her swift departure at midnight on the second. Into
the same category came the facts of her constant wearing of her Shroud,
even her pledging herself, and me also, on the fragment torn from it, which
she had given to me as a souvenir; her lying still in the glass-covered
tomb; her coming alone to the most secret places in a fortified Castle
where every aperture was secured by unopened locks and bolts; her very
movements, though all of grace, as she flitted noiselessly through the
gloom of night.
All these things, and a thousand others of lesser import, seemed, for
the moment, to have consolidated an initial belief. But then came the
supreme recollections of how she had lain in my arms; of her kisses on my
lips; of the beating of her heart against my own; of her sweet words of
belief and faith breathed in my ear in intoxicating whispers; of . . . I
paused. No! I could not accept belief as to her being other
than a living woman of soul and sense, of flesh and blood, of all the sweet
and passionate instincts of true and perfect womanhood.
And so, in spite of all—in spite of all beliefs, fixed or
transitory, with a mind whirling amid contesting forces and compelling
beliefs—I stepped into the church overwhelmed with that most
receptive of atmospheres—doubt.
In one thing only was I fixed: here at least was no doubt or misgiving
whatever. I intended to go through what I had undertaken.
Moreover, I felt that I was strong enough to carry out my intention,
whatever might be of the Unknown—however horrible, however
terrible.
When I had entered the church and closed the heavy door behind me, the
sense of darkness and loneliness in all their horror enfolded me
round. The great church seemed a living mystery, and served as an
almost terrible background to thoughts and remembrances of unutterable
gloom. My adventurous life has had its own schooling to endurance and
upholding one’s courage in trying times; but it has its contra in
fulness of memory.
I felt my way forward with both hands and feet. Every second
seemed as if it had brought me at last to a darkness which was actually
tangible. All at once, and with no heed of sequence or order, I was
conscious of all around me, the knowledge or perception of which—or
even speculation on the subject—had never entered my mind. They
furnished the darkness with which I was encompassed with all the crowded
phases of a dream. I knew that all around me were memorials of the
dead—that in the Crypt deep-wrought in the rock below my feet lay the
dead themselves. Some of them, perhaps—one of them I
knew—had even passed the grim portals of time Unknown, and had, by
some mysterious power or agency, come back again to material earth.
There was no resting-place for thought when I knew that the very air which
I breathed might be full of denizens of the spirit-world. In that
impenetrable blackness was a world of imagining whose possibilities of
horror were endless.
I almost fancied that I could see with mortal eyes down through that
rocky floor to where, in the lonely Crypt, lay, in her tomb of massive
stone and under that bewildering coverlet of glass, the woman whom I
love. I could see her beautiful face, her long black lashes, her
sweet mouth—which I had kissed—relaxed in the sleep of
death. I could note the voluminous shroud—a piece of which as a
precious souvenir lay even then so close to my heart—the snowy
woollen coverlet wrought over in gold with sprigs of pine, the soft dent in
the cushion on which her head must for so long have lain. I could see
myself—within my eyes the memory of that first visit—coming
once again with glad step to renew that dear sight—dear, though it
scorched my eyes and harrowed my heart—and finding the greater
sorrow, the greater desolation of the empty tomb!
There! I felt that I must think no more of that lest the thought
should unnerve me when I should most want all my courage. That way
madness lay! The darkness had already sufficient terrors of its own
without bringing to it such grim remembrances and imaginings . . . And I
had yet to go through some ordeal which, even to her who had passed and
repassed the portals of death, was full of fear.
It was a merciful relief to me when, in groping my way forwards through
the darkness, I struck against some portion of the furnishing of the
church. Fortunately I was all strung up to tension, else I should
never have been able to control instinctively, as I did, the shriek which
was rising to my lips.
I would have given anything to have been able to light even a
match. A single second of light would, I felt, have made me my own
man again. But I knew that this would be against the implied
condition of my being there at all, and might have had disastrous
consequences to her whom I had come to save. It might even frustrate
my scheme, and altogether destroy my opportunity. At that moment it
was borne upon me more strongly than ever that this was not a mere fight
for myself or my own selfish purposes—not merely an adventure or a
struggle for only life and death against unknown difficulties and
dangers. It was a fight on behalf of her I loved, not merely for her
life, but perhaps even for her soul.
And yet this very thinking—understanding—created a new form
of terror. For in that grim, shrouding darkness came memories of
other moments of terrible stress.
Of wild, mystic rites held in the deep gloom of African forests, when,
amid scenes of revolting horror, Obi and the devils of his kind seemed to
reveal themselves to reckless worshippers, surfeited with horror, whose
lives counted for naught; when even human sacrifice was an episode, and the
reek of old deviltries and recent carnage tainted the air, till even I, who
was, at the risk of my life, a privileged spectator who had come through
dangers without end to behold the scene, rose and fled in horror.
Of scenes of mystery enacted in rock-cut temples beyond the Himalayas,
whose fanatic priests, cold as death and as remorseless, in the reaction of
their phrenzy of passion, foamed at the mouth and then sank into marble
quiet, as with inner eyes they beheld the visions of the hellish powers
which they had invoked.
Of wild, fantastic dances of the Devil-worshippers of Madagascar, where
even the very semblance of humanity disappeared in the fantastic excesses
of their orgies.
Of strange doings of gloom and mystery in the rock-perched monasteries
of Thibet.
Of awful sacrifices, all to mystic ends, in the innermost recesses of
Cathay.
Of weird movements with masses of poisonous snakes by the medicine-men
of the Zuni and Mochi Indians in the far south-west of the Rockies, beyond
the great plains.
Of secret gatherings in vast temples of old Mexico, and by dim altars of
forgotten cities in the heart of great forests in South America.
Of rites of inconceivable horror in the fastnesses of Patagonia.
Of . . . Here I once more pulled myself up. Such thoughts were no
kind of proper preparation for what I might have to endure. My work
that night was to be based on love, on hope, on self-sacrifice for the
woman who in all the world was the closest to my heart, whose future I was
to share, whether that sharing might lead me to Hell or Heaven. The
hand which undertook such a task must have no trembling.
Still, those horrible memories had, I am bound to say, a useful part in
my preparation for the ordeal. They were of fact which I had seen, of
which I had myself been in part a sharer, and which I had survived.
With such experiences behind me, could there be aught before me more
dreadful? . . .
Moreover, if the coming ordeal was of supernatural or superhuman order,
could it transcend in living horror the vilest and most desperate acts of
the basest men? . . .
With renewed courage I felt my way before me, till my sense of touch
told me that I was at the screen behind which lay the stair to the
Crypt.
There I waited, silent, still.
My own part was done, so far as I knew how to do it. Beyond this,
what was to come was, so far as I knew, beyond my own control. I had
done what I could; the rest must come from others. I had exactly
obeyed my instructions, fulfilled my warranty to the utmost in my knowledge
and power. There was, therefore, left for me in the present nothing
but to wait.
It is a peculiarity of absolute darkness that it creates its own
reaction. The eye, wearied of the blackness, begins to imagine forms
of light. How far this is effected by imagination pure and simple I
know not. It may be that nerves have their own senses that bring
thought to the depository common to all the human functions, but, whatever
may be the mechanism or the objective, the darkness seems to people itself
with luminous entities.
So was it with me as I stood lonely in the dark, silent church.
Here and there seemed to flash tiny points of light.
In the same way the silence began to be broken now and again by strange
muffled sounds—the suggestion of sounds rather than actual
vibrations. These were all at first of the minor importance of
movement—rustlings, creakings, faint stirrings, fainter
breathings. Presently, when I had somewhat recovered from the sort of
hypnotic trance to which the darkness and stillness had during the time of
waiting reduced me, I looked around in wonder.
The phantoms of light and sound seemed to have become real. There
were most certainly actual little points of light in places—not
enough to see details by, but quite sufficient to relieve the utter
gloom. I thought—though it may have been a mingling of
recollection and imagination—that I could distinguish the outlines of
the church; certainly the great altar-screen was dimly visible.
Instinctively I looked up—and thrilled. There, hung high above
me, was, surely enough, a great Greek Cross, outlined by tiny points of
light.
I lost myself in wonder, and stood still, in a purely receptive mood,
unantagonistic to aught, willing for whatever might come, ready for all
things, in rather a negative than a positive mood—a mood which has an
aspect of spiritual meekness. This is the true spirit of the
neophyte, and, though I did not think of it at the time, the proper
attitude for what is called by the Church in whose temple I stood a
“neo-nymph.”
As the light grew a little in power, though never increasing enough for
distinctness, I saw dimly before me a table on which rested a great open
book, whereon were laid two rings—one of sliver, the other of
gold—and two crowns wrought of flowers, bound at the joining of their
stems with tissue—one of gold, the other of silver. I do not
know much of the ritual of the old Greek Church, which is the religion of
the Blue Mountains, but the things which I saw before me could be none
other than enlightening symbols. Instinctively I knew that I had been
brought hither, though in this grim way, to be married. The very idea
of it thrilled me to the heart’s core. I thought the best thing
I could do would be to stay quite still, and not show surprise at anything
that might happen; but be sure I was all eyes and ears.
I peered anxiously around me in every direction, but I could see no sign
of her whom I had come to meet.
Incidentally, however, I noticed that in the lighting, such as it was,
there was no flame, no “living” light. Whatever light
there was came muffled, as though through some green translucent
stone. The whole effect was terribly weird and disconcerting.
Presently I started, as, seemingly out of the darkness beside me, a
man’s hand stretched out and took mine. Turning, I found close
to me a tall man with shining black eyes and long black hair and
beard. He was clad in some kind of gorgeous robe of cloth of gold,
rich with variety of adornment. His head was covered with a high,
over-hanging hat draped closely with a black scarf, the ends of which
formed a long, hanging veil on either side. These veils, falling over
the magnificent robes of cloth of gold, had an extraordinarily solemn
effect.
I yielded myself to the guiding hand, and shortly found myself, so far
as I could see, at one side of the sanctuary.
In the floor close to my feet was a yawning chasm, into which, from so
high over my head that in the uncertain light I could not distinguish its
origin, hung a chain. At the sight a strange wave of memory swept
over me. I could not but remember the chain which hung over the
glass-covered tomb in the Crypt, and I had an instinctive feeling that the
grim chasm in the floor of the sanctuary was but the other side of the
opening in the roof of the crypt from which the chain over the sarcophagus
depended.
There was a creaking sound—the groaning of a windlass and the
clanking of a chain. There was heavy breathing close to me
somewhere. I was so intent on what was going on that I did not see
that one by one, seeming to grow out of the surrounding darkness, several
black figures in monkish garb appeared with the silence of ghosts.
Their faces were shrouded in black cowls, wherein were holes through which
I could see dark gleaming eyes. My guide held me tightly by the
hand. This gave me a feeling of security in the touch which helped to
retain within my breast some semblance of calm.
The strain of the creaking windlass and the clanking chain continued for
so long that the suspense became almost unendurable. At last there
came into sight an iron ring, from which as a centre depended four lesser
chains spreading wide. In a few seconds more I could see that these
were fixed to the corners of the great stone tomb with the covering of
glass, which was being dragged upward. As it arose it filled closely
the whole aperture. When its bottom had reached the level of the
floor it stopped, and remained rigid. There was no room for
oscillation. It was at once surrounded by a number of black figures,
who raised the glass covering and bore it away into the darkness.
Then there stepped forward a very tall man, black-bearded, and with
head-gear like my guide, but made in triple tiers, he also was gorgeously
arrayed in flowing robes of cloth of gold richly embroidered. He
raised his hand, and forthwith eight other black-clad figures stepped
forward, and bending over the stone coffin, raised from it the rigid form
of my Lady, still clad in her Shroud, and laid it gently on the floor of
the sanctuary.
I felt it a grace that at that instant the dim lights seemed to grow
less, and finally to disappear—all save the tiny points that marked
the outline of the great Cross high overhead. These only gave light
enough to accentuate the gloom. The hand that held mine now released
it, and with a sigh I realized that I was alone. After a few moments
more of the groaning of the winch and clanking of the chain there was a
sharp sound of stone meeting stone; then there was silence. I
listened acutely, but could not hear near me the slightest sound.
Even the cautious, restrained breathing around me, of which up to then I
had been conscious, had ceased. Not knowing, in the helplessness of
my ignorance, what I should do, I remained as I was, still and silent, for
a time that seemed endless. At last, overcome by some emotion which I
could not at the moment understand, I slowly sank to my knees and bowed my
head. Covering my face with my hands, I tried to recall the prayers
of my youth. It was not, I am certain, that fear in any form had come
upon me, or that I hesitated or faltered in my intention. That much I
know now; I knew it even then. It was, I believe, that the prolonged
impressive gloom and mystery had at last touched me to the quick. The
bending of the knees was but symbolical of the bowing of the spirit to a
higher Power. When I had realized that much, I felt more content than
I had done since I had entered the church, and with the renewed
consciousness of courage, took my hands from my face, and lifted again my
bowed head.
Impulsively I sprang to my feet and stood erect—waiting. All
seemed to have changed since I had dropped on my knees. The points of
light about time church, which had been eclipsed, had come again, and were
growing in power to a partial revealing of the dim expanse. Before me
was the table with the open book, on which were laid the gold and silver
rings and the two crowns of flowers. There were also two tall
candles, with tiniest flames of blue—the only living light to be
seen.
Out of the darkness stepped the same tall figure in the gorgeous robes
and the triple hat. He led by the hand my Lady, still clad in her
Shroud; but over it, descending from the crown of her head, was a veil of
very old and magnificent lace of astonishing fineness. Even in that
dim light I could note the exquisite beauty of the fabric. The veil
was fastened with a bunch of tiny sprays of orange-blossom mingled with
cypress and laurel—a strange combination. In her hand she
carried a great bouquet of the same. Its sweet intoxicating odour
floated up to my nostrils. It and the sentiment which its very
presence evoked made me quiver.
Yielding to the guiding of the hand which held hers, she stood at my
left side before the table. Her guide then took his place behind
her. At either end of the table, to right and left of us, stood a
long-bearded priest in splendid robes, and wearing the hat with depending
veil of black. One of them, who seemed to be the more important of
the two, and took the initiative, signed to us to put our right hands on
the open book. My Lady, of course, understood the ritual, and knew
the words which the priest was speaking, and of her own accord put out her
hand. My guide at the same moment directed my hand to the same
end. It thrilled me to touch my Lady’s hand, even under such
mysterious conditions.
After the priest had signed us each thrice on the forehead with the sign
of the Cross, he gave to each of us a tiny lighted taper brought to him for
the purpose. The lights were welcome, not so much for the solace of
the added light, great as that was, but because it allowed us to see a
little more of each other’s faces. It was rapture to me to see
the face of my Bride; and from the expression of her face I was assured
that she felt as I did. It gave me an inexpressible pleasure when, as
her eyes rested on me, there grew a faint blush over the grey pallor of her
cheeks.
The priest then put in solemn voice to each of us in turn, beginning
with me, the questions of consent which are common to all such
rituals. I answered as well as I could, following the murmured words
of my guide. My Lady answered out proudly in a voice which, though
given softly, seemed to ring. It was a concern—even a
grief—to me that I could not, in the priest’s questioning,
catch her name, of which, strangely enough,—I was ignorant.
But, as I did not know the language, and as the phrases were not in accord
literally with our own ritual, I could not make out which word was the
name.
After some prayers and blessings, rhythmically spoken or sung by an
invisible choir, the priest took the rings from the open book, and, after
signing my forehead thrice with the gold one as he repeated the blessing in
each case, placed it on my right hand; then he gave my Lady the silver one,
with the same ritual thrice repeated. I suppose it was the blessing
which is the effective point in making two into one.
After this, those who stood behind us exchanged our rings thrice, taking
them from one finger and placing them on the other, so that at the end my
wife wore the gold ring and I the silver one.
Then came a chant, during which the priest swung the censer himself, and
my wife and I held our tapers. After that he blessed us, the
responses coming from the voices of the unseen singers in the darkness.
After a long ritual of prayer and blessing, sung in triplicate, the
priest took the crowns of flowers, and put one on the head of each,
crowning me first, and with the crown tied with gold. Then he signed
and blessed us each thrice. The guides, who stood behind us,
exchanged our crowns thrice, as they had exchanged the rings; so that at
the last, as I was glad to see, my wife wore the crown of gold, and I that
of silver.
Then there came, if it is possible to describe such a thing, a hush over
even that stillness, as though some form of added solemnity were to be gone
through. I was not surprised, therefore, when the priest took in his
hands the great golden chalice. Kneeling, my wife and I partook
together thrice.
When we had risen from our knees and stood for a little while, the
priest took my left hand in his right, and I, by direction of my guide,
gave my right hand to my wife. And so in a line, the priest leading,
we circled round the table in rhythmic measure. Those who supported
us moved behind us, holding the crowns over our heads, and replacing them
when we stopped.
After a hymn, sung through the darkness, the priest took off our
crowns. This was evidently the conclusion of the ritual, for the
priest placed us in each other’s arms to embrace each other.
Then he blessed us, who were now man and wife!
The lights went out at once, some as if extinguished, others slowly
fading down to blackness.
Left in the dark, my wife and I sought each other’s arms again,
and stood together for a few moments heart to heart, tightly clasping each
other, and kissed each other fervently.
Instinctively we turned to the door of the church, which was slightly
open, so that we could see the moonlight stealing in through the
aperture. With even steps, she holding me tightly by the left
arm—which is the wife’s arm, we passed through the old church
and out into the free air.
Despite all that the gloom had brought me, it was sweet to be in the
open air and together—this quite apart from our new relations to each
other. The moon rode high, and the full light, coming after the
dimness or darkness in the church, seemed as bright as day. I could
now, for the first time, see my wife’s face properly. The
glamour of the moonlight may have served to enhance its ethereal beauty,
but neither moonlight nor sunlight could do justice to that beauty in its
living human splendour. As I gloried in her starry eyes I could think
of nothing else; but when for a moment my eyes, roving round for the
purpose of protection, caught sight of her whole figure, there was a pang
to my heart. The brilliant moonlight showed every detail in terrible
effect, and I could see that she wore only her Shroud. In the moment
of darkness, after the last benediction, before she returned to my arms,
she must have removed her bridal veil. This may, of course, have been
in accordance with the established ritual of her church; but, all the same,
my heart was sore. The glamour of calling her my very own was
somewhat obscured by the bridal adornment being shorn. But it made no
difference in her sweetness to me. Together we went along the path
through the wood, she keeping equal step with me in wifely way.
When we had come through the trees near enough to see the roof of the
Castle, now gilded with the moonlight, she stopped, and looking at me with
eyes full of love, said:
“Here I must leave you!”
“What?” I was all aghast, and I felt that my chagrin
was expressed in the tone of horrified surprise in my voice. She went
on quickly:
“Alas! It is impossible that I should go farther—at
present!”
“But what is to prevent you?” I queried. “You
are now my wife. This is our wedding-night; and surely your place is
with me!” The wail in her voice as she answered touched me to
the quick:
“Oh, I know, I know! There is no dearer wish in my
heart—there can be none—than to share my husband’s
home. Oh, my dear, my dear, if you only knew what it would be to me
to be with you always! But indeed I may not—not yet! I am
not free! If you but knew how much that which has happened to-night
has cost me—or how much cost to others as well as to myself may be
yet to come—you would understand. Rupert”—it was
the first time she had ever addressed me by name, and naturally it thrilled
me through and through—“Rupert, my husband, only that I trust
you with all the faith which is in perfect love—mutual love, I dare
not have done what I have done this night. But, dear, I know that you
will bear me out; that your wife’s honour is your honour, even as
your honour is mine. My honour is given to this; and you can help
me—the only help I can have at present—by trusting me. Be
patient, my beloved, be patient! Oh, be patient for a little
longer! It shall not be for long. So soon as ever my soul is
freed I shall come to you, my husband; and we shall never part again.
Be content for a while! Believe me that I love you with my very soul;
and to keep away from your dear side is more bitter for me than even it can
be for you! Think, my dear one, I am not as other women are, as some
day you shall clearly understand. I am at the present, and shall be
for a little longer, constrained by duties and obligations put upon me by
others, and for others, and to which I am pledged by the most sacred
promises—given not only by myself, but by others—and which I
must not forgo. These forbid me to do as I wish. Oh, trust me,
my beloved—my husband!”
She held out her hands appealingly. The moonlight, falling through
the thinning forest, showed her white cerements. Then the
recollection of all she must have suffered—the awful loneliness in
that grim tomb in the Crypt, the despairing agony of one who is helpless
against the unknown—swept over me in a wave of pity. What could
I do but save her from further pain? And this could only be by
showing her my faith and trust. If she was to go back to that
dreadful charnel-house, she would at least take with her the remembrance
that one who loved her and whom she loved—to whom she had been lately
bound in the mystery of marriage—trusted her to the full. I
loved her more than myself—more than my own soul; and I was moved by
pity so great that all possible selfishness was merged in its depths.
I bowed my head before her—my Lady and my Wife—as I said:
“So be it, my beloved. I trust you to the full, even as you
trust me. And that has been proven this night, even to my own
doubting heart. I shall wait; and as I know you wish it, I shall wait
as patiently as I can. But till you come to me for good and all, let
me see you or hear from you when you can. The time, dear wife, must
go heavily with me as I think of you suffering and lonely. So be good
to me, and let not too long a time elapse between my glimpses of
hope. And, sweetheart, when you do come to me, it shall be for
ever!” There was something in the intonation of the last
sentence—I felt its sincerity myself—some implied yearning for
a promise, that made her beautiful eyes swim. The glorious stars in
them were blurred as she answered with a fervour which seemed to me as more
than earthly:
“For ever! I swear it!”
With one long kiss, and a straining in each others arms, which left me
tingling for long after we had lost sight of each other, we parted. I
stood and watched her as her white figure, gliding through the deepening
gloom, faded as the forest thickened. It surely was no optical
delusion or a phantom of the mind that her shrouded arm was raised as
though in blessing or farewell before the darkness swallowed her up.
BOOK VI: THE PURSUIT IN THE FOREST
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
July 3, 1907.
There is no anodyne but work to pain of the heart; and my pain is all of
the heart. I sometimes feel that it is rather hard that with so much
to make me happy I cannot know happiness. How can I be happy when my
wife, whom I fondly love, and who I know loves me, is suffering in horror
and loneliness of a kind which is almost beyond human belief?
However, what is my loss is my country’s gain, for the Land of the
Blue Mountains is my country now, despite the fact that I am still a loyal
subject of good King Edward. Uncle Roger took care of that when he
said I should have the consent of the Privy Council before I might be
naturalized anywhere else.
When I got home yesterday morning I naturally could not sleep. The
events of the night and the bitter disappointment that followed my exciting
joy made such a thing impossible. When I drew the curtain over the
window, the reflection of the sunrise was just beginning to tinge the
high-sailing clouds in front of me. I laid down and tried to rest,
but without avail. However, I schooled myself to lie still, and at
last, if I did not sleep, was at least quiescent.
Disturbed by a gentle tap at the door, I sprang up at once and threw on
a dressing gown. Outside, when I opened the door, was Aunt
Janet. She was holding a lighted candle in her hand, for though it
was getting light in the open, the passages were still dark. When she
saw me she seemed to breathe more freely, and asked if she might come
in.
Whilst she sat on the edge of my bed, in her old-time way, she said in a
hushed voice:
“Oh, laddie, laddie, I trust yer burden is no too heavy to
bear.”
“My burden! What on earth do you mean, Aunt Janet?” I
said in reply. I did not wish to commit myself by a definite answer,
for it was evident that she had been dreaming or Second Sighting
again. She replied with the grim seriousness usual to her when she
touched on occult matters:
“I saw your hairt bleeding, laddie. I kent it was yours,
though how I kent it I don’t know. It lay on a stone floor in
the dark, save for a dim blue light such as corpse-lights are. On it
was placed a great book, and close around were scattered many strange
things, amongst them two crowns o’ flowers—the one bound
wi’ silver, the other wi’ gold. There was also a golden
cup, like a chalice, o’erturned. The red wine trickled from it
an’ mingled wi’ yer hairt’s bluid; for on the great book
was some vast dim weight wrapped up in black, and on it stepped in turn
many men all swathed in black. An’ as the weight of each came
on it the bluid gushed out afresh. And oh, yer puir hairt, my laddie,
was quick and leaping, so that at every beat it raised the black-clad
weight! An’ yet that was not all, for hard by stood a tall
imperial shape o’ a woman, all arrayed in white, wi’ a great
veil o’ finest lace worn o’er a shrood. An’ she was
whiter than the snow, an’ fairer than the morn for beauty; though a
dark woman she was, wi’ hair like the raven, an’ eyes black as
the sea at nicht, an’ there was stars in them. An’ at
each beat o’ yer puir bleeding hairt she wrung her white hands,
an’ the manin’ o’ her sweet voice rent my hairt in
twain. Oh, laddie, laddie! what does it mean?”
I managed to murmur: “I’m sure I don’t know, Aunt
Janet. I suppose it was all a dream!”
“A dream it was, my dear. A dream or a veesion, whilka
matters nane, for a’ such are warnin’s sent frae God . . .
” Suddenly she said in a different voice:
“Laddie, hae ye been fause to any lassie? I’m no
blamin’ ye. For ye men are different frae us women, an’
yer regard on recht and wrang differs from oors. But oh, laddie, a
woman’s tears fa’ heavy when her hairt is for sair wi’
the yieldin’ to fause words. ’Tis a heavy burden for ony
man to carry wi’ him as he goes, an’ may well cause pain to
ithers that he fain would spare.” She stopped, and in dead
silence waited for me to speak. I thought it would be best to set her
poor loving heart at rest, and as I could not divulge my special secret,
spoke in general terms:
“Aunt Janet, I am a man, and have led a man’s life, such as
it is. But I can tell you, who have always loved me and taught me to
be true, that in all the world there is no woman who must weep for any
falsity of mine. If close there be any who, sleeping or waking, in
dreams or visions or in reality, weeps because of me, it is surely not for
my doing, but because of something outside me. It may be that her
heart is sore because I must suffer, as all men must in some degree; but
she does not weep for or through any act of mine.”
She sighed happily at my assurance, and looked up through her tears, for
she was much moved; and after tenderly kissing my forehead and blessing me,
stole away. She was more sweet and tender than I have words to say,
and the only regret that I have in all that is gone is that I have not been
able to bring my wife to her, and let her share in the love she has for
me. But that, too, will come, please God!
In the morning I sent a message to Rooke at Otranto, instructing him by
code to bring the yacht to Vissarion in the coming night.
All day I spent in going about amongst the mountaineers, drilling them
and looking after their arms. I could not stay still. My
only chance of peace was to work, my only chance of sleep to tire myself
out. Unhappily, I am very strong, so even when I came home at dark I
was quite fresh. However, I found a cable message from Rooke that the
yacht would arrive at midnight.
There was no need to summon the mountaineers, as the men in the Castle
would be sufficient to make preparations for the yacht’s coming.
Later.
The yacht has come. At half-past eleven the lookout signalled that
a steamer without lights was creeping in towards the Creek. I ran out
to the Flagstaff, and saw her steal in like a ghost. She is painted a
steely blue-grey, and it is almost impossible to see her at any
distance. She certainly goes wonderfully. Although there was
not enough throb from the engines to mar the absolute stillness, she came
on at a fine speed, and within a few minutes was close to the boom. I
had only time to run down to give orders to draw back the boom when she
glided in and stopped dead at the harbour wall. Rooke steered her
himself, and he says he never was on a boat that so well or so quickly
answered her helm. She is certainly a beauty, and so far as I can see
at night perfect in every detail. I promise myself a few pleasant
hours over her in the daylight. The men seem a splendid lot.
But I do not feel sleepy; I despair of sleep to-night. But work
demands that I be fit for whatever may come, and so I shall try to
sleep—to rest, at any rate.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL.—Continued.
July 4, 1907.
I was up with the first ray of sunrise, so by the time I had my bath and
was dressed there was ample light. I went down to the dock at once,
and spent the morning looking over the vessel, which fully justifies
Rooke’s enthusiasm about her. She is built on lovely lines, and
I can quite understand that she is enormously fast. Her armour I can
only take on the specifications, but her armament is really
wonderful. And there are not only all the very newest devices of
aggressive warfare—indeed, she has the newest up-to-date torpedoes
and torpedo-guns—but also the old-fashioned rocket-tubes, which in
certain occasions are so useful. She has electric guns and the latest
Massillon water-guns, and Reinhardt electro-pneumatic
“deliverers” for pyroxiline shells. She is even equipped
with war-balloons easy of expansion, and with compressible Kitson
aeroplanes. I don’t suppose that there is anything quite like
her in the world.
The crew are worthy of her. I can’t imagine where Rooke
picked up such a splendid lot of men. They are nearly all
man-of-warsmen; of various nationalities, but mostly British. All
young men—the oldest of them hasn’t got into the
forties—and, so far as I can learn, all experts of one kind or
another in some special subject of warfare. It will go hard with me,
but I shall keep them together.
How I got through the rest of the day I know not. I tried hard not
to create any domestic trouble by my manner, lest Aunt Janet should, after
her lurid dream or vision of last night, attach some new importance to
it. I think I succeeded, for she did not, so far as I could tell,
take any special notice of me. We parted as usual at half-past ten,
and I came here and made this entry in my journal. I am more restless
than ever to-night, and no wonder. I would give anything to be able
to pay a visit to St. Sava’s, and see my wife again—if it were
only sleeping in her tomb. But I dare not do even that, lest she
should come to see me here, and I should miss her. So I have done
what I can. The glass door to the Terrace is open, so that she can
enter at once if she comes. The fire is lit, and the room is
warm. There is food ready in case she should care for it. I
have plenty of light in the room, so that through the aperture where I have
not fully drawn the curtain there may be light to guide her.
Oh, how the time drags! The clock has struck midnight. One,
two! Thank goodness, it will shortly be dawn, and the activity of the
day may begin! Work may again prove, in a way, to be an
anodyne. In the meantime I must write on, lest despair overwhelm
me.
Once during the night I thought I heard a footstep outside. I
rushed to the window and looked out, but there was nothing to see, no sound
to hear. That was a little after one o’clock. I feared to
go outside, lest that should alarm her; so I came back to my table. I
could not write, but I sat as if writing for a while. But I could not
stand it, so rose and walked about the room. As I walked I felt that
my Lady—it gives me a pang every time I remember that I do not know
even her name—was not quite so far away from me. It made my
heart beat to think that it might mean that she was coming to me.
Could not I as well as Aunt Janet have a little Second Sight! I went
towards the window, and, standing behind the curtain, listened. Far
away I thought I heard a cry, and ran out on the Terrace; but there was no
sound to be heard, and no sign of any living thing anywhere; so I took it
for granted that it was the cry of some night bird, and came back to my
room, and wrote at my journal till I was calm. I think my nerves must
be getting out of order, when every sound of the night seems to have a
special meaning for me.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
July 7, 1907
When the grey of the morning came, I gave up hope of my wife appearing,
and made up my mind that, so soon as I could get away without exciting Aunt
Janet’s attention, I would go to St. Sava’s. I always eat
a good breakfast, and did I forgo it altogether, it would be sure to excite
her curiosity—a thing I do not wish at present. As there was
still time to wait, I lay down on my bed as I was, and—such is the
way of Fate—shortly fell asleep.
I was awakened by a terrific clattering at my door. When I opened
it I found a little group of servants, very apologetic at awaking me
without instructions. The chief of them explained that a young priest
had come from the Vladika with a message so urgent that he insisted on
seeing me immediately at all hazards. I came out at once, and found
him in the hall of the Castle, standing before the great fire, which was
always lit in the early morning. He had a letter in his hand, but
before giving it to me he said:
“I am sent by the Vladika, who pressed on me that I was not to
lose a single instant in seeing you; that time is of golden
price—nay, beyond price. This letter, amongst other things,
vouches for me. A terrible misfortune has occurred. The
daughter of our leader has disappeared during last night—the same, he
commanded me to remind you, that he spoke of at the meeting when he would
not let the mountaineers fire their guns. No sign of her can be
found, and it is believed that she has been carried off by the emissaries
of the Sultan of Turkey, who once before brought our nations to the verge
of war by demanding her as a wife. I was also to say that the Vladika
Plamenac would have come himself, but that it was necessary that he should
at once consult with the Archbishop, Stevan Palealogue, as to what step is
best to take in this dire calamity. He has sent out a search-party
under the Archimandrite of Spazac, Petrof Vlastimir, who is to come on here
with any news he can get, as you have command of the signalling, and can
best spread the news. He knows that you, Gospodar, are in your great
heart one of our compatriots, and that you have already proved your
friendship by many efforts to strengthen our hands for war. And as a
great compatriot, he calls on you to aid us in our need.” He
then handed me the letter, and stood by respectfully whilst I broke the
seal and read it. It was written in great haste, and signed by the
Vladika.
“Come with us now in our nation’s peril. Help us to
rescue what we most adore, and henceforth we shall hold you in our
hearts. You shall learn how the men of the Blue Mountains can love
faith and valour. Come!”
This was a task indeed—a duty worthy of any man. It thrilled
me to the core to know that the men of the Blue Mountains had called on me
in their dire need. It woke all the fighting instinct of my Viking
forbears, and I vowed in my heart that they should be satisfied with my
work. I called to me the corps of signallers who were in the house,
and led them to the Castle roof, taking with me the young
messenger-priest.
“Come with me,” I said to him, “and see how I answer
the Vladika’s command.”
The National flag was run up—the established signal that the
nation was in need. Instantly on every summit near and far was seen
the flutter of an answering flag. Quickly followed the signal that
commanded the call to arms.
One by one I gave the signallers orders in quick succession, for the
plan of search unfolded itself to me as I went on. The arms of the
semaphore whirled in a way that made the young priest stare. One by
one, as they took their orders, the signallers seemed to catch fire.
Instinctively they understood the plan, and worked like demigods.
They knew that so widespread a movement had its best chance in rapidity and
in unity of action.
From the forest which lay in sight of the Castle came a wild cheering,
which seemed to interpret the former stillness of the hills. It was
good to feel that those who saw the signals—types of many—were
ready. I saw the look of expectation on the face of the
messenger-priest, and rejoiced at the glow that came as I turned to him to
speak. Of course, he wanted to know something of what was going
on. I saw the flashing of my own eyes reflected in his as I
spoke:
“Tell the Vladika that within a minute of his message being read
the Land of the Blue Mountains was awake. The mountaineers are
already marching, and before the sun is high there will be a line of guards
within hail of each other round the whole frontier—from Angusa to
Ilsin; from Ilsin to Bajana; from Bajana to Ispazar; from Ispazar to Volok;
from Volok to Tatra; from Tatra to Domitan; from Domitan to Gravaja; and
from Gravaja back to Angusa. The line is double. The old men
keep guard on the line, and the young men advance. These will close
in at the advancing line, so that nothing can escape them. They will
cover mountain-top and forest depth, and will close in finally on the
Castle here, which they can behold from afar. My own yacht is here,
and will sweep the coast from end to end. It is the fastest boat
afloat, and armed against a squadron. Here will all signals
come. In an hour where we stand will be a signal bureau, where
trained eyes will watch night and day till the lost one has been found and
the outrage has been avenged. The robbers are even now within a ring
of steel, and cannot escape.”
The young priest, all on fire, sprang on the battlements and shouted to
the crowd, which was massing round the Castle in the gardens far
below. The forest was giving up its units till they seemed like the
nucleus of an army. The men cheered lustily, till the sound swung
high up to us like the roaring of a winter sea. With bared heads they
were crying:
“God and the Blue Mountains! God and the Blue
Mountains!”
I ran down to them as quickly as I could, and began to issue their
instructions. Within a time to be computed by minutes the whole
number, organized by sections, had started to scour the neighbouring
mountains. At first they had only understood the call to arms for
general safety. But when they learned that the daughter of a chief
had been captured, they simply went mad. From something which the
messenger first said, but which I could not catch or did not understand,
the blow seemed to have for them some sort of personal significance which
wrought them to a frenzy.
When the bulk of the men had disappeared, I took with me a few of my own
men and several of the mountaineers whom I had asked to remain, and
together we went to the hidden ravine which I knew. We found the
place empty; but there were unmistakable signs that a party of men had been
encamped there for several days. Some of our men, who were skilled in
woodcraft and in signs generally, agreed that there must have been some
twenty of them. As they could not find any trail either coming to or
going from the place, they came to the conclusion that they must have come
separately from different directions and gathered there, and that they must
have departed in something of the same mysterious way.
However, this was, at any rate, some sort of a beginning, and the men
separated, having agreed amongst themselves to make a wide cast round the
place in the search for tracks. Whoever should find a trail was to
follow with at least one comrade, and when there was any definite news, it
was to be signalled to the Castle.
I myself returned at once, and set the signallers to work to spread
amongst our own people such news as we had.
When presently such discoveries as had been made were signalled with
flags to the Castle, it was found that the marauders had, in their flight,
followed a strangely zigzag course. It was evident that, in trying to
baffle pursuit, they had tried to avoid places which they thought might be
dangerous to them. This may have been simply a method to disconcert
pursuit. If so, it was, in a measure, excellent, for none of those
immediately following could possibly tell in what direction they were
heading. It was only when we worked the course on the great map in
the signaller’s room (which was the old guard room of the Castle)
that we could get an inkling of the general direction of their
flight. This gave added trouble to the pursuit; for the men who
followed, being ignorant of their general intent, could not ever take
chance to head them off, but had to be ready to follow in any or every
direction. In this manner the pursuit was altogether a stern chase,
and therefore bound to be a long one.
As at present we could not do anything till the intended route was more
marked, I left the signalling corps to the task of receiving and giving
information to the moving bands, so that, if occasion served, they might
head off the marauders. I myself took Rooke, as captain of the yacht,
and swept out of the creek. We ran up north to Dalairi, then down
south to Olesso, and came back to Vissarion. We saw nothing
suspicious except, far off to the extreme southward, one warship which flew
no flag. Rooke, however, who seemed to know ships by instinct, said
she was a Turk; so on our return we signalled along the whole shore to
watch her. Rooke held The Lady—which was the name I had given
the armoured yacht—in readiness to dart out in case anything
suspicious was reported. He was not to stand on any ceremony, but if
necessary to attack. We did not intend to lose a point in this
desperate struggle which we had undertaken. We had placed in
different likely spots a couple of our own men to look after the
signalling.
When I got back I found that the route of the fugitives, who had now
joined into one party, had been definitely ascertained. They had gone
south, but manifestly taking alarm from the advancing line of guards, had
headed up again to the north-east, where the country was broader and the
mountains wilder and less inhabited.
Forthwith, leaving the signalling altogether in the hands of the
fighting priests, I took a small chosen band of the mountaineers of our own
district, and made, with all the speed we could, to cut across the track of
the fugitives a little ahead of them. The Archimandrite (Abbot) of
Spazac, who had just arrived, came with us. He is a splendid
man—a real fighter as well as a holy cleric, as good with his handjar
as with his Bible, and a runner to beat the band. The marauders were
going at a fearful pace, considering that they were all afoot; so we had to
go fast also! Amongst these mountains there is no other means of
progressing. Our own men were so aflame with ardour that I could not
but notice that they, more than any of the others whom I had seen, had some
special cause for concern.
When I mentioned it to the Archimandrite, who moved by my side, he
answered:
“All natural enough; they are not only fighting for their country,
but for their own!” I did not quite understand his answer, and
so began to ask him some questions, to the effect that I soon began to
understand a good deal more than he did.
Letter from Archbishop Stevan Palealogue, Head of the Eastern
Church of the Blue Mountains, to the Lady Janet MacKelpie,
Vissarion.
Written July 9, 1907.
Honoured Lady,
As you wish for an understanding regarding the late lamentable
occurrence in which so much danger was incurred to this our Land of the
Blue Mountains, and one dear to us, I send these words by request of the
Gospodar Rupert, beloved of our mountaineers.
When the Voivode Peter Vissarion made his journey to the great nation to
whom we looked in our hour of need, it was necessary that he should go in
secret. The Turk was at our gates, and full of the malice of baffled
greed. Already he had tried to arrange a marriage with the Voivodin,
so that in time to come he, as her husband, might have established a claim
to the inheritance of the land. Well he knew, as do all men, that the
Blue Mountaineers owe allegiance to none that they themselves do not
appoint to rulership. This has been the history in the past.
But now and again an individual has arisen or come to the front adapted
personally for such government as this land requires. And so the Lady
Teuta, Voivodin of the Blue Mountains, was put for her proper guarding in
the charge of myself as Head of the Eastern Church in the Land of the Blue
Mountains, steps being taken in such wise that no capture of her could be
effected by unscrupulous enemies of this our Land. This task and
guardianship was gladly held as an honour by all concerned. For the
Voivodin Teuta of Vissarion must be taken as representing in her own person
the glory of the old Serb race, inasmuch as being the only child of the
Voivode Vissarion, last male of his princely race—the race which
ever, during the ten centuries of our history, unflinchingly gave life and
all they held for the protection, safety, and well-being of the Land of the
Blue Mountains. Never during those centuries had any one of the race
been known to fail in patriotism, or to draw back from any loss or hardship
enjoined by high duty or stress of need. Moreover, this was the race
of that first Voivode Vissarion, of whom, in legend, it was prophesied that
he—once known as “The Sword of Freedom,” a giant amongst
men—would some day, when the nation had need of him, come forth from
his water-tomb in the lost Lake of Reo, and lead once more the men of the
Blue Mountains to lasting victory. This noble race, then, had come to
be known as the last hope of the Land. So that when the Voivode was
away on his country’s service, his daughter should be closely
guarded. Soon after the Voivode had gone, it was reported that he
might be long delayed in his diplomacies, and also in studying the system
of Constitutional Monarchy, for which it had been hoped to exchange our
imperfect political system. I may say inter alia that he was
mentioned as to be the first king when the new constitution should have
been arranged.
Then a great misfortune came on us; a terrible grief overshadowed the
land. After a short illness, the Voivodin Teuta Vissarion died
mysteriously of a mysterious ailment. The grief of the mountaineers
was so great that it became necessary for the governing Council to warn
them not to allow their sorrow to be seen. It was imperatively
necessary that the fact of her death should be kept secret. For there
were dangers and difficulties of several kinds. In the first place it
was advisable that even her father should be kept in ignorance of his
terrible loss. It was well known that he held her as the very core of
his heart and that if he should hear of her death, he would be too much
prostrated to be able to do the intricate and delicate work which he had
undertaken. Nay, more: he would never remain afar off, under the sad
circumstances, but would straightway return, so as to be in the land where
she lay. Then suspicions would crop up, and the truth must shortly be
known afield, with the inevitable result that the Land would become the
very centre of a war of many nations.
In the second place, if the Turks were to know that the race of
Vissarion was becoming extinct, this would encourage them to further
aggression, which would become immediate should they find out that the
Voivode was himself away. It was well known that they were already
only suspending hostilities until a fitting opportunity should arise.
Their desire for aggression had become acute after the refusal of the
nation, and of the girl herself, that she should become a wife of the
Sultan.
The dead girl had been buried in the Crypt of the church of St. Sava,
and day after day and night after night, singly and in parties, the
sorrowing mountaineers had come to pay devotion and reverence at her
tomb. So many had wished to have a last glimpse of her face that the
Vladika had, with my own consent as Archbishop, arranged for a glass cover
to be put over the stone coffin wherein her body lay.
After a little time, however, there came a belief to all concerned in
the guarding of the body—these, of course, being the priests of
various degrees of dignity appointed to the task—that the Voivodin
was not really dead, but only in a strangely-prolonged trance.
Thereupon a new complication arose. Our mountaineers are, as perhaps
you know, by nature deeply suspicious—a characteristic of all brave
and self-sacrificing people who are jealous of their noble heritage.
Having, as they believed, seen the girl dead, they might not be willing to
accept the fact of her being alive. They might even imagine that
there was on foot some deep, dark plot which was, or might be, a menace,
now or hereafter, to their independence. In any case, there would be
certain to be two parties on the subject, a dangerous and deplorable thing
in the present condition of affairs.
As the trance, or catalepsy, whatever it was, continued for many days,
there had been ample time for the leaders of the Council, the Vladika, the
priesthood represented by the Archimandrite of Spazac, myself as Archbishop
and guardian of the Voivodin in her father’s absence, to consult as
to a policy to be observed in case of the girl awaking. For in such
case the difficulty of the situation would be multiplied
indefinitely. In the secret chambers of St. Sava’s we had many
secret meetings, and were finally converging on agreement when the end of
the trance came.
The girl awoke!
She was, of course, terribly frightened when she found herself in a tomb
in the Crypt. It was truly fortunate that the great candles around
her tomb had been kept lighted, for their light mitigated the horror of the
place. Had she waked in darkness, her reason might have become
unseated.
She was, however, a very noble girl; brave, with extraordinary will, and
resolution, and self-command, and power of endurance. When she had
been taken into one of the secret chambers of the church, where she was
warmed and cared for, a hurried meeting was held by the Vladika, myself,
and the chiefs of the National Council. Word had been at once sent to
me of the joyful news of her recovery; and with the utmost haste I came,
arriving in time to take a part in the Council.
At the meeting the Voivodin was herself present, and full confidence of
the situation was made to her. She herself proposed that the belief
in her death should be allowed to prevail until the return of her father,
when all could be effectively made clear. To this end she undertook
to submit to the terrific strain which such a proceeding would
involve. At first we men could not believe that any woman could go
through with such a task, and some of us did not hesitate to voice our
doubts—our disbelief. But she stood to her guns, and actually
down-faced us. At the last we, remembering things that had been done,
though long ages ago, by others of her race, came to believe not merely in
her self-belief and intention, but even in the feasibility of her
plan. She took the most solemn oaths not to betray the secret under
any possible stress.
The priesthood undertook through the Vladika and myself to further a
ghostly belief amongst the mountaineers which would tend to prevent a too
close or too persistent observation. The Vampire legend was spread as
a protection against partial discovery by any mischance, and other weird
beliefs were set afoot and fostered. Arrangements were made that only
on certain days were the mountaineers to be admitted to the Crypt, she
agreeing that for these occasions she was to take opiates or carry out any
other aid to the preservation of the secret. She was willing, she
impressed upon us, to make any personal sacrifice which might be deemed
necessary for the carrying out her father’s task for the good of the
nation.
Of course, she had at first terrible frights lying alone in the horror
of the Crypt. But after a time the terrors of the situation, if they
did not cease, were mitigated. There are secret caverns off the
Crypt, wherein in troublous times the priests and others of high place have
found safe retreat. One of these was prepared for the Voivodin, and
there she remained, except for such times as she was on show—and
certain other times of which I shall tell you. Provision was made for
the possibility of any accidental visit to the church. At such times,
warned by an automatic signal from the opening door, she was to take her
place in the tomb. The mechanism was so arranged that the means to
replace the glass cover, and to take the opiate, were there ready to her
hand. There was to be always a watch of priests at night in the
church, to guard her from ghostly fears as well as from more physical
dangers; and if she was actually in her tomb, it was to be visited at
certain intervals. Even the draperies which covered her in the
sarcophagus were rested on a bridge placed from side to side just above
her, so as to hide the rising and falling of her bosom as she slept under
the narcotic.
After a while the prolonged strain began to tell so much on her that it
was decided that she should take now and again exercise out of doors.
This was not difficult, for when the Vampire story which we had spread
began to be widely known, her being seen would be accepted as a proof of
its truth. Still, as there was a certain danger in her being seen at
all, we thought it necessary to exact from her a solemn oath that so long
as her sad task lasted she should under no circumstances ever wear any
dress but her shroud—this being the only way to insure secrecy and to
prevail against accident.
There is a secret way from the Crypt to a sea cavern, whose entrance is
at high-tide under the water-line at the base of the cliff on which the
church is built. A boat, shaped like a coffin, was provided for her;
and in this she was accustomed to pass across the creek whenever she wished
to make excursion. It was an excellent device, and most efficacious
in disseminating the Vampire belief.
This state of things had now lasted from before the time when the
Gospodar Rupert came to Vissarion up to the day of the arrival of the
armoured yacht.
That night the priest on duty, on going his round of the Crypt just
before dawn, found the tomb empty. He called the others, and they
made full search. The boat was gone from the cavern, but on making
search they found it on the farther side of the creek, close to the garden
stairs. Beyond this they could discover nothing. She seemed to
have disappeared without leaving a trace.
Straightway they went to the Vladika, and signalled to me by the
fire-signal at the monastery at Astrag, where I then was. I took a
band of mountaineers with me, and set out to scour the country. But
before going I sent an urgent message to the Gospodar Rupert, asking him,
who showed so much interest and love to our Land, to help us in our
trouble. He, of course, knew nothing then of all have now told
you. Nevertheless, he devoted himself whole-heartedly to our
needs—as doubtless you know.
But the time had now come close when the Voivode Vissarion was about to
return from his mission; and we of the council of his daughter’s
guardianship were beginning to arrange matters so that at his return the
good news of her being still alive could be made public. With her
father present to vouch for her, no question as to truth could arise.
But by some means the Turkish “Bureau of Spies” must have
got knowledge of the fact already. To steal a dead body for the
purpose of later establishing a fictitious claim would have been an
enterprise even more desperate than that already undertaken. We
inferred from many signs, made known to us in an investigation, that a
daring party of the Sultan’s emissaries had made a secret incursion
with the object of kidnapping the Voivodin. They must have been bold
of heart and strong of resource to enter the Land of the Blue Mountains on
any errand, let alone such a desperate one as this. For centuries we
have been teaching the Turk through bitter lessons that it is neither a
safe task nor an easy one to make incursion here.
How they did it we know not—at present; but enter they did, and,
after waiting in some secret hiding-place for a favourable opportunity,
secured their prey. We know not even now whether they had found
entrance to the Crypt and stole, as they thought, the dead body, or
whether, by some dire mischance, they found her abroad—under her
disguise as a ghost. At any rate, they had captured her, and through
devious ways amongst the mountains were bearing her back to Turkey.
It was manifest that when she was on Turkish soil the Sultan would force a
marriage on her so as eventually to secure for himself or his successors as
against all other nations a claim for the suzerainty or guardianship of the
Blue Mountains.
Such was the state of affairs when the Gospodar Rupert threw himself
into the pursuit with fiery zeal and the Berserk passion which he inherited
from Viking ancestors, whence of old came “The Sword of
Freedom” himself.
But at that very time was another possibility which the Gospodar was
himself the first to realize. Failing the getting the Voivodin safe
to Turkish soil, the ravishers might kill her! This would be entirely
in accord with the base traditions and history of the Moslems. So,
too, it would accord with Turkish customs and the Sultan’s present
desires. It would, in its way, benefit the ultimate strategetic ends
of Turkey. For were once the Vissarion race at an end, the subjection
of the Land of the Blue Mountains might, in their view, be an easier task
than it had yet been found to be.
Such, illustrious lady, were the conditions of affairs when the Gospodar
Rupert first drew his handjar for the Blue Mountains and what it held most
dear.
Palealogue,
Archbishop of the Eastern Church, in the Land of the Blue
Mountains.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
July 8, 1907.
I wonder if ever in the long, strange history of the world had there
come to any other such glad tidings as came to me—and even then
rather inferentially than directly—from the Archimandrite’s
answers to my questioning. Happily I was able to restrain myself, or
I should have created some strange confusion which might have evoked
distrust, and would certainly have hampered us in our pursuit. For a
little I could hardly accept the truth which wove itself through my brain
as the true inwardness of each fact came home to me and took its place in
the whole fabric. But even the most welcome truth has to be accepted
some time by even a doubting heart. My heart, whatever it may have
been, was not then a doubting heart, but a very, very grateful one.
It was only the splendid magnitude of the truth which forbade its immediate
acceptance. I could have shouted for joy, and only stilled myself by
keeping my thoughts fixed on the danger which my wife was in. My
wife! My wife! Not a Vampire; not a poor harassed creature
doomed to terrible woe, but a splendid woman, brave beyond belief,
patriotic in a way which has but few peers even in the wide history of
bravery! I began to understand the true meaning of the strange
occurrences that have come into my life. Even the origin and purpose
of that first strange visit to my room became clear. No wonder that
the girl could move about the Castle in so mysterious a manner. She
had lived there all her life, and was familiar with the secret ways of
entrance and exit. I had always believed that the place must have
been honeycombed with secret passages. No wonder that she could find
a way to the battlements, mysterious to everybody else. No wonder
that she could meet me at the Flagstaff when she so desired.
To say that I was in a tumult would be to but faintly express my
condition. I was rapt into a heaven of delight which had no measure
in all my adventurous life—the lifting of the veil which showed that
my wife—mine—won in all sincerity in the very teeth of
appalling difficulties and dangers—was no Vampire, no corpse, no
ghost or phantom, but a real woman of flesh and blood, of affection, and
love, and passion. Now at last would my love be crowned indeed when,
having rescued her from the marauders, I should bear her to my own home,
where she would live and reign in peace and comfort and honour, and in love
and wifely happiness if I could achieve such a blessing for her—and
for myself.
But here a dreadful thought flashed across me, which in an instant
turned my joy to despair, my throbbing heart to ice:
“As she is a real woman, she is in greater danger than ever in the
hands of Turkish ruffians. To them a woman is in any case no more
than a sheep; and if they cannot bring her to the harem of the Sultan, they
may deem it the next wisest step to kill her. In that way, too, they
might find a better chance of escape. Once rid of her the party could
separate, and there might be a chance of some of them finding escape as
individuals that would not exist for a party. But even if they did
not kill her, to escape with her would be to condemn her to the worst fate
of all the harem of the Turk! Lifelong misery and
despair—however long that life might be—must be the lot of a
Christian woman doomed to such a lot. And to her, just happily
wedded, and after she had served her country in such a noble way as she had
done, that dreadful life of shameful slavery would be a misery beyond
belief.
“She must be rescued—and quickly! The marauders must
be caught soon, and suddenly, so that they may have neither time nor
opportunity to harm her, as they would be certain to do if they have
warning of immediate danger.
“On! on!”
And “on” it was all through that terrible night as well as
we could through the forest.
It was a race between the mountaineers and myself as to who should be
first. I understood now the feeling that animated them, and which
singled them out even from amongst their fiery comrades, when the danger of
the Voivodin became known. These men were no mean contestants even in
such a race, and, strong as I am, it took my utmost effort to keep ahead of
them. They were keen as leopards, and as swift. Their lives had
been spent among the mountains, and their hearts and souls on were in the
chase. I doubt not that if the death of any one of us could have
through any means effected my wife’s release, we should, if
necessary, have fought amongst ourselves for the honour.
From the nature of the work before us our party had to keep to the top
of the hills. We had not only to keep observation on the flying party
whom we followed, and to prevent them making discovery of us, but we had to
be always in a position to receive and answer signals made to us from the
Castle, or sent to us from other eminences.
Letter from Petrof Vlastimir, Archimandrite of Spazac,
to the Lady Janet MacKelpie, of Vissarion.
Written July 8, 1907.
Great Lady,
I am asked to write by the Vladika, and have permission of the
Archbishop. I have the honour of transmitting to you the record of
the pursuit of the Turkish spies who carried off the Voivodin Teuta, of the
noble House of Vissarion. The pursuit was undertaken by the Gospodar
Rupert, who asked that I would come with his party, since what he was so
good as to call my “great knowledge of the country and its
people” might serve much. It is true that I have had much
knowledge of the Land of the Blue Mountains and its people, amongst which
and whom my whole life has been passed. But in such a cause no reason
was required. There was not a man in the Blue Mountains who would not
have given his life for the Voivodin Teuta, and when they heard that she
had not been dead, as they thought, but only in a trance, and that it was
she whom the marauders had carried off, they were in a frenzy. So why
should I—to whom has been given the great trust of the Monastery of
Spazac—hesitate at such a time? For myself, I wanted to hurry
on, and to come at once to the fight with my country’s foes; and well
I knew that the Gospodar Rupert, with a lion’s heart meet for his
giant body, would press on with a matchless speed. We of the Blue
Mountains do not lag when our foes are in front of us; most of all do we of
the Eastern Church press on when the Crescent wars against the Cross!
We took with us no gear or hamper of any kind; no coverings except what
we stood in; no food—nothing but our handjars and our rifles, with a
sufficiency of ammunition. Before starting, the Gospodar gave hurried
orders by signal from the Castle to have food and ammunition sent to us (as
we might signal) by the nearest hamlet.
It was high noon when we started, only ten strong—for our leader
would take none but approved runners who could shoot straight and use the
handjar as it should be used. So as we went light, we expected to go
fast. By this time we knew from the reports signalled to Vissarion
that the enemies were chosen men of no despicable prowess.
The Keeper of the Green Flag of Islam is well served, and as though the
Turk is an infidel and a dog, he is sometimes brave and strong.
Indeed, except when he passes the confines of the Blue Mountains, he has
been known to do stirring deeds. But as none who have dared to wander
in amongst our hills ever return to their own land, we may not know of how
they speak at home of their battles here. Still, these men were
evidently not to be despised; and our Gospodar, who is a wise man as well
as a valiant, warned us to be prudent, and not to despise our foes over
much. We did as he counselled, and in proof we only took ten men, as
we had only twenty against us. But then there was at stake much
beyond life, and we took no risks. So, as the great clock at
Vissarion clanged of noon, the eight fastest runners of the Blue Mountains,
together with the Gospodar Rupert and myself, swept out on our
journey. It had been signalled to us that the course which the
marauders had as yet taken in their flight was a zigzag one, running
eccentrically at all sorts of angles in all sorts of directions. But
our leader had marked out a course where we might intercept our foes across
the main line of their flight; and till we had reached that region we
paused not a second, but went as fast as we could all night long.
Indeed, it was amongst us a race as was the Olympic race of old Greece,
each one vying with his fellows, though not in jealous emulation, but in
high spirit, to best serve his country and the Voivodin Teuta.
Foremost amongst us went the Gospodar, bearing himself as a Paladin of old,
his mighty form pausing for no obstacle. Perpetually did he urge us
on. He would not stop or pause for a moment, but often as he and I
ran together—for, lady, in my youth I was the fleetest of all in the
race, and even that now can head a battalion when duty calls—he would
ask me certain questions as to the Lady Teuta and of the strange manner of
her reputed death, as it was gradually unfolded in my answers to his
questioning. And as each new phase of knowledge came to him, he would
rush on as one possessed of fiends: whereat our mountaineers, who seem to
respect even fiends for their thoroughness, would strive to keep pace with
him till they too seemed worked into diabolic possession. And I
myself, left alone in the calmness of sacerdotal office, forgot even
that. With surging ears and eyes that saw blood, I rushed along with
best of them.
Then truly the spirit of a great captain showed itself in the Gospodar,
for when others were charged with fury he began to force himself into calm,
so that out of his present self-command and the memory of his exalted
position came a worthy strategy and thought for every contingency that
might arise. So that when some new direction was required for our
guidance, there was no hesitation in its coming. We, nine men of
varying kinds, all felt that we had a master; and so, being willing to
limit ourselves to strict obedience, we were free to use such thoughts as
well as such powers as we had to the best advantage of the doing.
We came across the trail of the flying marauders on the second morning
after the abduction, a little before noon. It was easy enough to see,
for by this time the miscreants were all together, and our people, who were
woodlanders, were able to tell much of the party that passed. These
were evidently in a terrified hurry, for they had taken no precautions such
as are necessary baffle pursuit, and all of which take time. Our
foresters said that two went ahead and two behind. In the centre went
the mass, moving close together, as though surrounding their
prisoner. We caught not even a single glimpse her—could not
have, they encompassed her so closely. But our foresters saw other
than the mass; the ground that had been passed was before them. They
knew that the prisoner had gone unwillingly—nay, more: one of them
said as he rose from his knees, where he had been examining of the
ground:
“The misbegotten dogs have been urging her on with their
yataghans! There are drops of blood, though there are no blood-marks
on her feet.”
Whereupon the Gospodar flamed with passion. His teeth ground
together, and with a deep-breathed “On, on!” he sprang off
again, handjar in hand, on the track.
Before long we saw the party in the distance. They this were far
below us in a deep valley, although the track of their going passed away to
the right hand. They were making for the base of the great cliff,
which rose before us all. Their reason was twofold, as we soon
knew. Far off down the valley which they were crossing we saw signs
of persons coming in haste, who must be of the search party coming from the
north. Though the trees hid them, we could not mistake the
signs. I was myself forester enough to have no doubt. Again, it
was evident that the young Voivodin could travel no longer at the dreadful
pace at which they had been going. Those blood-marks told their own
tale! They meant to make a last stand here in case they should be
discovered.
Then it was that he, who amongst us all had been most fierce and most
bent on rapid pursuit, became the most the calm. Raising his hand for
silence—though, God knows, we were and had been silent enough during
that long rush through the forest—he said, in a low, keen whisper
which cut the silence like a knife:
“My friends, the time is come for action. God be thanked,
who has now brought us face to face with our foes! But we must be
careful here—not on our own account, for we wish nothing more than to
rush on and conquer or die—but for the sake of her whom you love, and
whom I, too, love. She is in danger from anything which may give
warning to those fiends. If they know or even suspect for an instant
that we are near, they will murder her . . . ”
Here his voice broke for an instant with the extremity of his passion or
the depth of his feeling—I hardly know which; I think both acted on
him.
“We know from those blood-marks what they can do—even to
her.” His teeth ground together again, but he went on without
stopping further:
“Let us arrange the battle. Though we are but little
distance from them as the crow flies, the way is far to travel. There
is, I can see, but one path down to the valley from this side. That
they have gone by, and that they will sure to guard—to watch, at any
rate. Let us divide, as to surround them. The cliff towards
which they make runs far to the left without a break. That to the
right we cannot see from this spot; but from the nature of the ground it is
not unlikely that it turns round in this direction, making the hither end
of the valley like a vast pocket or amphitheatre. As they have
studied the ground in other places, they may have done so in this, and have
come hither as to a known refuge. Let one man, a marksman, stay
here.”
As he spoke a man stepped to the front. He was, I knew, an
excellent shot.
“Let two others go to the left and try to find a way down the
cliff before us. When they have descended to the level of the
valley—path or no path—let them advance cautiously and
secretly, keeping their guns in readiness. But they must not fire
till need. Remember, my brothers,” said, turning to those who
stepped out a pace or two to the left, “that the first shot gives the
warning which will be the signal for the Voivodin’s death.
These men will not hesitate. You must judge yourselves of the time to
shoot. The others of us will move to the right and try to find a path
on that side. If the valley be indeed a pocket between the cliffs, we
must find a way down that is not a path!”
As he spoke thus there was a blaze in his eyes that betokened no good to
aught that might stand in his way. I ran by his side as we moved to
the right.
It was as he surmised about the cliff. When we got a little on our
way we saw how the rocky formation trended to our right, till, finally,
with a wide curve, it came round to the other side.
It was a fearful valley that, with its narrow girth and its towering
walls that seemed to topple over. On the farther side from us the
great trees that clothed the slope of the mountain over it grew down to the
very edge of the rock, so that their spreading branches hung far over the
chasm. And, so far as we could understand, the same condition existed
on our own side. Below us the valley was dark even in the
daylight. We could best tell the movement of the flying marauders by
the flashes of the white shroud of their captive in the midst of them.
From where we were grouped, amid the great tree-trunks on the very brow
of the cliff, we could, when our eyes were accustomed to the shadow, see
them quite well. In great haste, and half dragging, half carrying the
Voivodin, they crossed the open space and took refuge in a little grassy
alcove surrounded, save for its tortuous entrance, by undergrowth.
From the valley level it was manifestly impossible to see them, though we
from our altitude could see over the stunted undergrowth. When within
the glade, they took their hands from her. She, shuddering
instinctively, withdrew to a remote corner of the dell.
And then, oh, shame on their manhood!—Turks and heathens though
they were—we could see that they had submitted her to the indignity
of gagging her and binding her hands!
Our Voivodin Teuta bound! To one and all of us it was like lashing
us across the face. I heard the Gospodar’s teeth grind
again. But once more he schooled himself to calmness ere he said:
“It is, perhaps, as well, great though the indignity be.
They are seeking their own doom, which is coming quickly . . . Moreover,
they are thwarting their own base plans. Now that she is bound they
will trust to their binding, so that they will delay their murderous
alternative to the very last moment. Such is our chance of rescuing
her alive!”
For a few moments he stood as still as a stone, as though revolving
something in his mind whilst he watched. I could see that some grim
resolution was forming in his mind, for his eyes ranged to the top of the
trees above cliff, and down again, very slowly this time, as though
measuring and studying the detail of what was in front of him. Then
he spoke:
“They are in hopes that the other pursuing party may not come
across them. To know that, they are waiting. If those others do
not come up the valley, they will proceed on their way. They will
return up the path the way they came. There we can wait them, charge
into the middle of them when she is opposite, and cut down those around
her. Then the others will open fire, and we shall be rid of them!
Whilst he was speaking, two of the men of our party, who I knew to be
good sharpshooters, and who had just before lain on their faces and had
steadied their rifles to shoot, rose to their feet.
“Command us, Gospodar!” they said simply, as they stood to
attention. “Shall we go to the head of the ravine road and
there take hiding?” He thought for perhaps a minute, whilst we
all stood as silent as images. I could hear our hearts beating.
Then he said:
“No, not yet. There is time for that yet. They will
not—cannot stir or make plans in any way till they know whether the
other party is coming towards them or not. From our height here we
can see what course the others are taking long before those villains
do. Then we can make our plans and be ready in time.”
We waited many minutes, but could see no further signs the other
pursuing party. These had evidently adopted greater caution in their
movements as they came closer to where they expected to find the
enemy. The marauders began to grow anxious. Even at our
distance we could gather as much from their attitude and movements.
Presently, when the suspense of their ignorance grew too much for them,
they drew to the entrance of the glade, which was the farthest place to
which, without exposing themselves to anyone who might come to the valley,
they could withdraw from their captive. Here they consulted
together. We could follow from their gestures what they were saying,
for as they did not wish their prisoner to hear, their gesticulation was
enlightening to us as to each other. Our people, like all
mountaineers, have good eyes, and the Gospodar is himself an eagle in this
as in other ways. Three men stood back from the rest. They
stacked their rifles so that they could seize them easily. Then they
drew their scimitars, and stood ready, as though on guard.
These were evidently the appointed murderers. Well they knew their
work; for though they stood in a desert place with none within long
distance except the pursuing party, of whose approach they would have good
notice, they stood so close to their prisoner that no marksman in the
world—now or that ever had been; not William Tell himself—could
have harmed any of them without at least endangering her. Two of them
turned the Voivodin round so that her face was towards the
precipice—in which position she could not see what was going
on—whilst he who was evidently leader of the gang explained, in
gesture, that the others were going to spy upon the pursuing party.
When they had located them he, or one of his men, would come out of the
opening of the wood wherein they had had evidence of them, and hold up his
hand.
That was to be the signal for the cutting of the victim’s
throat—such being the chosen method (villainous even for heathen
murderers) of her death. There was not one of our men who did not
grind his teeth when we witnessed the grim action, only too expressive, of
the Turk as he drew his right hand, clenched as though he held a yataghan
in it, across his throat.
At the opening of the glade all the spying party halted whilst the
leader appointed to each his place of entry of the wood, the front of which
extended in an almost straight across the valley from cliff to cliff.
The men, stooping low when in the open, and taking instant advantage of
every little obstacle on the ground, seemed to fade like spectres with
incredible swiftness across the level mead, and were swallowed up in the
wood.
When they had disappeared the Gospodar Rupert revealed to us the details
of the plan of action which he had revolving in his mind. He motioned
us to follow him: we threaded a way between the tree-trunks, keeping all
the while on the very edge of the cliff, so that the space below was all
visible to us. When we had got round the curve sufficiently to see
the whole of the wood on the valley level, without losing sight of the
Voivodin and her appointed assassins, we halted under his direction.
There was an added advantage of this point over the other, for we could see
directly the rising of the hill-road, up which farther side ran the
continuation of the mountain path which the marauders had followed.
It was somewhere on that path that the other pursuing party had hoped to
intercept the fugitives. The Gospodar spoke quickly, though in a
voice of command which true soldiers love to hear:
“Brothers, the time has come when we can strike a blow for Teuta
and the Land. Do you two, marksmen, take position here facing the
wood.” The two men here lay down and got their rifles
ready. “Divide the frontage of the wood between you; arrange
between yourselves the limits of your positions. The very instant one
of the marauders appears, cover him; drop him before he emerges from the
wood. Even then still watch and treat similarly whoever else may take
his place. Do this if they come singly till not a man is left.
Remember, brothers, that brave hearts alone will not suffice at this grim
crisis. In this hour the best safety of the Voivodin is in the calm
spirit and the steady eye!” Then he turned to the rest of us,
and spoke to me:
“Archimandrite of Plazac, you who are interpreter to God of the
prayers of so many souls, my own hour has come. If I do not return,
convey my love to my Aunt Janet—Miss MacKelpie, at Vissarion.
There is but one thing left to us if we wish to save the Voivodin. Do
you, when the time comes, take these men and join the watcher at the top of
the ravine road. When the shots are fired, do you out handjar, and
rush the ravine and across the valley. Brothers, you may be in time
to avenge the Voivodin, if you cannot save her. For me there must be
a quicker way, and to it I go. As there is not, and will not be, time
to traverse the path, I must take a quicker way. Nature finds me a
path that man has made it necessary for me to travel. See that giant
beech-tree that towers above the glade where the Voivodin is held?
There is my path! When you from here have marked the return of the
spies, give me a signal with your hat—do not use a handkerchief, as
others might see its white, and take warning. Then rush that
ravine. I shall take that as the signal for my descent by the leafy
road. If I can do naught else, I can crush the murderers with my
falling weight, even if I have to kill her too. At least we shall die
together—and free. Lay us together in the tomb at St.
Sava’s. Farewell, if it be the last!”
He threw down the scabbard in which he carried his handjar, adjusted the
naked weapon in his belt behind his back, and was gone!
We who were not watching the wood kept our eyes fixed on the great
beech-tree, and with new interest noticed the long trailing branches which
hung low, and swayed even in the gentle breeze. For a few minutes,
which seemed amazingly long, we saw no sign of him. Then, high up on
one of the great branches which stood clear of obscuring leaves, we saw
something crawling flat against the bark. He was well out on the
branch, hanging far over the precipice. He was looking over at us,
and I waved my hand so that he should know we saw him. He was clad in
green—his usual forest dress—so that there was not any
likelihood of any other eyes noticing him. I took off my hat, and
held it ready to signal with when the time should come. I glanced
down at the glade and saw the Voivodin standing, still safe, with her
guards so close to her as to touch. Then I, too, fixed my eyes on the
wood.
Suddenly the man standing beside me seized my arm and pointed. I
could just see through the trees, which were lower than elsewhere in the
front of the wood, a Turk moving stealthily; so I waved my hat. At
the same time a rifle underneath me cracked. A second or two later
the spy pitched forward on his face and lay still. At the same
instant my eyes sought the beech-tree, and I saw the close-lying figure
raise itself and slide forward to a joint of the branch. Then the
Gospodar, as he rose, hurled himself forward amid the mass of the trailing
branches. He dropped like a stone, and my heart sank.
But an instant later he seemed in poise. He had clutched the thin,
trailing branches as he fell; and as he sank a number of leaves which his
motion had torn off floated out round him.
Again the rifle below me cracked, and then again, and again, and
again. The marauders had taken warning, and were coming out in
mass. But my own eyes were fixed on the tree. Almost as a
thunderbolt falls fell the giant body of the Gospodar, his size lost in the
immensity of his surroundings. He fell in a series of jerks, as he
kept clutching the trailing beech-branches whilst they lasted, and then
other lesser verdure growing out from the fissures in the rock after the
lengthening branches had with all their elasticity reached their last
point.
At length—for though this all took place in a very few seconds the
gravity of the crisis prolonged them immeasurably—there came a large
space of rock some three times his own length. He did not pause, but
swung himself to one side, so that he should fall close to the Voivodin and
her guards. These men did not seem to notice, for their attention was
fixed on the wood whence they expected their messenger to signal. But
they raised their yataghans in readiness. The shots had alarmed them;
and they meant to do the murder now—messenger or no messenger
But though the men did not see the danger from above, the Voivodin
did. She raised her eyes quickly at the first sound, and even from
where we were, before we began to run towards the ravine path, I could see
the triumphant look in her glorious eyes when she recognized the identity
of the man who was seemingly coming straight down from Heaven itself to
help her—as, indeed, she, and we too, can very well imagine that he
did; for if ever heaven had a hand in a rescue on earth, it was now.
Even during the last drop from the rocky foliage the Gospodar kept his
head. As he fell he pulled his handjar free, and almost as he was
falling its sweep took off the head of one of the assassins. As he
touched ground he stumbled for an instant, but it was towards his
enemies. Twice with lightning rapidity the handjar swept the air, and
at each sweep a head rolled on the sward.
The Voivodin held up her tied hands. Again the handjar flashed,
this time downwards, and the lady was free. Without an
instant’s pause the Gospodar tore off the gag, and with his left arm
round her and handjar in right hand, stood face toward his living
foes. The Voivodin stooped suddenly, and then, raising the yataghan
which had fallen from the hand of one of the dead marauders, stood armed
beside him.
The rifles were now cracking fast, as the marauders—those that
were left of them—came rushing out into the open. But well the
marksmen knew their work. Well they bore in mind the Gospodar’s
command regarding calmness. They kept picking off the foremost men
only, so that the onward rush never seemed to get more forward.
As we rushed down the ravine we could see clearly all before us.
But now, just as we were beginning to fear lest some mischance might allow
some of them to reach the glade, there was another cause of
surprise—of rejoicing.
From the face of the wood seemed to burst all at once a body of men, all
wearing the national cap, so we knew them as our own. They were all
armed with the handjar only, and they came like tigers. They swept on
the rushing Turks as though, for all their swiftness, they were standing
still—literally wiping them out as a child wipes a lesson from its
slate.
A few seconds later these were followed by a tall figure with long hair
and beard of black mingled with grey. Instinctively we all, as did
those in the valley, shouted with joy. For this was the Vladika
Milosh Plamenac himself.
I confess that, knowing what I knew, I was for a short space of time
anxious lest, in the terrific excitement in which we were all lapped,
someone might say or do something which might make for trouble later
on. The Gospodar’s splendid achievement, which was worthy of
any hero of old romance, had set us all on fire. He himself must have
been wrought to a high pitch of excitement to dare such an act; and it is
not at such a time that discretion must be expected from any man.
Most of all did I fear danger from the womanhood of the Voivodin. Had
I not assisted at her marriage, I might not have understood then what it
must have been to her to be saved from such a doom at such a time by such a
man, who was so much to her, and in such a way. It would have been
only natural if at such a moment of gratitude and triumph she had
proclaimed the secret which we of the Council of the Nation and her
father’s Commissioners had so religiously kept. But none of us
knew then either the Voivodin or the Gospodar Rupert as we do now. It
was well that they were as they are, for the jealousy and suspicion of our
mountaineers might, even at such a moment, and even whilst they throbbed at
such a deed, have so manifested themselves as to have left a legacy of
distrust. The Vladika and I, who of all (save the two immediately
concerned) alone knew, looked at each other apprehensively. But at
that instant the Voivodin, with a swift glance at her husband, laid a
finger on her lip; and he, with quick understanding, gave assurance by a
similar sign. Then she sank before him on one knee, and, raising his
hand to her lips, kissed it, and spoke:
“Gospodar Rupert, I owe you all that a woman may owe, except to
God. You have given me life and honour! I cannot thank you
adequately for what you have done; my father will try to do so when he
returns. But I am right sure that the men of the Blue Mountains, who
so value honour, and freedom, and liberty, and bravery, will hold you in
their hearts for ever!”
This was so sweetly spoken, with lips that trembled and eyes that swam
in tears, so truly womanly and so in accord with the custom of our nation
regarding the reverence that women owe to men, that the hearts of our
mountaineers were touched to the quick. Their noble simplicity found
expression in tears. But if the gallant Gospodar could have for a
moment thought that so to weep was unmanly, his error would have had
instant correction. When the Voivodin had risen to her feet, which
she did with queenly dignity, the men around closed in on the Gospodar like
a wave of the sea, and in a second held him above their heads, tossing on
their lifted hands as if on stormy breakers. It was as though the old
Vikings of whom we have heard, and whose blood flows in Rupert’s
veins, were choosing a chief in old fashion. I was myself glad that
the men were so taken up with the Gospodar that they did not see the glory
of the moment in the Voivodin’s starry eyes; for else they might have
guessed the secret. I knew from the Vladika’s look that he
shared my own satisfaction, even as he had shared my anxiety.
As the Gospodar Rupert was tossed high on the lifted hands of the
mountaineers, their shouts rose to such a sudden volume that around us, as
far as I could see, the frightened birds rose from the forest, and their
noisy alarm swelled the tumult.
The Gospodar, ever thoughtful for others, was the first to calm
himself.
“Come, brothers,” he said, “let us gain the hilltop,
where we can signal to the Castle. It is right that the whole nation
should share in the glad tidings that the Voivodin Teuta of Vissarion is
free. But before we go, let us remove the arms and clothing of these
carrion marauders. We may have use for them later on.”
The mountaineers set him down, gently enough. And he, taking the
Voivodin by the hand, and calling the Vladika and myself close to them, led
the way up the ravine path which the marauders had descended, and thence
through the forest to the top of the hill that dominated the valley.
Here we could, from an opening amongst the trees, catch a glimpse far off
of the battlements of Vissarion. Forthwith the Gospodar signalled;
and on the moment a reply of their awaiting was given. Then the
Gospodar signalled the glad news. It was received with manifest
rejoicing. We could not hear any sound so far away, but we could see
the movement of lifted faces and waving hands, and knew that it was
well. But an instant after came a calm so dread that we knew before
the semaphore had begun to work that there was bad news in store for
us. When the news did come, a bitter wailing arose amongst us; for
the news that was signalled ran:
“The Voivode has been captured by the Turks on his return, and is
held by them at Ilsin.”
In an instant the temper of the mountaineers changed. It was as
though by a flash summer had changed to winter, as though the yellow glory
of the standing corn had been obliterated by the dreary waste of
snow. Nay, more: it was as when one beholds the track of the
whirlwind when the giants of the forest are levelled with the sward.
For a few seconds there was silence; and then, with an angry roar, as when
God speaks in the thunder, came the fierce determination of the men of the
Blue Mountains:
“To Ilsin! To Ilsin!” and a stampede in the direction
of the south began. For, Illustrious Lady, you, perhaps, who have
been for so short a time at Vissarion, may not know that at the extreme
southern point of the Land of the Blue Mountains lies the little port of
Ilsin, which long ago we wrested from the Turk.
The stampede was checked by the command, “Halt!” spoken in a
thunderous voice by the Gospodar. Instinctively all stopped.
The Gospodar Rupert spoke again:
“Had we not better know a little more before we start on our
journey? I shall get by semaphore what details are known. Do
you all proceed in silence and as swiftly as possible. The Vladika
and I will wait here till we have received the news and have sent some
instructions, when we shall follow, and, if we can, overtake you. One
thing: be absolutely silent on what has been. Be secret of every
detail—even as to the rescue of the Voivodin—except what I
send.”
Without a word—thus showing immeasurable trust—the whole
body—not a very large one, it is true—moved on, and the
Gospodar began signalling. As I was myself expert in the code, I did
not require any explanation, but followed question and answer on either
side. The first words the Gospodar Rupert signalled were:
“Silence, absolute and profound, as to everything which has
been.” Then he asked for details of the capture of the
Voivode. The answer ran:
“He was followed from Flushing, and his enemies advised by the
spies all along the route. At Ragusa quite a number of
strangers—travellers seemingly—went on board the packet.
When he got out, the strangers debarked too, and evidently followed him,
though, as yet, we have no details. He disappeared at Ilsin from the
Hotel Reo, whither he had gone. All possible steps are being taken to
trace his movements, and strictest silence and secrecy are
observed.”
His answer was:
“Good! Keep silent and secret. Am hurrying back.
Signal request to Archbishop and all members of National Council to come to
Gadaar with all speed. There the yacht will meet him. Tell
Rooke take yacht all speed to Gadaar; there meet Archbishop and
Council—give him list of names—and return full speed.
Have ready plenty arms, six flying artillery. Two hundred men,
provisions three days. Silence, silence. All depends on
that. All to go on as usual at Castle, except to those in
secret.”
When the receipt of his message had been signalled, we three—for,
of course, the Voivodin was with us; she had refused to leave the
Gospodar—set out hot-foot after our comrades. But by the time
we had descended the hill it was evident that the Voivodin could not keep
up the terrific pace at which we were going. She struggled
heroically, but the long journey she had already taken, and the hardship
and anxiety she had suffered, had told on her. The Gospodar stopped,
and said that it would be better that he should press on—it was,
perhaps, her father’s life—and said he would carry her.
“No, no!” she answered. “Go on! I shall
follow with the Vladika. And then you can have things ready to get on
soon after the Archbishop and Council arrive.” They kissed each
other after, on her part, a shy glance at me; and he went on the track of
our comrades at a great pace. I could see him shortly after catch
them up,—though they, too, were going fast. For a few minutes
they ran together, he speaking—I could note it from the way they kept
turning their heads towards him. Then he broke away from them
hurriedly. He went like a stag breaking covert, and was soon out of
sight. They halted a moment or two. Then some few ran on, and
all the rest came back towards us. Quickly they improvised a litter
with cords and branches, and insisted that the Voivodin should use
it. In an incredibly short time we were under way again, and
proceeding with great rapidity towards Vissarion. The men took it in
turns to help with the litter; I had the honour of taking a hand in the
work myself.
About a third of the way out from Vissarion a number of our people met
us. They were fresh, and as they carried the litter, we who were
relieved were free for speed. So we soon arrived at the Castle.
Here we found all humming like a hive of bees. The yacht, which
Captain Rooke had kept fired ever since the pursuing party under the
Gospodar had left Vissarion, was already away, and tearing up the coast at
a fearful rate. The rifles and ammunition were stacked on the
quay. The field-guns, too, were equipped, and the cases of ammunition
ready to ship. The men, two hundred of them, were paraded in full
kit, ready to start at a moment’s notice. The provision for
three days was all ready to put aboard, and barrels of fresh water to
trundle aboard when the yacht should return. At one end of the quay,
ready to lift on board, stood also the Gospodar’s aeroplane, fully
equipped, and ready, if need were, for immediate flight.
I was glad to see that the Voivodin seemed none the worse for her
terrible experience. She still wore her shroud; but no one seemed to
notice it as anything strange. The whisper had evidently gone round
of what had been. But discretion ruled the day. She and the
Gospodar met as two who had served and suffered in common; but I was glad
to notice that both kept themselves under such control that none of those
not already in the secret even suspected that there was any love between
them, let alone marriage.
We all waited with what patience we could till word was signalled from
the Castle tower that the yacht had appeared over the northern horizon, and
was coming down fast, keeping inshore as she came.
When she arrived, we heard to our joy that all concerned had done their
work well. The Archbishop was aboard, and of the National Council not
one was missing. The Gospodar hurried them all into the great hall of
the Castle, which had in the meantime been got ready. I, too, went
with him, but the Voivodin remained without.
When all were seated, he rose and said:
“My Lord Archbishop, Vladika, and Lords of the Council all, I have
dared to summon you in this way because time presses, and the life of one
you all love—the Voivode Vissarion—is at stake. This
audacious attempt of the Turk is the old aggression under a new form.
It is a new and more daring step than ever to try to capture your chief and
his daughter, the Voivodin, whom you love. Happily, the latter part
of the scheme is frustrated. The Voivodin is safe and amongst
us. But the Voivode is held prisoner—if, indeed, he be still
alive. He must be somewhere near Ilsin—but where exactly we
know not as yet. We have an expedition ready to start the moment we
receive your sanction—your commands. We shall obey your wishes
with our lives. But as the matter is instant, I would venture to ask
one question, and one only: ‘Shall we rescue the Voivode at any cost
that may present itself?’ I ask this, for the matter has now
become an international one, and, if our enemies are as earnest as we are,
the issue is war!”
Having so spoken, and with a dignity and force which is inexpressible,
he withdrew; and the Council, having appointed a scribe—the monk
Cristoferos, whom I had suggested—began its work.
The Archbishop spoke:
“Lords of the Council of the Blue Mountains, I venture to ask you
that the answer to the Gospodar Rupert be an instant ‘Yes!’
together with thanks and honour to that gallant Englisher, who has made our
cause his own, and who has so valiantly rescued our beloved Voivodin from
the ruthless hands of our enemies.” Forthwith the oldest member
of the Council—Nicolos of Volok—rose, and, after throwing a
searching look round the faces of all, and seeing grave nods of
assent—for not a word was spoken—said to him who held the door:
“Summon the Gospodar Rupert forthwith!” When Rupert
entered, he spoke to him:
“Gospodar Rupert, the Council of the Blue Mountains has only one
answer to give: Proceed! Rescue the Voivode Vissarion, whatever the
cost may be! You hold henceforth in your hand the handjar of our
nation, as already, for what you have done in your valiant rescue of our
beloved Voivodin, your breast holds the heart of our people. Proceed
at once! We give you, I fear, little time; but we know that such is
your own wish. Later, we shall issue formal authorization, so that if
war may ensue, our allies may understand that you have acted for the
nation, and also such letters credential as may be required by you in this
exceptional service. These shall follow you within an hour. For
our enemies we take no account. See, we draw the handjar that we
offer you.” As one man all in the hall drew their handjars,
which flashed as a blaze of lightning.
There did not seem to be an instant’s delay. The Council
broke up, and its members, mingling with the people without, took active
part in the preparations. Not many minutes had elapsed when the
yacht, manned and armed and stored as arranged, was rushing out of the
creek. On the bridge, beside Captain Rooke, stood the Gospodar Rupert
and the still-shrouded form of the Voivodin Teuta. I myself was on
the lower deck with the soldiers, explaining to certain of them the special
duties which they might be called on to fulfil. I held the list which
the Gospodar Rupert had prepared whilst we were waiting for the yacht to
arrive from Gadaar.
Petrof
Vlastimir.
FROM RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
July 9, 1907.
We went at a terrific pace down the coast, keeping well inshore so as to
avoid, if possible, being seen from the south. Just north of Ilsin a
rocky headland juts out, and that was our cover. On the north of the
peninsula is a small land-locked bay, with deep water. It is large
enough to take the yacht, though a much larger vessel could not safely
enter. We ran in, and anchored close to the shore, which has a rocky
frontage—a natural shelf of rock, which is practically the same as a
quay. Here we met the men who had come from Ilsin and the
neighbourhood in answer to our signalling earlier in the day. They
gave us the latest information regarding the kidnapping of the Voivode, and
informed us that every man in that section of the country was simply aflame
about it. They assured us that we could rely on them, not merely to
fight to the death, but to keep silence absolutely. Whilst the
seamen, under the direction of Rooke, took the aeroplane on shore and found
a suitable place for it, where it was hidden from casual view, but from
which it could be easily launched, the Vladika and I—and, of course,
my wife—were hearing such details as were known of the disappearance
of her father.
It seems that he travelled secretly in order to avoid just such a
possibility as has happened. No one knew of his coming till he came
to Fiume, whence he sent a guarded message to the Archbishop, which the
latter alone would understand. But this Turkish agents were evidently
on his track all the time, and doubtless the Bureau of Spies was kept well
advised. He landed at Ilsin from a coasting steamer from Ragusa to
the Levant.
For two days before his coming there had been quite an unusual number of
arrivals at the little port, at which arrivals are rare. And it
turned out that the little hotel—the only fairly good one in
Ilsin—was almost filled up. Indeed, only one room was left,
which the Voivode took for the night. The innkeeper did not know the
Voivode in his disguise, but suspected who it was from the
description. He dined quietly, and went to bed. His room was at
the back, on the ground-floor, looking out on the bank of the little River
Silva, which here runs into the harbour. No disturbance was heard in
the night. Late in the morning, when the elderly stranger had not
made his appearance, inquiry was made at his door. He did not answer,
so presently the landlord forced the door, and found the room empty.
His luggage was seemingly intact, only the clothes which he had worn were
gone. A strange thing was that, though the bed had been slept in and
his clothes were gone, his night-clothes were not to be found, from which
it was argued by the local authorities, when they came to make inquiry,
that he had gone or been taken from the room in his night-gear, and that
his clothes had been taken with him. There was evidently some grim
suspicion on the part of the authorities, for they had commanded absolute
silence on all in the house. When they came to make inquiry as to the
other guests, it was found that one and all had gone in the course of the
morning, after paying their bills. None of them had any heavy
luggage, and there was nothing remaining by which they might be traced or
which would afford any clue to their identity. The authorities,
having sent a confidential report to the seat of government, continued
their inquiries, and even now all available hands were at work on the
investigation. When I had signalled to Vissarion, before my arrival
there, word had been sent through the priesthood to enlist in the
investigation the services of all good men, so that every foot of ground in
that section of the Blue Mountains was being investigated. The
port-master was assured by his watchmen that no vessel, large or small, had
heft the harbour during the night. The inference, therefore, was that
the Voivode’s captors had made inland with him—if, indeed, they
were not already secreted in or near the town.
Whilst we were receiving the various reports, a hurried message came
that it was now believed that the whole party were in the Silent
Tower. This was a well-chosen place for such an enterprise. It
was a massive tower of immense strength, built as a memorial—and also
as a “keep”—after one of the massacres of the invading
Turks.
It stood on the summit of a rocky knoll some ten miles inland from the
Port of Ilsin. It was a place shunned as a rule, and the country all
around it was so arid and desolate that there were no residents near
it. As it was kept for state use, and might be serviceable in time of
war, it was closed with massive iron doors, which were kept locked except
upon certain occasions. The keys were at the seat of government at
Plazac. If, therefore, it had been possible to the Turkish marauders
to gain entrance and exit, it might be a difficult as well as a dangerous
task to try to cut the Voivode out. His presence with them was a
dangerous menace to any force attacking them, for they would hold his life
as a threat.
I consulted with the Vladika at once as to what was best to be
done. And we decided that, though we should put a cordon of guards
around it at a safe distance to prevent them receiving warning, we should
at present make no attack.
We made further inquiry as to whether there had been any vessel seen in
the neighbourhood during the past few days, and were informed that once or
twice a warship had been seen on the near side of the southern
horizon. This was evidently the ship which Rooke had seen on his rush
down the coast after the abduction of the Voivodin, and which he had
identified as a Turkish vessel. The glimpses of her which had been
had were all in full daylight—there was no proof that she had not
stolen up during the night-time without lights. But the Vladika and I
were satisfied that the Turkish vessel was watching—was in league
with both parties of marauders—and was intended to take off any of
the strangers, or their prey, who might reach Ilsin undetected. It
was evidently with this view that the kidnappers of Teuta had, in the first
instance, made with all speed for the south. It was only when
disappointed there that they headed up north, seeking in desperation for
some chance of crossing the border. That ring of steel had so far
well served its purpose.
I sent for Rooke, and put the matter before him. He had thought it
out for himself to the same end as we had. His deduction was:
“Let us keep the cordon, and watch for any signal from the Silent
Tower. The Turks will tire before we shall. I undertake to
watch the Turkish warship. During the night I shall run down south,
without lights, and have a look at her, even if I have to wait till the
grey of the dawn to do so. She may see us; but if she does I shall
crawl away at such pace that she shall not get any idea of our speed.
She will certainly come nearer before a day is over, for be sure the bureau
of spies is kept advised, and they know that when the country is awake each
day increases the hazard of them and their plans being discovered.
From their caution I gather that they do not court discovery; and from that
that they do not wish for an open declaration of war. If this be so,
why should we not come out to them and force an issue if need
be?”
When Teuta and I got a chance to be alone, we discussed the situation in
every phase. The poor girl was in a dreadful state of anxiety
regarding her father’s safety. At first she was hardly able to
speak, or even to think, coherently. Her utterance was choked, and
her reasoning palsied with indignation. But presently the fighting
blood of her race restored her faculties, and then her woman’s quick
wit was worth the reasoning of a camp full of men. Seeing that she
was all on fire with the subject, I sat still and waited, taking care not
to interrupt her. For quite a long time she sat still, whilst the
coming night thickened. When she spoke, the whole plan of action,
based on subtle thinking, had mapped itself out in her mind:
“We must act quickly. Every hour increases the risk to my
father.” Here her voice broke for an instant; but she recovered
herself and went on:
“If you go to the ship, I must not go with you. It would not
do for me to be seen. The Captain doubtless knows of both attempts:
that to carry me off as well as that against my father. As yet he is
in ignorance of what has happened. You and your party of brave, loyal
men did their work so well that no news could go forth. So long,
therefore, as the naval Captain is ignorant, he must delay till the
last. But if he saw me he would know that that branch of the
venture had miscarried. He would gather from our being here that we
had news of my father’s capture, and as he would know that the
marauders would fail unless they were relieved by force, he would order the
captive to be slain.”
“Yes, dear, to-morrow you had, perhaps, better see the Captain,
but to-night we must try to rescue my father. Here I think I see a
way. You have your aeroplane. Please take me with you into the
Silent Tower.”
“Not for a world of chrysolite!” said I, horrified.
She took my hand and held it tight whilst she went on:
“Dear, I know, I know! Be satisfied. But it is the
only way. You can, I know, get there, and in the dark. But if
you were to go in it, it would give warning to the enemies, and besides, my
father would not understand. Remember, he does not know you; he has
never seen you, and does not, I suppose, even know as yet of your
existence. But he would know me at once, and in any dress. You
can manage to lower me into the Tower by a rope from the aeroplane.
The Turks as yet do not know of our pursuit, and doubtless rely, at all
events in part, on the strength and security of the Tower. Therefore
their guard will be less active than it would at first or later on. I
shall post father in all details, and we shall be ready quickly. Now,
dear, let us think out the scheme together. Let your man’s wit
and experience help my ignorance, and we shall save my father!”
How could I have resisted such pleading—even had it not seemed
wise? But wise it was; and I, who knew what the aeroplane could do
under my own guidance, saw at once the practicalities of the scheme.
Of course there was a dreadful risk in case anything should go wrong.
But we are at present living in a world of risks—and her
father’s life was at stake. So I took my dear wife in my arms,
and told her that my mind was hers for this, as my soul and body already
were. And I cheered her by saying that I thought it might be
done.
I sent for Rooke, and told him of the new adventure, and he quite agreed
with me in the wisdom of it. I then told him that he would have to go
and interview the Captain of the Turkish warship in the morning, if I did
not turn up. “I am going to see the Vladika,” I
said. “He will lead our own troops in the attack on the Silent
Tower. But it will rest with you to deal with the warship. Ask
the Captain to whom or what nation the ship belongs. He is sure to
refuse to tell. In such case mention to him that if he flies no
nation’s flag, his vessel is a pirate ship, and that you, who are in
command of the navy of the Blue Mountains, will deal with him as a pirate
is dealt with—no quarter, no mercy. He will temporize, and
perhaps try a bluff; but when things get serious with him he will land a
force, or try to, and may even prepare to shell the town. He will
threaten to, at any rate. In such case deal with him as you think
best, or as near to it as you can.” He answered:
“I shall carry out your wishes with my life. It is a
righteous task. Not that anything of that sort would ever stand in my
way. If he attacks our nation, either as a Turk or a pirate, I shall
wipe him out. We shall see what our own little packet can do.
Moreover, any of the marauders who have entered the Blue Mountains, from
sea or otherwise, shall never get out by sea! I take it that we of my
contingent shall cover the attacking party. It will be a sorry time
for us all if that happens without our seeing you and the Voivodin; for in
such case we shall understand the worst!” Iron as he was, the
man trembled.
“That is so, Rooke,” I said. “We are taking a
desperate chance, we know. But the case is desperate! But we
all have our duty to do, whatever happens. Ours and yours is stern;
but when we have done it, the result will be that life will be easier for
others—for those that are left.”
Before he left, I asked him to send up to me three suits of the
Masterman bullet-proof clothes of which we had a supply on the yacht.
“Two are for the Voivodin and myself,” I said; “the
third is for the Voivode to put on. The Voivodin will take it with
her when she descends from the aeroplane into the Tower.”
Whilst any daylight was left I went out to survey the ground. My
wife wanted to come with me, but I would not let her.
“No,” said I; “you will have at the best a fearful tax on
your strength and your nerves. You will want to be as fresh as is
possible when you get on the aeroplane.” Like a good wife, she
obeyed, and lay down to rest in the little tent provided for her.
I took with me a local man who knew the ground, and who was trusted to
be silent. We made a long detour when we had got as near the Silent
Tower as we could without being noticed. I made notes from my compass
as to directions, and took good notice of anything that could possibly
serve as a landmark. By the time we got home I was pretty well
satisfied that if all should go well I could easily sail over the Tower in
the dark. Then I had a talk with my wife, and gave her full
instructions:
“When we arrive over the Tower,” I said, “I shall
lower you with a long rope. You will have a parcel of food and spirit
for your father in case he is fatigued or faint; and, of course, the
bullet-proof suit, which he must put on at once. You will also have a
short rope with a belt at either end—one for your father, the other
for you. When I turn the aeroplane and come back again, you will have
ready the ring which lies midway between the belts. This you will
catch into the hook at the end of the lowered rope. When all is
secure, and I have pulled you both up by the windlass so as to clear the
top, I shall throw out ballast which we shall carry on purpose, and away we
go! I am sorry it must be so uncomfortable for you both, but there is
no other way. When we get well clear of the Tower, I shall take you
both up on the platform. If necessary, I shall descend to do
it—and then we shall steer for Ilsin.”
“When all is safe, our men will attack the Tower. We must
let them do it, for they expect it. A few men in the clothes and arms
which we took from your captors will be pursued by some of ours. It
is all arranged. They will ask the Turks to admit them, and if the
latter have not learned of your father’s escape, perhaps they will do
so. Once in, our men will try to open the gate. The chances are
against them, poor fellows! but they are all volunteers, and will die
fighting. If they win out, great glory will be theirs.”
“The moon does not rise to-night till just before midnight, so we
have plenty of time. We shall start from here at ten. If all be
well, I shall place you in the Tower with your father in less than a
quarter-hour from that. A few minutes will suffice to clothe him in
bullet-proof and get on his belt. I shall not be away from the Tower
more than a very few minutes, and, please God, long before eleven we shall
be safe. Then the Tower can be won in an attack by our
mountaineers. Perhaps, when the guns are heard on the ship of
war—for there is sure to be firing—the Captain may try to land
a shore party. But Rooke will stand in the way, and if I know the man
and The Lady, we shall not be troubled with many Turks
to-night. By midnight you and your father can be on the way to
Vissarion. I can interview the naval Captain in the
morning.”
My wife’s marvellous courage and self-possession stood to
her. At half an hour before the time fixed she was ready for our
adventure. She had improved the scheme in one detail. She had
put on her own belt and coiled the rope round her waist, so the only delay
would be in bringing her father’s belt. She would keep the
bullet-proof dress intended to be his strapped in a packet on her back, so
that if occasion should be favourable he would not want to put it on till
he and she should have reached the platform of the aeroplane. In such
case, I should not steer away from the Tower at all, but would pass slowly
across it and take up the captive and his brave daughter before
leaving. I had learned from local sources that the Tower was in
several stories. Entrance was by the foot, where the great iron-clad
door was; then came living-rooms and storage, and an open space at the
top. This would probably be thought the best place for the prisoner,
for it was deep-sunk within the massive walls, wherein was no loophole of
any kind. This, if it should so happen, would be the disposition of
things best for our plan. The guards would at this time be all inside
the Tower—probably resting, most of them—so that it was
possible that no one might notice the coming of the airship. I was
afraid to think that all might turn out so well, for in such case our task
would be a simple enough one, and would in all human probability be crowned
with success.
At ten o’clock we started. Teuta did not show the smallest
sign of fear or even uneasiness, though this was the first time she had
even seen an aeroplane at work. She proved to be an admirable
passenger for an airship. She stayed quite still, holding herself
rigidly in the position arranged, by the cords which I had fixed for
her.
When I had trued my course by the landmarks and with the compass lit by
the Tiny my electric light in the dark box, I had time to look about
me. All seemed quite dark wherever I looked—to land, or sea, or
sky. But darkness is relative, and though each quarter and spot
looked dark in turn, there was not such absolute darkness as a whole.
I could tell the difference, for instance, between land and sea, no matter
how far off we might be from either. Looking upward, the sky was
dark; yet there was light enough to see, and even distinguish broad
effects. I had no difficulty in distinguishing the Tower towards
which we were moving, and that, after all, was the main thing. We
drifted slowly, very slowly, as the air was still, and I only used the
minimum pressure necessary for the engine. I think I now understood
for the first time the extraordinary value of the engine with which my
Kitson was equipped. It was noiseless, it was practically of no
weight, and it allowed the machine to progress as easily as the
old-fashioned balloon used to drift before a breeze. Teuta, who had
naturally very fine sight, seemed to see even better than I did, for as we
drew nearer to the Tower, and its round, open top began to articulate
itself, she commenced to prepare for her part of the task. She it was
who uncoiled the long drag-rope ready for her lowering. We were
proceeding so gently that she as well as I had hopes that I might be able
to actually balance the machine on the top of the curving wall—a
thing manifestly impossible on a straight surface, though it might have
been possible on an angle.
On we crept—on, and on! There was no sign of light about the
Tower, and not the faintest sound to be heard till we were almost close to
the line of the rising wall; then we heard a sound of something like mirth,
but muffled by distance and thick walls. From it we took fresh heart,
for it told us that our enemies were gathered in the lower chambers.
If only the Voivode should be on the upper stage, all would be well.
Slowly, almost inch by inch, and with a suspense that was agonizing, we
crossed some twenty or thirty feet above the top of the wall. I could
see as we came near the jagged line of white patches where the heads of the
massacred Turks placed there on spikes in old days seemed to give still
their grim warning. Seeing that they made in themselves a difficulty
of landing on the wall, I deflected the plane so that, as we crept over the
wall, we might, if they became displaced, brush them to the outside of the
wall. A few seconds more, and I was able to bring the machine to rest
with the front of the platform jutting out beyond the Tower wall.
Here I anchored her fore and aft with clamps which had been already
prepared.
Whilst I was doing so Teuta had leaned over the inner edge of the
platform, and whispered as softly as the sigh of a gentle breeze:
“Hist! hist!” The answer came in a similar sound from
some twenty feet below us, and we knew that the prisoner was alone.
Forthwith, having fixed the hook of the rope in the ring to which was
attached her belt, I lowered my wife. Her father evidently knew her
whisper, and was ready. The hollow Tower—a smooth cylinder
within—sent up the voices from it faint as were the whispers:
“Father, it is I—Teuta!”
“My child, my brave daughter!”
“Quick, father; strap the belt round you. See that it is
secure. We have to be lifted into the air if necessary. Hold
together. It will be easier for Rupert to lift us to the
airship.”
“Rupert?”
“Yes; I shall explain later. Quick, quick! There is
not a moment to lose. He is enormously strong, and can lift us
together; but we must help him by being still, so he won’t have to
use the windlass, which might creak.” As she spoke she jerked
slightly at the rope, which was our preconcerted signal that I was to
lift. I was afraid the windlass might creak, and her thoughtful hint
decided me. I bent my back to the task, and in a few seconds they
were on the platform on which they, at Teuta’s suggestion, lay flat,
one at each side of my seat, so as to keep the best balance possible.
I took off the clamps, lifted the bags of ballast to the top of the
wall, so that there should be no sound of falling, and started the
engine. The machine moved forward a few inches, so that it tilted
towards the outside of the wall. I threw my weight on the front part
of the platform, and we commenced our downward fall at a sharp angle.
A second enlarged the angle, and without further ado we slid away into the
darkness. Then, ascending as we went, when the engine began to work
at its strength, we turned, and presently made straight for Ilsin.
The journey was short—not many minutes. It almost seemed as
if no time whatever had elapsed till we saw below us the gleam of lights,
and by them saw a great body of men gathered in military array. We
slackened and descended. The crowd kept deathly silence, but when we
were amongst them we needed no telling that it was not due to lack of heart
or absence of joy. The pressure of their hands as they surrounded us,
and the devotion with which they kissed the hands and feet of both the
Voivode and his daughter, were evidence enough for me, even had I not had
my own share of their grateful rejoicing.
In the midst of it all the low, stern voice of Rooke, who had burst a
way to the front beside the Vladika, said:
“Now is the time to attack the Tower. Forward, brothers, but
in silence. Let there not be a sound till you are near the gate; then
play your little comedy of the escaping marauders. And ’twill
be no comedy for them in the Tower. The yacht is all ready for the
morning, Mr. Sent Leger, in case I do not come out of the scrimmage if the
bluejackets arrive. In such case you will have to handle her
yourself. God keep you, my Lady; and you, too, Voivode!
Forward!”
In a ghostly silence the grim little army moved forwards. Rooke
and the men with him disappeared into the darkness in the direction of the
harbour of Ilsin.
FROM THE SCRIPT OF THE VOIVODE, PETER VISSARION,
July 7, 1907.
I had little idea, when I started on my homeward journey, that it would
have such a strange termination. Even I, who ever since my boyhood
have lived in a whirl of adventure, intrigue, or diplomacy—whichever
it may be called—statecraft, and war, had reason to be
surprised. I certainly thought that when I locked myself into my room
in the hotel at Ilsin that I would have at last a spell, however short, of
quiet. All the time of my prolonged negotiations with the various
nationalities I had to be at tension; so, too, on my homeward journey, lest
something at the last moment should happen adversely to my mission.
But when I was safe on my own Land of the Blue Mountains, and laid my head
on my pillow, where only friends could be around me, I thought I might
forget care.
But to wake with a rude hand over my mouth, and to feel myself grasped
tight by so many hands that I could not move a limb, was a dreadful
shock. All after that was like a dreadful dream. I was rolled
in a great rug so tightly that I could hardly breathe, let alone cry
out. Lifted by many hands through the window, which I could hear was
softly opened and shut for the purpose, and carried to a boat. Again
lifted into some sort of litter, on which I was borne a long distance, but
with considerable rapidity. Again lifted out and dragged through a
doorway opened on purpose—I could hear the clang as it was shut
behind me. Then the rug was removed, and I found myself, still in my
night-gear, in the midst of a ring of men. There were two score of
them, all Turks, all strong-looking, resolute men, armed to the
teeth. My clothes, which had been taken from my room, were thrown
down beside me, and I was told to dress. As the Turks were going from
the room—shaped like a vault—where we then were, the last of
them, who seemed to be some sort of officer, said:
“If you cry out or make any noise whatever whilst you are in this
Tower, you shall die before your time!” Presently some food and
water were brought me, and a couple of blankets. I wrapped myself up
and slept till early in the morning. Breakfast was brought, and the
same men filed in. In the presence of them all the same officer
said:
“I have given instructions that if you make any noise or betray
your presence to anyone outside this Tower, the nearest man is to restore
you to immediate quiet with his yataghan. It you promise me that you
will remain quiet whilst you are within the Tower, I can enlarge your
liberties somewhat. Do you promise?” I promised as he
wished; there was no need to make necessary any stricter measure of
confinement. Any chance of escape lay in having the utmost freedom
allowed to me. Although I had been taken away with such secrecy, I
knew that before long there would be pursuit. So I waited with what
patience I could. I was allowed to go on the upper platform—a
consideration due, I am convinced, to my captors’ wish for their own
comfort rather than for mine.
It was not very cheering, for during the daytime I had satisfied myself
that it would be quite impossible for even a younger and more active man
than I am to climb the walls. They were built for prison purposes,
and a cat could not find entry for its claws between the stones. I
resigned myself to my fate as well as I could. Wrapping my blanket
round me, I lay down and looked up at the sky. I wished to see it
whilst I could. I was just dropping to sleep—the unutterable
silence of the place broken only now and again by some remark by my captors
in the rooms below me—when there was a strange appearance just over
me—an appearance so strange that I sat up, and gazed with distended
eyes.
Across the top of the tower, some height above, drifted, slowly and
silently, a great platform. Although the night was dark, it was so
much darker where I was within the hollow of the Tower that I could
actually see what was above me. I knew it was an aeroplane—one
of which I had seen in Washington. A man was seated in the centre,
steering; and beside him was a silent figure of a woman all wrapped in
white. It made my heart beat to see her, for she was figured
something like my Teuta, but broader, less shapely. She leaned over,
and a whispered “Ssh!” crept down to me. I answered in
similar way. Whereupon she rose, and the man lowered her down into
the Tower. Then I saw that it was my dear daughter who had come in
this wonderful way to save me. With infinite haste she helped me to
fasten round my waist a belt attached to a rope, which was coiled round
her; and then the man, who was a giant in strength as well as stature,
raised us both to the platform of the aeroplane, which he set in motion
without an instant’s delay.
Within a few seconds, and without any discovery being made of my escape,
we were speeding towards the sea. The lights of Ilsin were in front
of us. Before reaching the town, however, we descended in the midst
of a little army of my own people, who were gathered ready to advance upon
the Silent Tower, there to effect, if necessary, my rescue by force.
Small chance would there have been of my life in case of such a
struggle. Happily, however, the devotion and courage of my dear
daughter and of her gallant companion prevented such a necessity. It
was strange to me to find such joyous reception amongst my friends
expressed in such a whispered silence. There was no time for comment
or understanding or the asking of questions—I was fain to take things
as they stood, and wait for fuller explanation.
This came later, when my daughter and I were able to converse alone.
When the expedition went out against the Silent Tower, Teuta and I went
to her tent, and with us came her gigantic companion, who seemed not
wearied, but almost overcome with sleep. When we came into the tent,
over which at a little distance a cordon of our mountaineers stood on
guard, he said to me:
“May I ask you, sir, to pardon me for a time, and allow the
Voivodin to explain matters to you? She will, I know, so far assist
me, for there is so much work still to be done before we are free of the
present peril. For myself, I am almost overcome with sleep. For
three nights I have had no sleep, but all during that time much labour and
more anxiety. I could hold on longer; but at daybreak I must go out
to the Turkish warship that lies in the offing. She is a Turk, though
she does not confess to it; and she it is who has brought hither the
marauders who captured both your daughter and yourself. It is needful
that I go, for I hold a personal authority from the National Council to
take whatever step may be necessary for our protection. And when I go
I should be clear-headed, for war may rest on that meeting. I shall
be in the adjoining tent, and shall come at once if I am summoned, in case
you wish for me before dawn.” Here my daughter struck in:
“Father, ask him to remain here. We shall not disturb him, I
am sure, in our talking. And, moreover, if you knew how much I owe to
him—to his own bravery and his strength—you would understand
how much safer I feel when he is close to me, though we are surrounded by
an army of our brave mountaineers.”
“But, my daughter,” I said, for I was as yet all in
ignorance, “there are confidences between father and daughter which
none other may share. Some of what has been I know, but I want to
know all, and it might be better that no stranger—however valiant he
may be, or no matter in what measure we are bound to him—should be
present.” To my astonishment, she who had always been amenable
to my lightest wish actually argued with me:
“Father, there are other confidences which have to be respected in
like wise. Bear with me, dear, till I have told you all, and I am
right sure that you will agree with me. I ask it, father.”
That settled the matter, and as I could see that the gallant gentleman
who had rescued me was swaying on his feet as he waited respectfully, I
said to him:
“Rest with us, sir. We shall watch over your
sleep.”
Then I had to help him, for almost on the instant he sank down, and I
had to guide him to the rugs spread on the ground. In a few seconds
he was in a deep sleep. As I stood looking at him, till I had
realized that he vas really asleep, I could not help marvelling at the
bounty of Nature that could uphold even such a man as this to the last
moment of work to be done, and then allow so swift a collapse when all was
over, and he could rest peacefully.
He was certainly a splendid fellow. I think I never saw so fine a
man physically in my life. And if the lesson of his physiognomy be
true, he is as sterling inwardly as his external is fair.
“Now,” said I to Teuta, “we are to all intents quite
alone. Tell me all that has been, so that I may
understand.”
Whereupon my daughter, making me sit down, knelt beside me, and told me
from end to end the most marvellous story I had ever heard or read
of. Something of it I had already known from the Archbishop
Paleologue’s later letters, but of all else I was ignorant. Far
away in the great West beyond the Atlantic, and again on the fringe of the
Eastern seas, I had been thrilled to my heart’s core by the heroic
devotion and fortitude of my daughter in yielding herself for her
country’s sake to that fearful ordeal of the Crypt; of the grief of
the nation at her reported death, news of which was so mercifully and
wisely withheld from me as long as possible; of the supernatural rumours
that took root so deep; but no word or hint had come to me of a man who had
come across the orbit of her life, much less of all that has resulted from
it. Neither had I known of her being carried off, or of the thrice
gallant rescue of her by Rupert. Little wonder that I thought so
highly of him even at the first moment I had a clear view of him when he
sank down to sleep before me. Why, the man must be a marvel.
Even our mountaineers could not match such endurance as his. In the
course of her narrative my daughter told me of how, being wearied with her
long waiting in the tomb, and waking to find herself alone when the floods
were out, and even the Crypt submerged, she sought safety and warmth
elsewhere; and how she came to the Castle in the night, and found the
strange man alone. I said: “That was dangerous, daughter, if
not wrong. The man, brave and devoted as he is, must answer
me—your father.” At that she was greatly upset, and
before going on with her narrative, drew me close in her arms, and
whispered to me:
“Be gentle to me, father, for I have had much to bear. And
be good to him, for he holds my heart in his breast!” I
reassured her with a gentle pressure—there was no need to
speak. She then went on to tell me about her marriage, and how her
husband, who had fallen into the belief that she was a Vampire, had
determined to give even his soul for her; and how she had on the night of
the marriage left him and gone back to the tomb to play to the end the grim
comedy which she had undertaken to perform till my return; and how, on the
second night after her marriage, as she was in the garden of the
Castle—going, as she shyly told me, to see if all was well with her
husband—she was seized secretly, muffled up, bound, and carried
off. Here she made a pause and a digression. Evidently some
fear lest her husband and myself should quarrel assailed her, for she
said:
“Do understand, father, that Rupert’s marriage to me was in
all ways regular, and quite in accord with our customs. Before we
were married I told the Archbishop of my wish. He, as your
representative during your absence, consented himself, and brought the
matter to the notice of the Vladika and the Archimandrites. All these
concurred, having exacted from me—very properly, I think—a
sacred promise to adhere to my self-appointed task. The marriage
itself was orthodox in all ways—though so far unusual that it was
held at night, and in darkness, save for the lights appointed by the
ritual. As to that, the Archbishop himself, or the Archimandrite of
Spazac, who assisted him, or the Vladika, who acted as Paranymph, will, all
or any of them, give you full details. Your representative made all
inquiries as to Rupert Sent Leger, who lived in Vissarion, though he did
not know who I was, or from his point of view who I had been. But I
must tell you of my rescue.”
And so she went on to tell me of that unavailing journey south by her
captors; of their bafflement by the cordon which Rupert had established at
the first word of danger to “the daughter of our leader,”
though he little knew who the “leader” was, or who was his
“daughter”; of how the brutal marauders tortured her to speed
with their daggers; and how her wounds left blood-marks on the ground as
she passed along; then of the halt in the valley, when the marauders came
to know that their road north was menaced, if not already blocked; of the
choosing of the murderers, and their keeping ward over her whilst their
companions went to survey the situation; and of her gallant rescue by that
noble fellow, her husband—my son I shall call him henceforth, and
thank God that I may have that happiness and that honour!
Then my daughter went on to tell me of the race back to Vissarion, when
Rupert went ahead of all—as a leader should do; of the summoning of
the Archbishop and the National Council; and of their placing the
nation’s handjar in Rupert’s hand; of the journey to Ilsin, and
the flight of my daughter—and my son—on the aeroplane.
The rest I knew.
As she finished, the sleeping man stirred and woke—broad awake in
a second—sure sign of a man accustomed to campaign and
adventure. At a glance he recalled everything that had been, and
sprang to his feet. He stood respectfully before me for a few seconds
before speaking. Then he said, with an open, engaging smile:
“I see, sir, you know all. Am I forgiven—for
Teuta’s sake as well as my own?” By this time I was also
on my feet. A man like that walks straight into my heart. My
daughter, too, had risen, and stood by my side. I put out my hand and
grasped his, which seemed to leap to meet me—as only the hand of a
swordsman can do.
“I am glad you are my son!” I said. It was all I could
say, and I meant it and all it implied. We shook hands warmly.
Teuta was pleased; she kissed me, and then stood holding my arm with one
hand, whilst she linked her other hand in the arm of her husband.
He summoned one of the sentries without, and told him to ask Captain
Rooke to come to him. The latter had been ready for a call, and came
at once. When through the open flap of the tent we saw him coming,
Rupert—as I must call him now, because Teuta wishes it; and I like to
do it myself—said:
“I must be off to board the Turkish vessel before it comes
inshore. Good-bye, sir, in case we do not meet again.” He
said the last few words in so low a voice that I only could hear
them. Then he kissed his wife, and told her he expected to be back in
time for breakfast, and was gone. He met Rooke—I am hardly
accustomed to call him Captain as yet, though, indeed, he well deserves
it—at the edge of the cordon of sentries, and they went quickly
together towards the port, where the yacht was lying with steam up.
BOOK VII: THE EMPIRE OF THE AIR
FROM THE REPORT OF CRISTOFEROS, WAR-SCRIBE TO THE NATIONAL
COUNCIL.
July 7, 1907.
When the Gospodar Rupert and Captain Rooke came within hailing distance
of the strange ship, the former hailed her, using one after another the
languages of England, Germany, France, Russia, Turkey, Greece, Spain,
Portugal, and another which I did not know; I think it must have been
American. By this time the whole line of the bulwark was covered by a
row of Turkish faces. When, in Turkish, the Gospodar asked for the
Captain, the latter came to the gangway, which had been opened, and stood
there. His uniform was that of the Turkish navy—of that I am
prepared to swear—but he made signs of not understanding what had
been said; whereupon the Gospodar spoke again, but in French this
time. I append the exact conversation which took place, none other
joining in it. I took down in shorthand the words of both as they
were spoken:
The Gospodar. “Are you the
Captain of this ship?”
The Captain. “I am.”
Gospodar. “To what nationality do
you belong?”
Captain. “It matters not. I
am Captain of this ship.”
Gospodar. “I alluded to your
ship. What national flag is she under?”
Captain (throwing his eye over the
top-hamper). “I do not see that any flag is
flying.”
Gospodar. “I take it that, as
commander, you can allow me on board with my two companions?”
Captain. “I can, upon proper
request being made!”
Gospodar (taking off his cap).
“I ask your courtesy, Captain. I am the representative and
accredited officer of the National Council of the Land of the Blue
Mountains, in whose waters you now are; and on their account I ask for a
formal interview on urgent matters.”
The Turk, who was, I am bound to say, in manner most courteous as yet,
gave some command to his officers, whereupon the companion-ladders and
stage were lowered and the gangway manned, as is usual for the reception on
a ship of war of an honoured guest.
Captain. “You are welcome,
sir—you and your two companions—as you request.”
The Gospodar bowed. Our companion-ladder was rigged on the
instant, and a launch lowered. The Gospodar and Captain
Rooke—taking me with them—entered, and rowed to the warship,
where we were all honourably received. There were an immense number
of men on board, soldiers as well as seamen. It looked more like a
warlike expedition than a fighting-ship in time of peace. As we
stepped on the deck, the seamen and marines, who were all armed as at
drill, presented arms. The Gospodar went first towards the Captain,
and Captain Rooke and I followed close behind him. The Gospodar
spoke:
“I am Rupert Sent Leger, a subject of his Britannic Majesty,
presently residing at Vissarion, in the Land of the Blue Mountains. I
am at present empowered to act for the National Council in all
matters. Here is my credential!” As he spoke he handed to
the Captain a letter. It was written in five different
languages—Balkan, Turkish, Greek, English, and French. The
Captain read it carefully all through, forgetful for the moment that he had
seemingly been unable to understand the Gospodar’s question spoken in
the Turkish tongue. Then he answered:
“I see the document is complete. May I ask on what subject
you wish to see me?”
Gospodar. “You are here in a ship
of war in Blue Mountain waters, yet you fly no flag of any nation.
You have sent armed men ashore in your boats, thus committing an act of
war. The National Council of the Land of the Blue Mountains requires
to know what nation you serve, and why the obligations of international law
are thus broken.”
The Captain seemed to wait for further speech, but the Gospodar remained
silent; whereupon the former spoke.
Captain. “I am responsible to my
own—chiefs. I refuse to answer your question.”
The Gospodar spoke at once in reply.
Gospodar. “Then, sir, you, as
commander of a ship—and especially a ship of war—must know that
in thus violating national and maritime laws you, and all on board this
ship, are guilty of an act of piracy. This is not even piracy on the
high seas. You are not merely within territorial waters, but you have
invaded a national port. As you refuse to disclose the nationality of
your ship, I accept, as you seem to do, your status as that of a pirate,
and shall in due season act accordingly.”
Captain (with manifest
hostility). “I accept the responsibility of my own
acts. Without admitting your contention, I tell you now that whatever
action you take shall be at your own peril and that of your National
Council. Moreover, I have reason to believe that my men who were sent
ashore on special service have been beleaguered in a tower which can be
seen from the ship. Before dawn this morning firing was heard from
that direction, from which I gather that attack was made on them.
They, being only a small party, may have been murdered. If such be
so, I tell you that you and your miserable little nation, as you call it,
shall pay such blood-money as you never thought of. I am responsible
for this, and, by Allah! there shall be a great revenge. You have not
in all your navy—if navy you have at all—power to cope with
even one ship like this, which is but one of many. My guns shall be
trained on Ilsin, to which end I have come inshore. You and your
companions have free conduct back to port; such is due to the white flag
which you fly. Fifteen minutes will bring you back whence you
came. Go! And remember that whatever you may do amongst your
mountain defiles, at sea you cannot even defend yourselves.”
Gospodar (slowly and in a ringing
voice). “The Land of the Blue Mountains has its own
defences on sea and land. Its people know how to defend
themselves.”
Captain (taking out his watch).
“It is now close on five bells. At the first stroke of six
bells our guns shall open fire.”
Gospodar (calmly). “It is
my last duty to warn you, sir—and to warn all on this ship—that
much may happen before even the first stroke of six bells. Be warned
in time, and give over this piratical attack, the very threat of which may
be the cause of much bloodshed.”
Captain (violently). “Do
you dare to threaten me, and, moreover, my ship’s company? We
are one, I tell you, in this ship; and the last man shall perish like the
first ere this enterprise fail. Go!”
With a bow, the Gospodar turned and went down the ladder, we following
him. In a couple of minutes the yacht was on her way to the port.
FROM RUPERT’S JOURNAL.
July 10, 1907.
When we turned shoreward after my stormy interview with the pirate
Captain—I can call him nothing else at present, Rooke gave orders to
a quartermaster on the bridge, and The Lady began to make to a
little northward of Ilsin port. Rooke himself went aft to the
wheel-house, taking several men with him.
When we were quite near the rocks—the water is so deep here that
there is no danger—we slowed down, merely drifting along southwards
towards the port. I was myself on the bridge, and could see all over
the decks. I could also see preparations going on upon the
warship. Ports were opened, and the great guns on the turrets were
lowered for action. When we were starboard broadside on to the
warship, I saw the port side of the steering-house open, and Rooke’s
men sliding out what looked like a huge grey crab, which by tackle from
within the wheel-house was lowered softly into the sea. The position
of the yacht hid the operation from sight of the warship. The doors
were shut again, and the yacht’s pace began to quicken. We ran
into the port. I had a vague idea that Rooke had some desperate
project on hand. Not for nothing had he kept the wheel-house locked
on that mysterious crab.
All along the frontage was a great crowd of eager men. But they
had considerately left the little mole at the southern entrance, whereon
was a little tower, on whose round top a signal-gun was placed, free for my
own use. When I was landed on this pier I went along to the end, and,
climbing the narrow stair within, went out on the sloping roof. I
stood up, for I was determined to show the Turks that I was not afraid for
myself, as they would understand when the bombardment should begin.
It was now but a very few minutes before the fatal hour—six
bells. But all the same I was almost in a state of despair. It
was terrible to think of all those poor souls in the town who had done
nothing wrong, and who were to be wiped out in the coming blood-thirsty,
wanton attack. I raised my glasses to see how preparations were going
on upon the warship.
As I looked I had a momentary fear that my eyesight was giving
way. At one moment I had the deck of the warship focussed with my
glasses, and could see every detail as the gunners waited for the word to
begin the bombardment with the great guns of the barbettes. The next
I saw nothing but the empty sea. Then in another instant there was
the ship as before, but the details were blurred. I steadied myself
against the signal-gun, and looked again. Not more than two, or at
the most three, seconds had elapsed. The ship was, for the moment,
full in view. As I looked, she gave a queer kind of quick shiver,
prow and stern, and then sideways. It was for all the world like a
rat shaken in the mouth of a skilled terrier. Then she remained
still, the one placid thing to be seen, for all around her the sea seemed
to shiver in little independent eddies, as when water is broken without a
current to guide it.
I continued to look, and when the deck was, or seemed, quite
still—for the shivering water round the ship kept catching my eyes
through the outer rays of the lenses—I noticed that nothing was
stirring. The men who had been at the guns were all lying down; the
men in the fighting-tops had leaned forward or backward, and their arms
hung down helplessly. Everywhere was desolation—in so far as
life was concerned. Even a little brown bear, which had been seated
on the cannon which was being put into range position, had jumped or fallen
on deck, and lay there stretched out—and still. It was evident
that some terrible shock had been given to the mighty war-vessel.
Without a doubt or a thought why I did so, I turned my eyes towards where
The Lady lay, port broadside now to the inside, in the harbour
mouth. I had the key now to the mystery of Rooke’s proceedings
with the great grey crab.
As I looked I saw just outside the harbour a thin line of cleaving
water. This became more marked each instant, till a steel disc with
glass eyes that shone in the light of the sun rose above the water.
It was about the size of a beehive, and was shaped like one. It made
a straight line for the aft of the yacht. At the same moment, in
obedience to some command, given so quietly that I did not hear it, the men
went below—all save some few, who began to open out doors in the port
side of the wheel-house. The tackle was run out through an opened
gangway on that side, and a man stood on the great hook at the lower end,
balancing himself by hanging on the chain. In a few seconds he came
up again. The chain tightened and the great grey crab rose over the
edge of the deck, and was drawn into the wheel-house, the doors of which
were closed, shutting in a few only of the men.
I waited, quite quiet. After a space of a few minutes, Captain
Rooke in his uniform walked out of the wheel-house. He entered a
small boat, which had been in the meantime lowered for the purpose, and was
rowed to the steps on the mole. Ascending these, he came directly
towards the signal-tower. When he had ascended and stood beside me,
he saluted.
“Well?” I asked.
“All well, sir,” he answered. “We shan’t
have any more trouble with that lot, I think. You warned that
pirate—I wish he had been in truth a clean, honest, straightforward
pirate, instead of the measly Turkish swab he was—that something
might occur before the first stroke of six bells. Well, something has
occurred, and for him and all his crew that six bells will never
sound. So the Lord fights for the Cross against the Crescent!
Bismillah. Amen!” He said this in a manifestly formal
way, as though declaiming a ritual. The next instant he went on in
the thoroughly practical conventional way which was usual to him:
“May I ask a favour, Mr. Sent Leger?”
“A thousand, my dear Rooke,” I said. “You
can’t ask me anything which I shall not freely grant. And I
speak within my brief from the National Council. You have saved Ilsin
this day, and the Council will thank you for it in due time.”
“Me, sir?” he said, with a look of surprise on his face
which seemed quite genuine. “If you think that, I am well out
of it. I was afraid, when I woke, that you might court-martial
me!”
“Court-martial you! What for?” I asked, surprised in
my turn.
“For going to sleep on duty, sir! And the fact is, I was
worn out in the attack on the Silent Tower last night, and when you had
your interview with the pirate—all good pirates forgive me for the
blasphemy! Amen!—and I knew that everything was going smoothly,
I went into the wheel-house and took forty winks.” He said all
this without moving so much as an eyelid, from which I gathered that he
wished absolute silence to be observed on my part. Whilst I was
revolving this in my mind he went on:
“Touching that request, sir. When I have left you and the
Voivode—and the Voivodin, of course—at Vissarion, together with
such others as you may choose to bring there with you, may I bring the
yacht back here for a spell? I rather think that there is a good deal
of cleaning up to be done, and the crew of The Lady with myself are
the men to do it. We shall be back by nightfall at the
creek.”
“Do as you think best, Admiral Rooke,” I said.
“Admiral?”
“Yes, Admiral. At present I can only say that tentatively,
but by to-morrow I am sure the National Council will have confirmed
it. I am afraid, old friend, that your squadron will be only your
flagship for the present; but later we may do better.”
“So long as I am Admiral, your honour, I shall have no other
flagship than The Lady. I am not a young man, but, young or
old, my pennon shall float over no other deck. Now, one other favour,
Mr. Sent Leger? It is a corollary of the first, so I do not hesitate
to ask. May I appoint Lieutenant Desmond, my present First Officer,
to the command of the battleship? Of course, he will at first only
command the prize crew; but in such case he will fairly expect the
confirmation of his rank later. I had better, perhaps, tell you, sir,
that he is a very capable seaman, learned in all the sciences that pertain
to a battleship, and bred in the first navy in the world.”
“By all means, Admiral. Your nomination shall, I think I may
promise you, be confirmed.”
Not another word we spoke. I returned with him in his boat to
The Lady, which was brought to the dock wall, where we were received
with tumultuous cheering.
I hurried off to my Wife and the Voivode. Rooke, calling Desmond
to him, went on the bridge of The Lady, which turned, and went out
at terrific speed to the battleship, which was already drifting up
northward on the tide.
FROM THE REPORT OF CRISTOFEROS, SCRIBE OF THE NATIONAL COUNCIL OF THE
LAND OF THE BLUE MOUNTAINS.
July 8, 1907.
The meeting of the National Council, July 6, was but a continuation of
that held before the rescue of the Voivodin Vissarion, the members of the
Council having been during the intervening night housed in the Castle of
Vissarion. When, in the early morning, they met, all were jubilant;
for late at night the fire-signal had flamed up from Ilsin with the glad
news that the Voivode Peter Vissarion was safe, having been rescued with
great daring on an aeroplane by his daughter and the Gospodar Rupert, as
the people call him—Mister Rupert Sent Leger, as he is in his British
name and degree.
Whilst the Council was sitting, word came that a great peril to the town
of Ilsin had been averted. A war-vessel acknowledging to no
nationality, and therefore to be deemed a pirate, had threatened to bombard
the town; but just before the time fixed for the fulfilment of her threat,
she was shaken to such an extent by some sub-aqueous means that, though she
herself was seemingly uninjured, nothing was left alive on board.
Thus the Lord preserves His own! The consideration of this, as well
as the other incident, was postponed until the coming Voivode and the
Gospodar Rupert, together with who were already on their way hither.
THE SAME (LATER IN THE SAME DAY).
The Council resumed its sitting at four o’clock. The Voivode
Peter Vissarion and the Voivodin Teuta had arrived with the “Gospodar
Rupert,” as the mountaineers call him (Mr. Rupert Sent Leger) on the
armoured yacht he calls The Lady. The National Council showed
great pleasure when the Voivode entered the hall in which the Council
met. He seemed much gratified by the reception given to him.
Mr. Rupert Sent Leger, by the express desire of the Council, was asked to
be present at the meeting. He took a seat at the bottom of the hall,
and seemed to prefer to remain there, though asked by the President of the
Council to sit at the top of the table with himself and the Voivode.
When the formalities of such Councils had been completed, the Voivode
handed to the President a memorandum of his report on his secret mission to
foreign Courts on behalf of the National Council. He then explained
at length, for the benefit of the various members of the Council, the broad
results of his mission. The result was, he said, absolutely
satisfactory. Everywhere he had been received with distinguished
courtesy, and given a sympathetic hearing. Several of the Powers
consulted had made delay in giving final answers, but this, he explained,
was necessarily due to new considerations arising from the international
complications which were universally dealt with throughout the world as
“the Balkan Crisis.” In time, however (the Voivode went
on), these matters became so far declared as to allow the waiting Powers to
form definite judgment—which, of course, they did not declare to
him—as to their own ultimate action. The final result—if
at this initial stage such tentative setting forth of their own attitude in
each case can be so named—was that he returned full of hope (founded,
he might say, upon a justifiable personal belief) that the Great Powers
throughout the world—North, South, East, and West—were in
thorough sympathy with the Land of the Blue Mountains in its aspirations
for the continuance of its freedom. “I also am honoured,”
he continued, “to bring to you, the Great Council of the nation, the
assurance of protection against unworthy aggression on the part of
neighbouring nations of present greater strength.”
Whilst he was speaking, the Gospodar Rupert was writing a few words on a
strip of paper, which he sent up to the President. When the Voivode
had finished speaking, there was a prolonged silence. The President
rose, and in a hush said that the Council would like to hear Mr. Rupert
Sent Leger, who had a communication to make regarding certain recent
events.
Mr. Rupert Sent Leger rose, and reported how, since he had been
entrusted by the Council with the rescue of the Voivode Peter of Vissarion,
he had, by aid of the Voivodin, effected the escape of the Voivode from the
Silent Tower; also that, following this happy event, the mountaineers, who
had made a great cordon round the Tower so soon as it was known that the
Voivode had been imprisoned within it, had stormed it in the night.
As a determined resistance was offered by the marauders, who had used it as
a place of refuge, none of these escaped. He then went on to tell how
he sought interview with the Captain of the strange warship, which, without
flying any flag, invaded our waters. He asked the President to call
on me to read the report of that meeting. This, in obedience to his
direction, I did. The acquiescent murmuring of the Council showed how
thoroughly they endorsed Mr. Sent Leger’s words and acts.
When I resumed my seat, Mr. Sent Leger described how, just before the
time fixed by the “pirate Captain”—so he designated him,
as did every speaker thereafter—the warship met with some under-sea
accident, which had a destructive effect on all on board her. Then he
added certain words, which I give verbatim, as I am sure that others will
some time wish to remember them in their exactness:
“By the way, President and Lords of the Council, I trust I may ask
you to confirm Captain Rooke, of the armoured yacht The Lady, to be
Admiral of the Squadron of the Land of the Blue Mountains, and also Captain
(tentatively) Desmond, late First-Lieutenant of The Lady, to the
command of the second warship of our fleet—the as yet unnamed vessel,
whose former Captain threatened to bombard Ilsin. My Lords, Admiral
Rooke has done great service to the Land of the Blue Mountains, and
deserves well at your hands. You will have in him, I am sure, a great
official. One who will till his last breath give you good and loyal
service.”
He had sat down, the President put to the Council resolutions, which
were passed by acclamation. Admiral Rooke was given command of the
navy, and Captain Desmond confirmed in his appointment to the captaincy of
the new ship, which was, by a further resolution, named The Gospodar
Rupert.
In thanking the Council for acceding to his request, and for the great
honour done him in the naming of the ship, Mr. Sent Leger said:
“May I ask that the armoured yacht The Lady be accepted by
you, the National Council, on behalf of the nation, as a gift on behalf of
the cause of freedom from the Voivodin Teuta?”
In response to the mighty cheer of the Council with which the splendid
gift was accepted the Gospodar Rupert—Mr. Sent Leger—bowed, and
went quietly out of the room.
As no agenda of the meeting had been prepared, there was for a time, not
silence, but much individual conversation. In the midst of it the
Voivode rose up, whereupon there was a strict silence. All listened
with an intensity of eagerness whilst he spoke.
“President and Lords of the Council, Archbishop, and Vladika, I
should but ill show my respect did I hesitate to tell you at this the first
opportunity I have had of certain matters personal primarily to myself, but
which, in the progress of recent events, have come to impinge on the
affairs of the nation. Until I have done so, I shall not feel that I
have done a duty, long due to you or your predecessors in office, and which
I hope you will allow me to say that I have only kept back for purposes of
statecraft. May I ask that you will come back with me in memory to
the year 1890, when our struggle against Ottoman aggression, later on so
successfully brought to a close, was begun. We were then in a
desperate condition. Our finances had run so low that we could not
purchase even the bread which we required. Nay, more, we could not
procure through the National Exchequer what we wanted more than
bread—arms of modern effectiveness; for men may endure hunger and yet
fight well, as the glorious past of our country has proved again and again
and again. But when our foes are better armed than we are, the
penalty is dreadful to a nation small as our own is in number, no matter
how brave their hearts. In this strait I myself had to secretly raise
a sufficient sum of money to procure the weapons we needed. To this
end I sought the assistance of a great merchant-prince, to whom our nation
as well as myself was known. He met me in the same generous spirit
which he had shown to other struggling nationalities throughout a long and
honourable career. When I pledged to him as security my own estates,
he wished to tear up the bond, and only under pressure would he meet my
wishes in this respect. Lords of the Council, it was his money, thus
generously advanced, which procured for us the arms with which we hewed out
our freedom.
“Not long ago that noble merchant—and here I trust you will
pardon me that I am so moved as to perhaps appear to suffer in want of
respect to this great Council—this noble merchant passed to his
account—leaving to a near kinsman of his own the royal fortune which
he had amassed. Only a few hours ago that worthy kinsman of the
benefactor of our nation made it known to me that in his last will he had
bequeathed to me, by secret trust, the whole of those estates which long
ago I had forfeited by effluxion of time, inasmuch as I had been unable to
fulfil the terms of my voluntary bond. It grieves me to think that I
have had to keep you so long in ignorance of the good thought and wishes
and acts of this great man.
“But it was by his wise counsel, fortified by my own judgment,
that I was silent; for, indeed, I feared, as he did, lest in our troublous
times some doubting spirit without our boundaries, or even within it, might
mistrust the honesty of my purposes for public good, because I was no
longer one whose whole fortune was invested within our confines. This
prince-merchant, the great English Roger Melton—let his name be for
ever graven on the hearts of our people!—kept silent during his own
life, and enjoined on others to come after him to keep secret from the men
of the Blue Mountains that secret loan made to me on their behalf, lest in
their eyes I, who had striven to be their friend and helper, should suffer
wrong repute. But, happily, he has left me free to clear myself in
your eyes. Moreover, by arranging to have—under certain
contingencies, which have come to pass—the estates which were
originally my own retransferred to me, I have no longer the honour of
having given what I could to the national cause. All such now belongs
to him; for it was his money—and his only—which purchased our
national armament.
“His worthy kinsman you already know, for he has not only been
amongst you for many months, but has already done you good service in his
own person. He it was who, as a mighty warrior, answered the summons
of the Vladika when misfortune came upon my house in the capture by enemies
of my dear daughter, the Voivodin Teuta, whom you hold in your hearts; who,
with a chosen band of our brothers, pursued the marauders, and himself, by
a deed of daring and prowess, of which poets shall hereafter sing, saved
her, when hope itself seemed to be dead, from their ruthless hands, and
brought her back to us; who administered condign punishment to the
miscreants who had dared to so wrong her. He it was who later took
me, your servant, out of the prison wherein another band of Turkish
miscreants held me captive; rescued me, with the help of my dear daughter,
whom he had already freed, whilst I had on my person the documents of
international secrecy of which I have already advised you—rescued me
whilst I had been as yet unsubjected to the indignity of search.
“Beyond this you know now that of which I was in partial
ignorance: how he had, through the skill and devotion of your new Admiral,
wrought destruction on a hecatomb of our malignant foes. You who have
received for the nation the splendid gift of the little warship, which
already represents a new era in naval armament, can understand the
great-souled generosity of the man who has restored the vast possessions of
my House. On our way hither from Ilsin, Rupert Sent Leger made known
to me the terms of the trust of his noble uncle, Roger Melton,
and—believe me that he did so generously, with a joy that transcended
my own—restored to the last male of the Vissarion race the whole
inheritance of a noble line.
“And now, my Lords of the Council, I come to another matter, in
which I find myself in something of a difficulty, for I am aware that in
certain ways you actually know more of it than even I myself do. It
is regarding the marriage of my daughter to Rupert Sent Leger. It is
known to me that the matter has been brought before you by the Archbishop,
who, as guardian of my daughter during my absence on the service of the
nation, wished to obtain your sanction, as till my return he held her
safety in trust. This was so, not from any merit of mine, but because
she, in her own person, had undertaken for the service of our nation a task
of almost incredible difficulty. My Lords, were she child of another
father, I should extol to the skies her bravery, her self-devotion, her
loyalty to the land she loves. Why, then, should I hesitate to speak
of her deeds in fitting terms, since it is my duty, my glory, to hold them
in higher honour than can any in this land? I shall not shame
her—or even myself—by being silent when such a duty urges me to
speak, as Voivode, as trusted envoy of our nation, as father. Ages
hence loyal men and women of our Land of the Blue Mountains will sing her
deeds in song and tell them in story. Her name, Teuta, already sacred
in these regions, where it was held by a great Queen, and honoured by all
men, will hereafter be held as a symbol and type of woman’s
devotion. Oh, my Lords, we pass along the path of life, the best of
us but a little time marching in the sunlight between gloom and gloom, and
it is during that march that we must be judged for the future. This
brave woman has won knightly spurs as well as any Paladin of old. So
is it meet that ere she might mate with one worthy of her you, who hold in
your hands the safety and honour of the State, should give your
approval. To you was it given to sit in judgment on the worth of this
gallant Englisher, now my son. You judged him then, before you had
seen his valour, his strength, and skill exercised on behalf of a national
cause. You judged wisely, oh, my brothers, and out of a grateful
heart I thank you one and all for it. Well has he justified your
trust by his later acts. When, in obedience to the summons of the
Vladika, he put the nation in a blaze and ranged our boundaries with a ring
of steel, he did so unknowing that what was dearest to him in the world was
at stake. He saved my daughter’s honour and happiness, and won
her safety by an act of valour that outvies any told in history. He
took my daughter with him to bring me out from the Silent Tower on the
wings of the air, when earth had for me no possibility of freedom—I,
that had even then in my possession the documents involving other nations
which the Soldan would fain have purchased with the half of his empire.
“Henceforth to me, Lords of the Council, this brave man must ever
be as a son of my heart, and I trust that in his name grandsons of my own
may keep in bright honour the name which in glorious days of old my fathers
made illustrious. Did I know how adequately to thank you for your
interest in my child, I would yield up to you my very soul in
thanks.”
The speech of the Voivode was received with the honour of the Blue
Mountains—the drawing and raising of handjars.
FROM RUPERT’S JOURNAL.
July 14, 1907.
For nearly a week we waited for some message from Constantinople, fully
expecting either a declaration of war, or else some inquiry so couched as
to make war an inevitable result. The National Council remained on at
Vissarion as the guests of the Voivode, to whom, in accordance with my
uncle’s will, I had prepared to re-transfer all his estates. He
was, by the way, unwilling at first to accept, and it was only when I
showed him Uncle Roger’s letter, and made him read the Deed of
Transfer prepared in anticipation by Mr. Trent, that he allowed me to
persuade him. Finally he said:
“As you, my good friends, have so arranged, I must accept, be it
only in honour to the wishes of the dead. But remember, I only do so
but for the present, reserving to myself the freedom to withdraw later if I
so desire.”
But Constantinople was silent. The whole nefarious scheme was one
of the “put-up jobs” which are part of the dirty work of a
certain order of statecraft—to be accepted if successful; to be
denied in case of failure.
The matter stood thus: Turkey had thrown the dice—and lost.
Her men were dead; her ship was forfeit. It was only some ten days
after the warship was left derelict with every living thing—that is,
everything that had been living—with its neck broken, as Rooke
informed me, when he brought the ship down the creek, and housed it in the
dock behind the armoured gates—that we saw an item in The Roma
copied from The Constantinople Journal of July 9:
“LOSS OF AN OTTOMAN IRONCLAD WITH ALL HANDS.
“News has been received at Constantinople of the total loss, with
all hands, of one of the newest and finest warships in the Turkish
fleet—The Mahmoud, Captain Ali Ali—which foundered in a
storm on the night of July 5, some distance off Cabrera, in the Balearic
Isles. There were no survivors, and no wreckage was discovered by the
ships which went in relief—the Pera and the
Mustapha—or reported from anywhere along the shores of the
islands, of which exhaustive search was made. The Mahmoud was
double-manned, as she carried a full extra crew sent on an educational
cruise on the most perfectly scientifically equipped warship on service in
the Mediterranean waters.”
When the Voivode and I talked over the matter, he said:
“After all, Turkey is a shrewd Power. She certainly seems to
know when she is beaten, and does not intend to make a bad thing seem worse
in the eyes of the world.”
Well, ’tis a bad wind that blows good to nobody. As The
Mahmoud was lost off the Balearics, it cannot have been her that put
the marauders on shore and trained her big guns on Ilsin. We take it,
therefore, that the latter must have been a pirate, and as we have taken
her derelict in our waters, she is now ours in all ways. Anyhow, she
is ours, and is the first ship of her class in the navy of the Blue
Mountains. I am inclined to think that even if she was—or is
still—a Turkish ship, Admiral Rooke would not be inclined to let her
go. As for Captain Desmond, I think he would go straight out of his
mind if such a thing was to be even suggested to him.
It will be a pity if we have any more trouble, for life here is very
happy with us all now. The Voivode is, I think, like a man in a
dream. Teuta is ideally happy, and the real affection which sprang up
between them when she and Aunt Janet met is a joy to think of. I had
posted Teuta about her, so that when they should meet my wife might not, by
any inadvertence, receive or cause any pain. But the moment Teuta saw
her she ran straight over to her and lifted her in her strong young arms,
and, raising her up as one would lift a child, kissed her. Then, when
she had put her sitting in the chair from which she had arisen when we
entered the room, she knelt down before her, and put her face down in her
lap. Aunt Janet’s face was a study; I myself could hardly say
whether at the first moment surprise or joy predominated. But there
could be no doubt about it the instant after. She seemed to beam with
happiness. When Teuta knelt to her, she could only say:
“My dear, my dear, I am glad! Rupert’s wife, you and I
must love each other very much.” Seeing that they were laughing
and crying in each other’s arms, I thought it best to come away and
leave them alone. And I didn’t feel a bit lonely either when I
was out of sight of them. I knew that where those two dear women were
there was a place for my own heart.
When I came back, Teuta was sitting on Aunt Janet’s knee. It
seemed rather stupendous for the old lady, for Teuta is such a splendid
creature that even when she sits on my own knee and I catch a glimpse of us
in some mirror, I cannot but notice what a nobly-built girl she is.
My wife was jumping up as soon as I was seen, but Aunt Janet held her
tight to her, and said:
“Don’t stir, dear. It is such happiness to me to have
you there. Rupert has always been my ‘little boy,’ and,
in spite of all his being such a giant, he is so still. And so you,
that he loves, must be my little girl—in spite of all your beauty and
your strength—and sit on my knee, till you can place there a little
one that shall be dear to us all, and that shall let me feel my youth
again. When first I saw you I was surprised, for, somehow, though I
had never seen you nor even heard of you, I seemed to know your face.
Sit where you are, dear. It is only Rupert—and we both love
him.”
Teuta looked at me, flushing rosily; but she sat quiet, and drew the old
lady’s white head on her young breast.
JANET MACKELPIE’S NOTES.
July 8, 1907.
I used to think that whenever Rupert should get married or start on the
way to it by getting engaged—I would meet his future wife with
something of the same affection that I have always had for himself.
But I know now that what was really in my mind was jealousy, and
that I was really fighting against my own instincts, and pretending to
myself that I was not jealous. Had I ever had the faintest idea that
she would be anything the least like Teuta, that sort of feeling should
never have had even a foothold. No wonder my dear boy is in love with
her, for, truth to tell, I am in love with her myself. I don’t
think I ever met a creature—a woman creature, of course, I
mean—with so many splendid qualities. I almost fear to say it,
lest it should seem to myself wrong; but I think she is as good as a woman
as Rupert is as a man. And what more than that can I say? I
thought I loved her and trusted her, and knew her all I could, until this
morning.
I was in my own room, as it is still called. For, though Rupert
tells me in confidence that under his uncle’s will the whole estate
of Vissarion, Castle and all, really belongs to the Voivode, and though the
Voivode has been persuaded to accept the position, he (the Voivode) will
not allow anything to be changed. He will not even hear a word of my
going, or changing my room, or anything. And Rupert backs him up in
it, and Teuta too. So what am I to do but let the dears have their
way?
Well, this morning, when Rupert was with the Voivode at a meeting of the
National Council in the Great Hall, Teuta came to me, and (after closing
the door and bolting it, which surprised me a little) came and knelt down
beside me, and put her face in my lap. I stroked her beautiful black
hair, and said:
“What is it, Teuta darling? Is there any trouble? And
why did you bolt the door? Has anything happened to
Rupert?” When she looked up I saw that her beautiful black
eyes, with the stars in them, were overflowing with tears not yet
shed. But she smiled through them, and the tears did not fall.
When I saw her smile my heart was eased, and I said without thinking:
“Thank God, darling, Rupert is all right.”
“I thank God, too, dear Aunt Janet!” she said softly; and I
took her in my arms and laid her head on my breast.
“Go on, dear,” I said; “tell me what it is that
troubles you?” This time I saw the tears drop, as she lowered
her head and hid her face from me.
“I’m afraid I have deceived you, Aunt Janet, and that you
will not—cannot—forgive me.”
“Lord save you, child!” I said, “there’s nothing
that you could do that I could not and would not forgive. Not that
you would ever do anything base, for that is the only thing that is hard to
forgive. Tell me now what troubles you.”
She looked up in my eyes fearlessly, this time with only the signs of
tears that had been, and said proudly:
“Nothing base, Aunt Janet. My father’s daughter would
not willingly be base. I do not think she could. Moreover, had
I ever done anything base I should not be here, for—for—I
should never have been Rupert’s wife!”
“Then what is it? Tell your old Aunt Janet,
dearie.” She answered me with another question:
“Aunt Janet, do you know who I am, and how I first met
Rupert?”
“You are the Voivodin Teuta Vissarion—the daughter of the
Voivode—Or, rather, you were; you are now Mrs. Rupert Sent
Leger. For he is still an Englishman, and a good subject of our noble
King.”
“Yes, Aunt Janet,” she said, “I am that, and proud to
be it—prouder than I would be were I my namesake, who was Queen in
the old days. But how and where did I see Rupert first?”
I did not know, and frankly told her so. So she answered her question
herself:
“I saw him first in his own room at night.” I knew in
my heart that in whatever she did had been nothing wrong, so I sat silent
waiting for her to go on:
“I was in danger, and in deadly fear. I was afraid I might
die—not that I fear death—and I wanted help and warmth. I
was not dressed as I am now!”
On the instant it came to me how I knew her face, even the first time I
had seen it. I wished to help her out of the embarrassing part of her
confidence, so I said:
“Dearie, I think I know. Tell me, child, will you put on the
frock . . . the dress . . . costume you wore that night, and let me see you
in it? It is not mere idle curiosity, my child, but something far,
far above such idle folly.”
“Wait for me a minute, Aunt Janet,” she said, as she rose
up; “I shall not be long.” Then she left the room.
In a very few minutes she was back. Her appearance might have
frightened some people, for she was clad only in a shroud. Her feet
were bare, and she walked across the room with the gait of an empress, and
stood before me with her eyes modestly cast down. But when presently
she looked up and caught my eyes, a smile rippled over her face. She
threw herself once more before me on her knees, and embraced me as she
said:
“I was afraid I might frighten you, dear.” I knew I
could truthfully reassure her as to that, so I proceeded to do so:
“Do not worry yourself, my dear. I am not by nature
timid. I come of a fighting stock which has sent out heroes, and I
belong to a family wherein is the gift of Second Sight. Why should we
fear? We know! Moreover, I saw you in that dress before.
Teuta, I saw you and Rupert married!” This time she herself it
was that seemed disconcerted.
“Saw us married! How on earth did you manage to be
there?”
“I was not there. My Seeing was long before! Tell me,
dear, what day, or rather what night, was it that you first saw
Rupert?” She answered sadly:
“I do not know. Alas! I lost count of the days as I
lay in the tomb in that dreary Crypt.”
“Was your—your clothing wet that night?” I asked.
“Yes. I had to leave the Crypt, for a great flood was out,
and the church was flooded. I had to seek help—warmth—for
I feared I might die. Oh, I was not, as I have told you, afraid of
death. But I had undertaken a terrible task to which I had pledged
myself. It was for my father’s sake, and the sake of the Land,
and I felt that it was a part of my duty to live. And so I lived on,
when death would have been relief. It was to tell you all about this
that I came to your room to-day. But how did you see
me—us—married?”
“Ah, my child!” I answered, “that was before the
marriage took place. The morn after the night that you came in the
wet, when, having been troubled in uncanny dreaming, I came to see if
Rupert was a’richt, I lost remembrance o’ my dreaming, for the
floor was all wet, and that took off my attention. But later, the
morn after Rupert used his fire in his room for the first time, I told him
what I had dreamt; for, lassie, my dear, I saw ye as bride at that
weddin’ in fine lace o’er yer shrood, and orange-flowers and
ithers in yer black hair; an’ I saw the stars in yer bonny
een—the een I love. But oh, my dear, when I saw the shrood, and
kent what it might mean, I expeckit to see the worms crawl round yer
feet. But do ye ask yer man to tell ye what I tell’t him that
morn. ’Twill interest ye to know how the hairt o’ men can
learn by dreams. Has he ever tellt ye aught o’ this?”
“No, dear,” she said simply. “I think that
perhaps he was afraid that one or other of us, if not both, might be upset
by it if he did. You see, he did not tell you anything at all of our
meeting, though I am sure that he will be glad when he knows that we both
know all about it, and have told each other everything.”
That was very sweet of her, and very thoughtful in all ways, so I said
that which I thought would please her best—that is, the truth:
“Ah, lassie, that is what a wife should be—what a wife
should do. Rupert is blessed and happy to have his heart in your
keeping.”
I knew from the added warmth of her kiss what I had said had pleased
her.
Letter from Ernest Roger Halbard Melton, Humcroft,
Salop, to Rupert Sent Leger, Vissarion, Land of the
Blue Mountains.
July 29, 1907.
My dear Cousin Rupert,
We have heard such glowing accounts of Vissarion that I am coming out to
see you. As you are yourself now a landowner, you will understand
that my coming is not altogether a pleasure. Indeed, it is a duty
first. When my father dies I shall be head of the family—the
family of which Uncle Roger, to whom we were related, was a member.
It is therefore meet and fitting that I should know something of our family
branches and of their Seats. I am not giving you time for much
warning, so am coming on immediately—in fact, I shall arrive almost
as soon as this letter. But I want to catch you in the middle of your
tricks. I hear that the Blue Mountaineer girls are peaches, so
don’t send them all away when you hear I’m coming!
Do send a yacht up to Fiume to meet me. I hear you have all sorts
of craft at Vissarion. The MacSkelpie, I hear, said you received her
as a Queen; so I hope you will do the decent by one of your own flesh and
blood, and the future Head of the House at that. I shan’t bring
much of a retinue with me. I wasn’t made a billionaire
by old Roger, so can only take my modest “man
Friday”—whose name is Jenkinson, and a Cockney at that.
So don’t have too much gold lace and diamond-hilted scimitars about,
like a good chap, or else he’ll want the very worst—his wyges
ryzed. That old image Rooke that came over for Miss McS., and whom by
chance I saw at the attorney man’s, might pilot me down from
Fiume. The old gentleman-by-Act-of-Parliament Mr. Bingham Trent (I
suppose he has hyphened it by this time) told me that Miss McS. said he
“did her proud” when she went over under his charge. I
shall be at Fiume on the evening of Wednesday, and shall stay at the
Europa, which is, I am told, the least indecent hotel in the place.
So you know where to find me, or any of your attendant demons can know, in
case I am to suffer “substituted service.”
Your affectionate Cousin,
Ernest Roger Halbard Melton.
Letter from Admiral Rooke to the Gospodar Rupert.
August 1, 1907.
Sir,
In obedience to your explicit direction that I should meet Mr. Ernest R.
H. Melton at Fiume, and report to you exactly what occurred, “without
keeping anything back,”—as you will remember you said, I beg to
report.
I brought the steam-yacht Trent to Fiume, arriving there on the
morning of Thursday. At 11.30 p.m. I went to meet the train
from St. Peter, due 11.40. It was something late, arriving just as
the clock was beginning to strike midnight. Mr. Melton was on board,
and with him his valet Jenkinson. I am bound to say that he did not
seem very pleased with his journey, and expressed much disappointment at
not seeing Your Honour awaiting him. I explained, as you directed,
that you had to attend with the Voivode Vissarion and the Vladika the
National Council, which met at Plazac, or that otherwise you would have
done yourself the pleasure of coming to meet him. I had, of course,
reserved rooms (the Prince of Wales’s suite), for him at the Re
d’Ungheria, and had waiting the carriage which the proprietor had
provided for the Prince of Wales when he stayed there. Mr. Melton
took his valet with him (on the box-seat), and I followed in a
Stadtwagen with the luggage. When I arrived, I found the
maître d’hôtel 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 café-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. The Voivodin still kept her splendid
self-control. Raising the finger put forward by the guest with the
same deference as though it had been the hand of a King, she bent her head
down and kissed it. Her duty of courtesy now done, she was preparing
to rise, when he put his hand into his pocket, and, pulling out a
sovereign, offered it to her. His valet moved his hand forward, as if
to pull back his arm, but it was too late. I am sure, Your Honour,
that no affront was intended. He doubtless thought that he was doing
a kindness of the sort usual in England when one “tips” a
housekeeper. But all the same, to one in her position, it was an
affront, an insult, open and unmistakable. So it was received by the
mountaineers, whose handjars flashed out as one. For a second it was
so received even by the Voivodin, who, with face flushing scarlet, and the
stars in her eves flaming red, sprang to her feet. But in that second
she had regained herself, and to all appearances her righteous anger passed
away. Stooping, she took the hand of her guest and raised
it—you know how strong she is—and, holding it in hers, led him
into the doorway, saying:
“You are welcome, kinsman of my husband, to the house of my
father, which is presently my husband’s also. Both are grieved
that, duty having called them away for the time, they are unable to be here
to help me to greet you.”
I tell you, Your Honour, that it was a lesson in self-respect which
anyone who saw it can never forget. As to me, it makes my flesh
quiver, old as I am, with delight, and my heart leap.
May I, as a faithful servant who has had many years of experience,
suggest that Your Honour should seem—for the present, at any
rate—not to know any of these things which I have reported, as you
wished me to do. Be sure that the Voivodin will tell you her gracious
self aught that she would wish you to know. And such reticence on
your part must make for her happiness, even if it did not for your own.
So that you may know all, as you desired, and that you may have time to
school yourself to whatever attitude you think best to adopt, I send this
off to you at once by fleet messenger. Were the aeroplane here, I
should take it myself. I leave here shortly to await the arrival of
Sir Colin at Otranto.
Your Honour’s faithful servant,
Rooke.
JANET MACKELPIE’S NOTES.
August 9, 1907.
To me it seems very providential that Rupert was not at home when that
dreadful young man Ernest Melton arrived, though it is possible that if
Rupert had been present he would not have dared to conduct himself so
badly. Of course, I heard all about it from the maids; Teuta never
opened her lips to me on the subject. It was bad enough and stupid
enough for him to try to kiss a decent young woman like Julia, who is
really as good as gold and as modest as one of our own Highland lassies;
but to think of him insulting Teuta! The little beast! One
would think that a champion idiot out of an Equatorial asylum would know
better! If Michael, the Wine Master, wanted to kill him, I wonder
what my Rupert and hers would have done? I am truly thankful that he
was not present. And I am thankful, too, that I was not present
either, for I should have made an exhibition of myself, and Rupert would
not have liked that. He—the little beast! might have seen from
the very dress that the dear girl wore that there was something exceptional
about her. But on one account I should have liked to see her.
They tell me that she was, in her true dignity, like a Queen, and that her
humility in receiving her husband’s kinsman was a lesson to every
woman in the Land. I must be careful not to let Rupert know that I
have heard of the incident. Later on, when it is all blown over and
the young man has been got safely away, I shall tell him of it. Mr.
Rooke—Lord High Admiral Rooke, I should say—must be a really
wonderful man to have so held himself in check; for, from what I have heard
of him, he must in his younger days have been worse than Old Morgan of
Panama. Mr. Ernest Roger Halbard Melton, of Humcroft, Salop, little
knows how near he was to being “cleft to the chine” also.
Fortunately, I had heard of his meeting with Teuta before he came to see
me, for I did not get back from my walk till after he had arrived.
Teuta’s noble example was before me, and I determined that I, too,
would show good manners under any circumstances. But I didn’t
know how mean he is. Think of his saying to me that Rupert’s
position here must be a great source of pride to me, who had been his
nursery governess. He said “nursemaid” first, but then
stumbled in his words, seeming to remember something. I did not turn
a hair, I am glad to say. It is a mercy Uncle Colin was not here, for
I honestly believe that, if he had been, he would have done the
“cleaving to the chine” himself. It has been a narrow
escape for Master Ernest, for only this morning Rupert had a message, sent
on from Gibraltar, saying that he was arriving with his clansmen, and that
they would not be far behind his letter. He would call at Otranto in
case someone should come across to pilot him to Vissarion. Uncle told
me all about that young cad having offered him one finger in Mr.
Trent’s office, though, of course, he didn’t let the cad see
that he noticed it. I have no doubt that, when he does arrive, that
young man, if he is here still, will find that he will have to behave
himself, if it be only on Sir Colin’s account alone.
THE SAME (LATER).
I had hardly finished writing when the lookout on the tower announced
that the Teuta, as Rupert calls his aeroplane, was sighted crossing
the mountains from Plazac. I hurried up to see him arrive, for I had
not as yet seen him on his “aero.” Mr. Ernest Melton came
up, too. Teuta was, of course, before any of us. She seems to
know by instinct when Rupert is coming.
It was certainly a wonderful sight to see the little aeroplane, with
outspread wings like a bird in flight, come sailing high over the
mountains. There was a head-wind, and they were beating against it;
otherwise we should not have had time to get to the tower before the
arrival.
When once the “aero” had begun to drop on the near side of
the mountains, however, and had got a measure of shelter from them, her
pace was extraordinary. We could not tell, of course, what sort of
pace she came at from looking at herself. But we gathered some idea
from the rate at which the mountains and hills seemed to slide away from
under her. When she got over the foot-hills, which are about ten
miles away, she came on at a swift glide that seemed to throw the distance
behind her. When quite close, she rose up a little till she was
something higher than the Tower, to which she came as straight as an arrow
from the bow, and glided to her moorings, stopping dead as Rupert pulled a
lever, which seemed to turn a barrier to the wind. The Voivode sat
beside Rupert, but I must say that he seemed to hold on to the bar in front
of him even more firmly than Rupert held to his steering-gear.
When they had alighted, Rupert greeted his cousin with the utmost
kindness, and bade him welcome to Vissarion.
“I see,” he said, “you have met Teuta. Now you
may congratulate me, if you wish.”
Mr. Melton made a long rodomontade about her beauty, but presently,
stumbling about in his speech, said something regarding it being unlucky to
appear in grave-clothes. Rupert laughed, and clapped him on the
shoulder as he answered:
“That pattern of frock is likely to become a national dress for
loyal women of the Blue Mountains. When you know something of what
that dress means to us all at present you will understand. In the
meantime, take it that there is not a soul in the nation that does not love
it and honour her for wearing it.” To which the cad
replied:
“Oh, indeed! I thought it was some preparation for a
fancy-dress ball.” Rupert’s comment on this ill-natured
speech was (for him) quite grumpily given:
“I should not advise you to think such things whilst you are in
this part of the world, Ernest. They bury men here for much
less.”
The cad seemed struck with something—either what Rupert had said
or his manner of saying it—for he was silent for several seconds
before he spoke.
“I’m very tired with that long journey, Rupert. Would
you and Mrs. Sent Leger mind if I go to my own room and turn in? My
man can ask for a cup of tea and a sandwich for me.”
RUPERT’S JOURNAL.
August 10, 1907.
When Ernest said he wished to retire it was about the wisest thing he
could have said or done, and it suited Teuta and me down to the
ground. I could see that the dear girl was agitated about something,
so thought it would be best for her to be quiet, and not worried with being
civil to the Bounder. Though he is my cousin, I can’t think of
him as anything else. The Voivode and I had certain matters to attend
to arising out of the meeting of the Council, and when we were through the
night was closing in. When I saw Teuta in our own rooms she said at
once:
“Do you mind, dear, if I stay with Aunt Janet to-night? She
is very upset and nervous, and when I offered to come to her she clung to
me and cried with relief.”
So when I had had some supper, which I took with the Voivode, I came
down to my old quarters in the Garden Room, and turned in early.
I was awakened a little before dawn by the coming of the fighting monk
Theophrastos, a notable runner, who had an urgent message for me.
This was the letter to me given to him by Rooke. He had been
cautioned to give it into no other hand, but to find me wherever I might
be, and convey it personally. When he had arrived at Plazac I had
left on the aeroplane, so he had turned back to Vissarion.
When I read Rooke’s report of Ernest Melton’s abominable
conduct I was more angry with him than I can say. Indeed, I did not
think before that that I could be angry with him, for I have always
despised him. But this was too much. However, I realized the
wisdom of Rooke’s advice, and went away by myself to get over my
anger and reacquire my self-mastery. The aeroplane Teuta was
still housed on the tower, so I went up alone and took it out.
When I had had a spin of about a hundred miles I felt better. The
bracing of the wind and the quick, exhilarating motion restored me to
myself, and I felt able to cope with Master Ernest, or whatever else
chagrinable might come along, without giving myself away. As Teuta
had thought it better to keep silence as to Ernest’s affront, I felt
I must not acknowledge it; but, all the same, I determined to get rid of
him before the day was much older.
When I had had my breakfast I sent word to him by a servant that I was
coming to his rooms, and followed not long behind the messenger.
He was in a suit of silk pyjamas, such as not even Solomon in all his
glory was arrayed in. I closed the door behind me before I began to
speak. He listened, at first amazed, then disconcerted, then angry,
and then cowering down like a whipped hound. I felt that it was a
case for speaking out. A bumptious ass like him, who deliberately
insulted everyone he came across—for if all or any of his efforts in
that way were due to mere elemental ignorance he was not fit to live, but
should be silenced on sight as a modern Caliban—deserved neither pity
nor mercy. To extend to him fine feeling, tolerance, and such-like
gentlenesses would be to deprive the world of them without benefit to
any. So well as I can remember, what I said was something like
this:
“Ernest, as you say, you’ve got to go, and to go quick, you
understand. I dare say you look on this as a land of barbarians, and
think that any of your high-toned refinements are thrown away on people
here. Well, perhaps it is so. Undoubtedly, the structure of the
country is rough; the mountains may only represent the glacial epoch; but
so far as I can gather from some of your exploits—for I have only
learned a small part as yet—you represent a period a good deal
farther back. You seem to have given our folk here an exhibition of
the playfulness of the hooligan of the Saurian stage of development; but
the Blue Mountains, rough as they are, have come up out of the primeval
slime, and even now the people aim at better manners. They may be
rough, primitive, barbarian, elemental, if you will, but they are not low
down enough to tolerate either your ethics or your taste. My dear
cousin, your life is not safe here! I am told that yesterday, only
for the restraint exercised by certain offended mountaineers on other
grounds than your own worth, you would have been abbreviated by the
head. Another day of your fascinating presence would do away with
this restraint, and then we should have a scandal. I am a new-comer
here myself—too new a comer to be able to afford a scandal of that
kind—and so I shall not delay your going. Believe me, my dear
cousin, Ernest Roger Halbard Melton, of Humcroft, Salop, that I am
inconsolable about your resolution of immediate departure, but I cannot
shut my eyes to its wisdom. At present the matter is altogether
amongst ourselves, and when you have gone—if it be
immediately—silence will be observed on all hands for the sake of the
house wherein you are a guest; but if there be time for scandal to spread,
you will be made, whether you be alive or dead, a European
laughing-stock. Accordingly, I have anticipated your wishes, and have
ordered a fast steam yacht to take you to Ancona, or to whatever other port
you may desire. The yacht will be under the command of Captain
Desmond, of one of our battleships—a most determined officer, who
will carry out any directions which may be given to him. This will
insure your safety so far as Italian territory. Some of his officials
will arrange a special carriage for you up to Flushing, and a cabin on the
steamer to Queenboro’. A man of mine will travel on the train
and steamer with you, and will see that whatever you may wish in the way of
food or comfort will be provided. Of course, you understand, my dear
cousin, that you are my guest until you arrive in London. I have not
asked Rooke to accompany you, as when he went to meet you, it was a
mistake. Indeed, there might have been a danger to you which I never
contemplated—a quite unnecessary danger, I assure you. But
happily Admiral Rooke, though a man of strong passions, has wonderful
self-control.”
“Admiral Rooke?” he queried.
“Admiral?”
“Admiral, certainly,” I replied, “but not an ordinary
Admiral—one of many. He is the Admiral—the Lord
High Admiral of the Land of the Blue Mountains, with sole control of its
expanding navy. When such a man is treated as a valet, there may be .
. . But why go into this? It is all over. I only mention it
lest anything of a similar kind should occur with Captain Desmond, who is a
younger man, and therefore with probably less self-repression.”
I saw that he had learned his lesson, and so said no more on the
subject.
There was another reason for his going which I did not speak of.
Sir Colin MacKelpie was coming with his clansmen, and I knew he did not
like Ernest Melton. I well remembered that episode of his offering
one finger to the old gentleman in Mr. Trent’s office, and, moreover,
I had my suspicions that Aunt Janet’s being upset was probably in
some measure due to some rudeness of his that she did not wish to speak
about. He is really an impossible young man, and is far better out of
this country than in it. If he remained here, there would be some
sort of a tragedy for certain.
I must say that it was with a feeling of considerable relief that I saw
the yacht steam out of the creek, with Captain Desmond on the bridge and my
cousin beside him.
Quite other were my feelings when, an hour after, The Lady came
flying into the creek with the Lord High Admiral on the bridge, and beside
him, more splendid and soldier-like than ever, Sir Colin MacKelpie.
Mr. Bingham Trent was also on the bridge.
The General was full of enthusiasm regarding his regiment, for in all,
those he brought with him and those finishing their training at home, the
force is near the number of a full regiment. When we were alone he
explained to me that all was arranged regarding the non-commissioned
officers, but that he had held over the question of officers until we
should have had a suitable opportunity of talking the matter over
together. He explained to me his reasons, which were certainly simple
and cogent. Officers, according to him, are a different class, and
accustomed to a different standard altogether of life and living, of duties
and pleasures. They are harder to deal with and more difficult to
obtain. “There was no use,” he said, “in getting a
lot of failures, with old-crusted ways of their own importance. We
must have young men for our purpose—that is, men not old, but with
some experience—men, of course, who know how to behave themselves, or
else, from what little I have seen of the Blue Mountaineers, they
wouldn’t last long here if they went on as some of them do
elsewhere. I shall start things here as you wish me to, for I am
here, my dear boy, to stay with you and Janet, and we shall, if it be given
to us by the Almighty, help to build up together a new
‘nation’—an ally of Britain, who will stand at least as
an outpost of our own nation, and a guardian of our eastern road.
When things are organized here on the military side, and are going strong,
I shall, if you can spare me, run back to London for a few weeks.
Whilst I am there I shall pick up a lot of the sort of officers we
want. I know that there are loads of them to be had. I shall go
slowly, however, and carefully, too, and every man I bring back will be
recommended to me by some old soldier whom I know, and who knows the man he
recommends, and has seen him work. We shall have, I dare say, an army
for its size second to none in the world, and the day may come when your
old country will be proud of your new one. Now I’m off to see
that all is ready for my people—your people now.”
I had had arrangements made for the comfort of the clansmen and the
women, but I knew that the good old soldier would see for himself that his
men were to be comfortable. It was not for nothing that he
was—is—looked on as perhaps the General most beloved by his men
in the whole British Army.
When he had gone, and I was alone, Mr. Trent, who had evidently been
waiting for the opportunity, came to me. When we had spoken of my
marriage and of Teuta, who seems to have made an immense impression on him,
he said suddenly:
“I suppose we are quite alone, and that we shall not be
interrupted?” I summoned the man outside—there is always
a sentry on guard outside my door or near me, wherever I may be—and
gave orders that I was not to be disturbed until I gave fresh orders.
“If,” I said, “there be anything pressing or important,
let the Voivodin or Miss MacKelpie know. If either of them brings
anyone to me, it will be all right.”
When we were quite alone Mr. Trent took a slip of paper and some
documents from the bag which was beside him. He then read out items
from the slip, placing as he did so the documents so checked over before
him.
1. New Will made on marriage, to be signed presently.
2. Copy of the Re-conveyance of Vissarion estates to Peter
Vissarion, as directed by Will of Roger Melton.
3. Report of Correspondence with Privy Council, and proceedings
following.
Taking up the last named, he untied the red tape, and, holding the
bundle in his hand, went on:
“As you may, later on, wish to examine the details of the
Proceedings, I have copied out the various letters, the originals of which
are put safely away in my strong-room where, of course, they are always
available in case you may want them. For your present information I
shall give you a rough synopsis of the Proceedings, referring where
advisable to this paper.
“On receipt of your letter of instructions regarding the Consent
of the Privy Council to your changing your nationality in accordance with
the terms of Roger Melton’s Will, I put myself in communication with
the Clerk of the Privy Council, informing him of your wish to be
naturalized in due time to the Land of the Blue Mountains. After some
letters between us, I got a summons to attend a meeting of the Council.
“I attended, as required, taking with me all necessary documents,
and such as I conceived might be advisable to produce, if wanted.
“The Lord President informed me that the present meeting of the
Council was specially summoned in obedience to the suggestion of the King,
who had been consulted as to his personal wishes on the
subject—should he have any. The President then proceeded to
inform me officially that all Proceedings of the Privy Council were
altogether confidential, and were not to be made public under any
circumstances. He was gracious enough to add:
“‘The circumstances of this case, however, are unique; and
as you act for another, we have thought it advisable to enlarge your
permission in the matter, so as to allow you to communicate freely with
your principal. As that gentleman is settling himself in a part of
the world which has been in the past, and may be again, united to this
nation by some common interest, His Majesty wishes Mr. Sent Leger to feel
assured of the good-will of Great Britain to the Land of the Blue
Mountains, and even of his own personal satisfaction that a gentleman of so
distinguished a lineage and such approved personal character is about to
be—within his own scope—a connecting-link between the
nations. To which end he has graciously announced that, should the
Privy Council acquiesce in the request of Denaturalization, he will himself
sign the Patent therefor.
“‘The Privy Council has therefore held private session, at
which the matter has been discussed in its many bearings; and it is content
that the change can do no harm, but may be of some service to the two
nations. We have, therefore, agreed to grant the prayer of the
Applicant; and the officials of the Council have the matter of the form of
Grant in hand. So you, sir, may rest satisfied that as soon as the
formalities—which will, of course, require the formal signing of
certain documents by the Applicant—can be complied with, the Grant
and Patent will obtain.’”
Having made this statement in formal style, my old friend went on in
more familiar way:
“And so, my dear Rupert, all is in hand; and before very long you
will have the freedom required under the Will, and will be at liberty to
take whatever steps may be necessary to be naturalized in your new
country.
“I may tell you, by the way, that several members of the Council
made very complimentary remarks regarding you. I am forbidden to give
names, but I may tell you facts. One old Field-Marshal, whose name is
familiar to the whole world, said that he had served in many places with
your father, who was a very valiant soldier, and that he was glad that
Great Britain was to have in the future the benefit of your father’s
son in a friendly land now beyond the outposts of our Empire, but which had
been one with her in the past, and might be again.
“So much for the Privy Council. We can do no more at present
until you sign and have attested the documents which I have brought with
me.
“We can now formally complete the settlement of the Vissarion
estates, which must be done whilst you are a British citizen. So,
too, with the Will, the more formal and complete document, which is to take
the place of that short one which you forwarded to me the day after your
marriage. It may be, perhaps, necessary or advisable that, later on,
when you are naturalized here, you shall make a new Will in strictest
accordance with local law.”
TEUTA SENT LEGER’S DIARY.
August 19, 1907.
We had a journey to-day that was simply glorious. We had been
waiting to take it for more than a week. Rupert not only wanted the
weather suitable, but he had to wait till the new aeroplane came
home. It is more than twice as big as our biggest up to now.
None of the others could take all the party which Rupert wanted to
go. When he heard that the aero was coming from Whitby, where it was
sent from Leeds, he directed by cable that it should be unshipped at
Otranto, whence he took it here all by himself. I wanted to come with
him, but he thought it better not. He says that Brindisi is too busy
a place to keep anything quiet—if not secret—and he wants to be
very dark indeed about this, as it is worked by the new radium
engine. Ever since they found radium in our own hills he has been
obsessed by the idea of an aerial navy for our protection. And after
to-day’s experiences I think he is right. As he wanted to
survey the whole country at a glimpse, so that the general scheme of
defence might be put in hand, we had to have an aero big enough to take the
party as well as fast enough to do it rapidly, and all at once. We
had, in addition to Rupert, my father, and myself, Sir Colin and Lord High
Admiral Rooke (I do like to give that splendid old fellow his full
title!). The military and naval experts had with them scientific
apparatus of various kinds, also cameras and range-finders, so that they
could mark their maps as they required. Rupert, of course, drove, and
I acted as his assistant. Father, who has not yet become accustomed
to aerial travel, took a seat in the centre (which Rupert had thoughtfully
prepared for him), where there is very little motion. I must say I
was amazed to see the way that splendid old soldier Sir Colin bore
himself. He had never been on an aeroplane before, but, all the same,
he was as calm as if he was on a rock. Height or motion did not
trouble him. Indeed, he seemed to enjoy himself all the
time. The Admiral is himself almost an expert, but in any case I am
sure he would have been unconcerned, just as he was in the Crab as
Rupert has told me.
We left just after daylight, and ran down south. When we got to
the east of Ilsin, we kept slightly within the border-line, and went north
or east as it ran, making occasional loops inland over the mountains and
back again. When we got up to our farthest point north, we began to
go much slower. Sir Colin explained that for the rest all would be
comparatively plain-sailing in the way of defence; but that as any foreign
Power other than the Turk must attack from seaward, he would like to
examine the seaboard very carefully in conjunction with the Admiral, whose
advice as to sea defence would be invaluable.
Rupert was fine. No one could help admiring him as he sat working
his lever and making the great machine obey every touch. He was
wrapped up in his work. I don’t believe that whilst he was
working he ever thought of even me. He is splendid!
We got back just as the sun was dropping down over the Calabrian
Mountains. It is quite wonderful how the horizon changes when you are
sailing away up high on an aeroplane. Rupert is going to teach me how
to manage one all by myself, and when I am fit he will give me one, which
he is to have specially built for me.
I think I, too, have done some good work—at least, I have got some
good ideas—from our journey to-day. Mine are not of war, but of
peace, and I think I see a way by which we shall be able to develop our
country in a wonderful way. I shall talk the idea over with Rupert
to-night, when we are alone. In the meantime Sir Colin and Admiral
Rooke will think their plans over individually, and to-morrow morning
together. Then the next day they, too, are to go over their idea with
Rupert and my father, and something may be decided then.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
August 21, 1907.
Our meeting on the subject of National Defence, held this afternoon,
went off well. We were five in all, for with permission of the
Voivode and the two fighting-men, naval and military, I brought Teuta with
me. She sat beside me quite quietly, and never made a remark of any
kind till the Defence business had been gone through. Both Sir Colin
and Admiral Rooke were in perfect agreement as to the immediate steps to be
taken for defence. In the first instance, the seaboard was to be
properly fortified in the necessary places, and the navy largely
strengthened. When we had got thus far I asked Rooke to tell of the
navy increase already in hand. Whereupon he explained that, as we had
found the small battleship The Lady of an excellent type for coast
defence, acting only in home waters, and of a size to take cover where
necessary at many places on our own shores, we had ordered nine others of
the same pattern. Of these the first four were already in hand, and
were proceeding with the greatest expedition. The General then
supplemented this by saying that big guns could be used from points
judiciously chosen on the seaboard, which was in all so short a length that
no very great quantity of armament would be required.
“We can have,” he said, “the biggest guns of the most
perfect kind yet accomplished, and use them from land batteries of the most
up-to-date pattern. The one serious proposition we have to deal with
is the defence of the harbour—as yet quite undeveloped—which is
known as the ‘Blue Mouth.’ Since our aerial journey I
have been to it by sea with Admiral Rooke in The Lady, and then on
land with the Vladika, who was born on its shores, and who knows every inch
of it.
“It is worth fortifying—and fortifying well, for as a port
it is peerless in Mediterranean seas. The navies of the world might
ride in it, land-locked, and even hidden from view seawards. The
mountains which enclose it are in themselves absolute protection. In
addition, these can only be assailed from our own territory. Of
course, Voivode, you understand when I say ‘our’ I mean the
Land of the Blue Mountains, for whose safety and well-being I am alone
concerned. Any ship anchoring in the roads of the Blue Mouth would
have only one need—sufficient length of cable for its magnificent
depth.
“When proper guns are properly placed on the steep cliffs to north
and south of the entrance, and when the rock islet between has been
armoured and armed as will be necessary, the Mouth will be
impregnable. But we should not depend on the aiming of the entrance
alone. At certain salient points—which I have marked upon this
map—armour-plated sunken forts within earthworks should be
established. There should be covering forts on the hillsides, and, of
course, the final summits protected. Thus we could resist attack on
any side or all sides—from sea or land. That port will yet mean
the wealth as well as the strength of this nation, so it will be well to
have it properly protected. This should be done soon, and the utmost
secrecy observed in the doing of it, lest the so doing should become a
matter of international concern.”
Here Rooke smote the table hard.
“By God, that is true! It has been the dream of my own life
for this many a year.”
In the silence which followed the sweet, gentle voice of Teuta came
clear as a bell:
“May I say a word? I am emboldened to, as Sir Colin has
spoken so splendidly, and as the Lord High Admiral has not hesitated to
mention his dreaming. I, too, have had a dream—a
day-dream—which came in a flash, but no less a dream, for all
that. It was when we hung on the aeroplane over the Blue Mouth.
It seemed to me in an instant that I saw that beautiful spot as it will
some time be—typical, as Sir Colin said, of the wealth as well as the
strength of this nation; a mart for the world whence will come for barter
some of the great wealth of the Blue Mountains. That wealth is as yet
undeveloped. But the day is at hand when we may begin to use it, and
through that very port. Our mountains and their valleys are clad with
trees of splendid growth, virgin forests of priceless worth; hard woods of
all kinds, which have no superior throughout the world. In the rocks,
though hidden as yet, is vast mineral wealth of many kinds. I have
been looking through the reports of the geological exports of the
Commission of Investigation which my husband organized soon after he came
to live here, and, according to them, our whole mountain ranges simply teem
with vast quantities of minerals, almost more precious for industry than
gold and silver are for commerce—though, indeed, gold is not
altogether lacking as a mineral. When once our work on the harbour is
done, and the place has been made secure against any attempt at foreign
aggression, we must try to find a way to bring this wealth of woods and
ores down to the sea.
“And then, perhaps, may begin the great prosperity of our Land, of
which we have all dreamt.”
She stopped, all vibrating, almost choked with emotion. We were
all moved. For myself, I was thrilled to the core. Her
enthusiasm was all-sweeping, and under its influence I found my own
imagination expanding. Out of its experiences I spoke:
“And there is a way. I can see it. Whilst our dear
Voivodin was speaking, the way seemed to clear. I saw at the back of
the Blue Mouth, where it goes deepest into the heart of the cliffs, the
opening of a great tunnel, which ran upward over a steep slope till it
debouched on the first plateau beyond the range of the encompassing
cliffs. Thither came by various rails of steep gradient, by
timber-shoots and cable-rails, by aerial cables and precipitating tubes,
wealth from over ground and under it; for as our Land is all mountains, and
as these tower up to the clouds, transport to the sea shall be easy and of
little cost when once the machinery is established. As everything of
much weight goes downward, the cars of the main tunnel of the port shall
return upward without cost. We can have from the mountains a head of
water under good control, which will allow of endless hydraulic power, so
that the whole port and the mechanism of the town to which it will grow can
be worked by it.
“This work can be put in hand at once. So soon as the place
shall be perfectly surveyed and the engineering plans got ready, we can
start on the main tunnel, working from the sea-level up, so that the cost
of the transport of material will be almost nil. This work can go on
whilst the forts are building; no time need be lost.
“Moreover, may I add a word on National Defence? We are,
though old in honour, a young nation as to our place amongst Great
Powers. And so we must show the courage and energy of a young
nation. The Empire of the Air is not yet won. Why should not we
make a bid for it? As our mountains are lofty, so shall we have
initial power of attack or defence. We can have, in chosen spots
amongst the clouds, depots of war aeroplanes, with which we can descend and
smite our enemies quickly on land or sea. We shall hope to live for
Peace; but woe to those who drive us to War!”
There is no doubt that the Vissarions are a warlike race. As I
spoke, Teuta took one of my hands and held it hard. The old Voivode,
his eyes blazing, rose and stood beside me and took the other. The
two old fighting-men of the land and the sea stood up and saluted.
This was the beginning of what ultimately became “The National
Committee of Defence and Development.”
I had other, and perhaps greater, plans for the future in my mind; but
the time had not come for their utterance.
To me it seems not only advisable, but necessary, that the utmost
discretion be observed by all our little group, at all events for the
present. There seems to be some new uneasiness in the Blue
Mountains. There are constant meetings of members of the Council, but
no formal meeting of the Council, as such, since the last one at which I
was present. There is constant coming and going amongst the
mountaineers, always in groups, small or large. Teuta and I, who have
been about very much on the aeroplane, have both noticed it. But
somehow we—that is, the Voivode and myself—are left out of
everything; but we have not said as yet a word on the subject to any of the
others. The Voivode notices, but he says nothing; so I am silent, and
Teuta does whatever I ask. Sir Colin does not notice anything except
the work he is engaged on—the planning the defences of the Blue
Mouth. His old scientific training as an engineer, and his enormous
experience of wars and sieges—for he was for nearly fifty years sent
as military representative to all the great wars—seem to have become
directed on that point. He is certainly planning it all out in a
wonderful way. He consults Rooke almost hourly on the maritime side
of the question. The Lord High Admiral has been a watcher all his
life, and very few important points have ever escaped him, so that he can
add greatly to the wisdom of the defensive construction. He notices,
I think, that something is going on outside ourselves; but he keeps a
resolute silence.
What the movement going on is I cannot guess. It is not like the
uneasiness that went before the abduction of Teuta and the Voivode, but it
is even more pronounced. That was an uneasiness founded on some
suspicion. This is a positive thing, and has definite
meaning—of some sort. We shall, I suppose, know all about it in
good time. In the meantime we go on with our work. Happily the
whole Blue Mouth and the mountains round it are on my own property, the
portion acquired long ago by Uncle Roger, exclusive of the Vissarion
estate. I asked the Voivode to allow me to transfer it to him, but he
sternly refused and forbade me, quite peremptorily, to ever open the
subject to him again. “You have done enough already,” he
said. “Were I to allow you to go further, I should feel
mean. And I do not think you would like your wife’s father to
suffer that feeling after a long life, which he has tried to live in
honour.”
I bowed, and said no more. So there the matter rests, and I have
to take my own course. I have had a survey made, and on the head of
it the Tunnel to the harbour is begun.
BOOK VIII: THE FLASHING OF THE HANDJAR
PRIVATE MEMORANDUM OF THE MEETING OF VARIOUS MEMBERS OF THE NATIONAL
COUNCIL, HELD AT THE STATE HOUSE OF THE BLUE MOUNTAINS AT PLAZAC ON MONDAY,
AUGUST 26, 1907.
(Written by Cristoferos, Scribe of the Council, by
instruction of those present.)
When the private meeting of various Members of the National Council had
assembled in the Council Hall of the State House at Plazac, it was as a
preliminary decided unanimously that now or hereafter no names of those
present were to be mentioned, and that officials appointed for the purposes
of this meeting should be designated by office only, the names of all being
withheld.
The proceedings assumed the shape of a general conversation, quite
informal, and therefore not to be recorded. The nett outcome was the
unanimous expression of an opinion that the time, long contemplated by very
many persons throughout the nation, had now come when the Constitution and
machinery of the State should be changed; that the present form of ruling
by an Irregular Council was not sufficient, and that a method more in
accord with the spirit of the times should be adopted. To this end
Constitutional Monarchy, such as that holding in Great Britain, seemed best
adapted. Finally, it was decided that each Member of the Council
should make a personal canvass of his district, talk over the matter with
his electors, and bring back to another meeting—or, rather, as it was
amended, to this meeting postponed for a week, until September
2nd—the opinions and wishes received. Before separating, the
individual to be appointed King, in case the new idea should prove grateful
to the nation, was discussed. The consensus of opinion was entirely
to the effect that the Voivode Peter Vissarion should, if he would accept
the high office, be appointed. It was urged that, as his daughter,
the Voivodin Teuta, was now married to the Englishman, Rupert Sent
Leger—called generally by the mountaineers “the Gospodar
Rupert”—a successor to follow the Voivode when God should call
him would be at hand—a successor worthy in every way to succeed to so
illustrious a post. It was urged by several speakers, with general
acquiescence, that already Mr. Sent Leger’s services to the State
were such that he would be in himself a worthy person to begin the new
Dynasty; but that, as he was now allied to the Voivode Peter Vissarion, it
was becoming that the elder, born of the nation, should receive the first
honour.
THE SAME—Continued.
The adjourned meeting of certain members of the National Council was
resumed in the Hall of the State House at Plazac on Monday, September 2nd,
1907. By motion the same chairman was appointed, and the rule
regarding the record renewed.
Reports were made by the various members of the Council in turn,
according to the State Roll. Every district was represented.
The reports were unanimously in favour of the New Constitution, and it was
reported by each and all of the Councillors that the utmost enthusiasm
marked in every case the suggestion of the Voivode Peter Vissarion as the
first King to be crowned under the new Constitution, and that remainder
should be settled on the Gospodar Rupert (the mountaineers would only
receive his lawful name as an alternative; one and all said that he would
be “Rupert” to them and to the nation—for ever).
The above matter having been satisfactorily settled, it was decided that
a formal meeting of the National Council should be held at the State House,
Plazac, in one week from to-day, and that the Voivode Peter Vissarion
should be asked to be in the State House in readiness to attend. It
was also decided that instruction should be given to the High Court of
National Law to prepare and have ready, in skeleton form, a rescript of the
New Constitution to be adopted, the same to be founded on the Constitution
and Procedure of Great Britain, so far as the same may be applicable to the
traditional ideas of free Government in the Land of the Blue Mountains.
By unanimous vote this private and irregular meeting of “Various
National Councillors” was then dissolved.
RECORD OF THE FIRST MEETING OF THE NATIONAL COUNCIL OF THE LAND OF THE
BLUE MOUNTAINS, HELD AT PLAZAC ON MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 9TH, 1907, TO CONSIDER
THE ADOPTION OF A NEW CONSTITUTION, AND TO GIVE PERMANENT EFFECT TO THE
SAME IF, AND WHEN, DECIDED UPON.
(Kept by the Monk Cristoferos, Scribe to the National
Council.)
The adjourned meeting duly took place as arranged. There was a
full attendance of Members of the Council, together with the Vladika, the
Archbishop, the Archimandrites of Spazac, of Ispazar, of Domitan, and
Astrag; the Chancellor; the Lord of the Exchequer; the President of the
High Court of National Law; the President of the Council of Justice; and
such other high officials as it is customary to summon to meetings of the
National Council on occasions of great importance. The names of all
present will be found in the full report, wherein are given the ipsissima
verba of the various utterances made during the consideration of the
questions discussed, the same having been taken down in shorthand by the
humble scribe of this précis, which has been made for the
convenience of Members of the Council and others.
The Voivode Peter Vissarion, obedient to the request of the Council, was
in attendance at the State House, waiting in the “Chamber of the High
Officers” until such time as he should be asked to come before the
Council.
The President put before the National Council the matter of the new
Constitution, outlining the headings of it as drawn up by the High Court of
National Law, and the Constitution having been formally accepted nem.
con. by the National Council on behalf of the people, he proposed that
the Crown should be offered to the Voivode Peter Vissarion, with remainder
to the “Gospodar Rupert” (legally, Rupert Sent Leger), husband
of his only child, the Voivodin Teuta. This also was received with
enthusiasm, and passed nem. con.
Thereupon the President of Council, the Archbishop, and the Vladika,
acting together as a deputation, went to pray the attention of the Voivode
Peter Vassarion.
When the Voivode entered, the whole Council and officials stood up, and
for a few seconds waited in respectful silence with heads bowed down.
Then, as if by a common impulse—for no word was spoken nor any signal
given—they all drew their handjars, and stood to attention—with
points raised and edges of the handjars to the front.
The Voivode stood very still. He seemed much moved, but controlled
himself admirably. The only time when be seemed to lose his
self-control was when, once again with a strange simultaneity, all present
raised their handjars on high, and shouted: “Hail, Peter,
King!” Then lowering their points till these almost touched the
ground, they once again stood with bowed heads.
When he had quite mastered himself, the Voivode Peter Vissarion
spoke:
“How can I, my brothers, sufficiently thank you, and, through you,
the people of the Blue Mountains, for the honour done to me this day?
In very truth it is not possible, and therefore I pray you to consider it
as done, measuring my gratitude in the greatness of your own hearts.
Such honour as you offer to me is not contemplated by any man in whose mind
a wholesome sanity rules, nor is it even the dream of fervent
imagination. So great is it, that I pray you, men with hearts and
minds like my own, to extend to me, as a further measure of your
generosity, a little time to think it over. I shall not want long,
for even already, with the blaze of honour fresh upon me, I see the cool
shadow of Duty, though his substance is yet hardly visible. Give me
but an hour of solitude—an hour at most—if it do not prolong
this your session unduly. It may be that a lesser time will serve,
but in any case I promise you that, when I can see a just and fitting issue
to my thought, I shall at once return.”
The President of the Council looked around him, and, seeing everywhere
the bowing heads of acquiescence, spoke with a reverent gravity:
“We shall wait in patience whatsoever time you will, and may the
God who rules all worthy hearts guide you to His Will!”
And so in silence the Voivode passed out of the hall.
From my seat near a window I could watch him go, as with measured steps
he passed up the hill which rises behind the State House, and disappeared
into the shadow of the forest. Then my work claimed me, for I wished
to record the proceedings so far whilst all was fresh in my mind. In
silence, as of the dead, the Council waited, no man challenging opinion of
his neighbour even by a glance.
Almost a full hour had elapsed when the Voivode came again to the
Council, moving with slow and stately gravity, as has always been his wont
since age began to hamper the movement which in youth had been so
notable. The Members of the Council all stood up uncovered, and so
remained while he made announcement of his conclusion. He spoke
slowly; and as his answer was to be a valued record of this Land and its
Race, I wrote down every word as uttered, leaving here and there space for
description or comment, which spaces I have since then filled in.
“Lords of the National Council, Archbishop, Vladika, Lords of the
Council of Justice and of National Law, Archimandrites, and my brothers
all, I have, since I left you, held in the solitude of the forest counsel
with myself—and with God; and He, in His gracious wisdom, has led my
thinking to that conclusion which was from the first moment of knowledge of
your intent presaged in my heart. Brothers, you know—or else a
long life has been spent in vain—that my heart and mind are all for
the nation—my experience, my life, my handjar. And when all is
for her, why should I shrink to exercise on her behalf my riper judgment
though the same should have to combat my own ambition? For ten
centuries my race has not failed in its duty. Ages ago the men of
that time trusted in the hands of my ancestors the Kingship, even as now
you, their children, trust me. But to me it would be base to betray
that trust, even by the smallest tittle. That would I do were I to
take the honour of the crown which you have tendered to me, so long as
there is another more worthy to wear it. Were there none other, I
should place myself in your hands, and yield myself over to blind obedience
of your desires. But such an one there is; dear to you already by his
own deeds, now doubly dear to me, since he is my son by my daughter’s
love. He is young, whereas I am old. He is strong and brave and
true; but my days of the usefulness of strength and bravery are over.
For myself, I have long contemplated as the crown of my later years a quiet
life in one of our monasteries, where I can still watch the whirl of the
world around us on your behalf, and be a counsellor of younger men of more
active minds. Brothers, we are entering on stirring times. I
can see the signs of their coming all around us. North and
South—the Old Order and the New, are about to clash, and we lie
between the opposing forces. True it is that the Turk, after warring
for a thousand years, is fading into insignificance. But from the
North where conquests spring, have crept towards our Balkans the men of a
mightier composite Power. Their march has been steady; and as they
came, they fortified every step of the way. Now they are hard upon
us, and are already beginning to swallow up the regions that we have helped
to win from the dominion of Mahound. The Austrian is at our very
gates. Beaten back by the Irredentists of Italy, she has so enmeshed
herself with the Great Powers of Europe that she seems for the moment to be
impregnable to a foe of our stature. There is but one hope for
us—the uniting of the Balkan forces to turn a masterly front to North
and West as well as to South and East. Is that a task for old hands
to undertake? No; the hands must be young and supple; and the brain
subtle, as well as the heart be strong, of whomsoever would dare such an
accomplishment. Should I accept the crown, it would only postpone the
doing of that which must ultimately be done. What avail would it be
if, when the darkness closes over me, my daughter should be Queen Consort
to the first King of a new dynasty? You know this man, and from your
record I learn that you are already willing to have him as King to follow
me. Why not begin with him? He comes of a great nation, wherein
the principle of freedom is a vital principle that quickens all
things. That nation has more than once shown to us its friendliness;
and doubtless the very fact that an Englishman would become our King, and
could carry into our Government the spirit and customs which have made his
own country great, would do much to restore the old friendship, and even to
create a new one, which would in times of trouble bring British fleets to
our waters, and British bayonets to support our own handjars. It is
within my own knowledge, though as yet unannounced to you, that Rupert Sent
Leger has already obtained a patent, signed by the King of England himself,
allowing him to be denaturalized in England, so that he can at once apply
for naturalization here. I know also that he has brought hither a
vast fortune, by aid of which he is beginning to strengthen our hands for
war, in case that sad eventuality should arise. Witness his late
ordering to be built nine other warships of the class that has already done
such effective service in overthrowing the Turk—or the pirate,
whichever he may have been. He has undertaken the defence of the Blue
Mouth at his own cost in a way which will make it stronger than Gibraltar,
and secure us against whatever use to which the Austrian may apply the vast
forces already gathered in the Bocche di Cattaro. He is already
founding aerial stations on our highest peaks for use of the war aeroplanes
which are being built for him. It is such a man as this who makes a
nation great; and right sure I am that in his hands this splendid land and
our noble, freedom-loving people will flourish and become a power in the
world. Then, brothers, let me, as one to whom this nation and its
history and its future are dear, ask you to give to the husband of my
daughter the honour which you would confer on me. For her I can speak
as well as for myself. She shall suffer nothing in dignity
either. Were I indeed King, she, as my daughter, would be a Princess
of the world. As it will be, she shall be companion and Queen of a
great King, and her race, which is mine, shall flourish in all the lustre
of the new Dynasty.
“Therefore on all accounts, my brothers, for the sake of our dear
Land of the Blue Mountains, make the Gospodar Rupert, who has so proved
himself, your King. And make me happy in my retirement to the
cloister.”
When the Voivode ceased to speak, all still remained silent and
standing. But there was no mistaking their acquiescence in his most
generous prayer. The President of the Council well interpreted the
general wish when he said:
“Lords of the National Council, Archbishop, Vladika, Lords of the
Councils of Justice and National Law, Archimandrites, and all who are
present, is it agreed that we prepare at leisure a fitting reply to the
Voivode Peter of the historic House of Vissarion, stating our agreement
with his wish?”
To which there was a unanimous answer:
“It is.” He went on:
“Further. Shall we ask the Gospodar Rupert of the House of
Sent Leger, allied through his marriage to the Voivodin Teuta, daughter and
only child of the Voivode Peter of Vissarion, to come hither
to-morrow? And that, when he is amongst us, we confer on him the
Crown and Kingship of the Land of the Blue Mountains?”
Again came the answer: “It is.”
But this time it rang out like the sound of a gigantic trumpet, and the
handjars flashed.
Whereupon the session was adjourned for the space of a day.
THE SAME—Continued.
September 10, 1907.
When the National Council met to-day the Voivode Peter Vissarion sat
with them, but well back, so that at first his presence was hardly
noticeable. After the necessary preliminaries had been gone through,
they requested the presence of the Gospodar Rupert—Mr. Rupert Sent
Leger—who was reported as waiting in the “Chamber of the High
Officers.” He at once accompanied back to the Hall the
deputation sent to conduct him. As he made his appearance in the
doorway the Councillors stood up. There was a burst of enthusiasm,
and the handjars flashed. For an instant he stood silent, with lifted
hand, as though indicating that he wished to speak. So soon as this
was recognized, silence fell on the assembly, and he spoke:
“I pray you, may the Voivodin Teuta of Vissarion, who has
accompanied me hither, appear with me to hear your wishes?”
There was an immediate and enthusiastic acquiescence, and, after bowing his
thanks, he retired to conduct her.
Her appearance was received with an ovation similar to that given to
Gospodar Rupert, to which she bowed with dignified sweetness. She,
with her husband, was conducted to the top of the Hall by the President,
who came down to escort them. In the meantime another chair had been
placed beside that prepared for the Gospodar, and these two sat.
The President then made the formal statement conveying to the
“Gospodar Rupert” the wishes of the Council, on behalf of the
nation, to offer to him the Crown and Kingship of the Land of the Blue
Mountains. The message was couched in almost the same words as had
been used the previous day in making the offer to the Voivode Peter
Vissarion, only differing to meet the special circumstances. The
Gospodar Rupert listened in grave silence. The whole thing was
manifestly quite new to him, but he preserved a self-control wonderful
under the circumstances. When, having been made aware of the previous
offer to the Voivode and the declared wish of the latter, he rose to speak,
there was stillness in the Hall. He commenced with a few broken words
of thanks; then he grew suddenly and strangely calm as he went on:
“But before I can even attempt to make a fitting reply, I should
know if it is contemplated to join with me in this great honour my dear
wife the Voivodin Teuta of Vissarion, who has so splendidly proved her
worthiness to hold any place in the government of the Land. I fain
would . . . ”
He was interrupted by the Voivodin, who, standing up beside him and
holding his left arm, said:
“Do not, President, and Lords all, think me wanting in that
respect of a wife for husband which in the Blue Mountains we hold so dear,
if I venture to interrupt my lord. I am here, not merely as a wife,
but as Voivodin of Vissarion, and by the memory of all the noble women of
that noble line I feel constrained to a great duty. We women of
Vissarion, in all the history of centuries, have never put ourselves
forward in rivalry of our lords. Well I know that my own dear lord
will forgive me as wife if I err; but I speak to you, the Council of the
nation, from another ground and with another tongue. My lord does
not, I fear, know as you do, and as I do too, that of old, in the history
of this Land, when Kingship was existent, that it was ruled by that law of
masculine supremacy which, centuries after, became known as the Lex
Salica. Lords of the Council of the Blue Mountains, I am a wife
of the Blue Mountains—as a wife young as yet, but with the blood of
forty generations of loyal women in my veins. And it would ill become
me, whom my husband honours—wife to the man whom you would
honour—to take a part in changing the ancient custom which has been
held in honour for all the thousand years, which is the glory of Blue
Mountain womanhood. What an example such would be in an age when
self-seeking women of other nations seek to forget their womanhood in the
struggle to vie in equality with men! Men of the Blue Mountains, I
speak for our women when I say that we hold of greatest price the glory of
our men. To be their companions is our happiness; to be their wives
is the completion of our lives; to be mothers of their children is our
share of the glory that is theirs.
“Therefore, I pray you, men of the Blue Mountains, let me but be
as any other wife in our land, equal to them in domestic happiness, which
is our woman’s sphere; and if that priceless honour may be vouchsafed
to me, and I be worthy and able to bear it, an exemplar of woman’s
rectitude.” With a low, modest, graceful bow, she sat down.
There was no doubt as to the reception of her renunciation of Queenly
dignity. There was more honour to her in the quick, fierce shout
which arose, and the unanimous upward swing of the handjars, than in the
wearing of any crown which could adorn the head of woman.
The spontaneous action of the Gospodar Rupert was another source of joy
to all—a fitting corollary to what had gone before. He rose to
his feet, and, taking his wife in his arms, kissed her before all.
Then they sat down, with their chairs close, bashfully holding hands like a
pair of lovers.
Then Rupert arose—he is Rupert now; no lesser name is on the lips
of his people henceforth. With an intense earnestness which seemed to
glow in his face, he said simply:
“What can I say except that I am in all ways, now and for ever,
obedient to your wishes?” Then, raising his handjar and holding
it before him, he kissed the hilt, saying:
“Hereby I swear to be honest and just—to be, God helping me,
such a King as you would wish—in so far as the strength is given
me. Amen.”
This ended the business of the Session, and the Council showed
unmeasured delight. Again and again the handjars flashed, as the
cheers rose “three times three” in British fashion.
When Rupert—I am told I must not write him down as “King
Rupert” until after the formal crowning, which is ordained for
Wednesday, October 16th,—and Teuta had withdrawn, the Voivode Peter
Vissarion, the President and Council conferred in committee with the
Presidents of the High Courts of National Law and of Justice as to the
formalities to be observed in the crowning of the King, and of the formal
notification to be given to foreign Powers. These proceedings kept
them far into the night.
FROM “The London Messenger.”
Coronation Festivities of the Blue
Mountains.
(From our Special Correspondent.)
Plazac,
October 14, 1907.
As I sat down to a poorly-equipped luncheon-table on board the
Austro-Orient liner Franz Joseph, I mourned in my heart (and I may
say incidentally in other portions of my internal economy) the comfort and
gastronomic luxury of the King and Emperor Hotel at Trieste. A brief
comparison between the menus of to-day’s lunch and yesterday’s
will afford to the reader a striking object-lesson:
Trieste.
|
Steamer.
|
Eggs à la cocotte.
|
Scrambled eggs on toast.
|
Stewed chicken, with paprika.
|
Cold chicken.
|
Devilled slices of Westphalian ham (boiled in wine).
|
Cold ham.
|
Tunny fish, pickled.
|
Bismarck herrings.
|
Rice, burst in cream.
|
Stewed apples.
|
Guava jelly.
|
Swiss cheese.
|
Consequence: Yesterday I was well and happy, and looked forward to a
good night’s sleep, which came off. To-day I am dull and heavy,
also restless, and I am convinced that at sleeping-time my liver will have
it all its own way.
The journey to Ragusa, and thence to Plazac, is writ large with a
pigment of misery on at least one human heart. Let a silence fall
upon it! In such wise only can Justice and Mercy join hands.
Plazac is a miserable place. There is not a decent hotel in
it. It was perhaps on this account that the new King, Rupert, had
erected for the alleged convenience of his guests of the Press a series of
large temporary hotels, such as were in evidence at the St. Louis
Exposition. Here each guest was given a room to himself, somewhat
after the nature of the cribs in a Rowton house. From my first night
in it I am able to speak from experience of the sufferings of a prisoner of
the third class. I am, however, bound to say that the dining and
reception rooms were, though uncomfortably plain, adequate for temporary
use. Happily we shall not have to endure many more meals here, as
to-morrow we all dine with the King in the State House; and as the cuisine
is under the control of that cordon bleu, Gaston de Faux Pas, who so
long controlled the gastronomic (we might almost say Gastonomic) destinies
of the Rois des Diamants in the Place Vendôme, we may, I think, look
forward to not going to bed hungry. Indeed, the anticipations formed
from a survey of our meagre sleeping accommodation were not realized at
dinnertime to-night. To our intense astonishment, an excellent dinner
was served, though, to be sure, the cold dishes predominated (a thing I
always find bad for one’s liver). Just as we were finishing,
the King (nominated) came amongst us in quite an informal way, and, having
bidden us a hearty welcome, asked that we should drink a glass of wine
together. This we did in an excellent (if rather sweet) glass of
Cliquot ’93. King Rupert (nominated) then asked us to resume
our seats. He walked between the tables, now and again recognizing
some journalistic friend whom he had met early in life in his days of
adventure. The men spoken to seemed vastly pleased—with
themselves probably. Pretty bad form of them, I call it! For
myself, I was glad I had not previously met him in the same casual way, as
it saved me from what I should have felt a humiliation—the being
patronized in that public way by a prospective King who had not (in a Court
sense) been born. The writer, who is by profession a
barrister-at-law, is satisfied at being himself a county gentleman and heir
to an historic estate in the ancient county of Salop, which can boast a
larger population than the Land of the Blue Mountains.
Editorial Note.—We must ask our readers
to pardon the report in yesterday’s paper sent from Plazac. The
writer was not on our regular staff, but asked to be allowed to write the
report, as he was a kinsman of King Rupert of the Blue Mountains, and would
therefore be in a position to obtain special information and facilities of
description “from inside,” as he puts it. On reading the
paper, we cabled his recall; we cabled also, in case he did not obey, to
have his ejectment effected forthwith.
We have also cabled Mr. Mordred Booth, the well-known correspondent, who
was, to our knowledge, in Plazac for his own purposes, to send us full (and
proper) details. We take it our readers will prefer a graphic account
of the ceremony to a farrago of cheap menus, comments on his own liver, and
a belittling of an Englishman of such noble character and achievements that
a rising nation has chosen him for their King, and one whom our own nation
loves to honour. We shall not, of course, mention our abortive
correspondent’s name, unless compelled thereto by any future
utterance of his.
FROM “The London Messenger.”
The Coronation of King Rupert of the Blue
Mountains.
(By our Special Correspondent, Mordred Booth.)
Plazac,
October 17, 1907.
Plazac does not boast of a cathedral or any church of sufficient
dimensions for a coronation ceremony on an adequate scale. It was
therefore decided by the National Council, with the consent of the King,
that it should be held at the old church of St. Sava at Vissarion—the
former home of the Queen. Accordingly, arrangements had been made to
bring thither on the warships on the morning of the coronation the whole of
the nation’s guests. In St. Sava’s the religious ceremony
would take place, after which there would be a banquet in the Castle of
Vissarion. The guests would then return on the warships to Plazac,
where would be held what is called here the “National
Coronation.”
In the Land of the Blue Mountains it was customary in the old days, when
there were Kings, to have two ceremonies—one carried out by the
official head of the national Church, the Greek Church; the other by the
people in a ritual adopted by themselves, on much the same basis as the
Germanic Folk-Moot. The Blue Mountains is a nation of strangely loyal
tendencies. What was a thousand years ago is to be to-day—so
far, of course, as is possible under the altered condition of things.
The church of St. Sava is very old and very beautiful, built in the
manner of old Greek churches, full of monuments of bygone worthies of the
Blue Mountains. But, of course, neither it nor the ceremony held in
it to-day can compare in splendour with certain other ceremonials—for
instance, the coronation of the penultimate Czar in Moscow, of Alfonso XII.
in Madrid, of Carlos I. in Lisbon.
The church was arranged much after the fashion of Westminster Abbey for
the coronation of King Edward VII., though, of course, not so many persons
present, nor so much individual splendour. Indeed, the number of
those present, outside those officially concerned and the Press of the
world, was very few.
The most striking figure present—next to King Rupert, who is seven
feet high and a magnificent man—was the Queen Consort, Teuta.
She sat in front of a small gallery erected for the purpose just opposite
the throne. She is a strikingly beautiful woman, tall and
finely-formed, with jet-black hair and eyes like black diamonds, but with
the unique quality that there are stars in them which seem to take varied
colour according to each strong emotion. But it was not even her
beauty or the stars in her eyes which drew the first glance of all.
These details showed on scrutiny, but from afar off the attractive point
was her dress. Surely never before did woman, be she Queen or
peasant, wear such a costume on a festive occasion.
She was dressed in a white Shroud, and in that only. I had
heard something of the story which goes behind that strange costume, and
shall later on send it to you. [2]
When the procession entered the church through the great western door,
the national song of the Blue Mountains, “Guide our feet through
darkness, O Jehovah,” was sung by an unseen choir, in which the
organ, supplemented by martial instruments, joined. The Archbishop
was robed in readiness before the altar, and close around him stood the
Archimandrites of the four great monasteries. The Vladika stood in
front of the Members of the National Council. A little to one side of
this body was a group of high officials, Presidents of the Councils of
National Law and Justice, the Chancellor, etc.—all in splendid robes
of great antiquity—the High Marshall of the Forces and the Lord high
Admiral.
When all was ready for the ceremonial act of coronation, the Archbishop
raised his hand, whereupon the music ceased. Turning around, so that
he faced the Queen, who thereon stood up, the King drew his handjar and
saluted her in Blue Mountain fashion—the point raised as high
possible, and then dropped down till it almost touches the ground.
Every man in the church, ecclesiastics and all, wear the handjar, and,
following the King by the interval of a second, their weapons flashed
out. There was something symbolic, as well as touching, in this truly
royal salute, led by the King. His handjar is a mighty blade, and
held high in the hands of a man of his stature, it overtowered everything
in the church. It was an inspiriting sight. No one who saw will
ever forget that noble flashing of blades in the thousand-year-old salute .
. .
The coronation was short, simple, and impressive. Rupert knelt
whilst the Archbishop, after a short, fervent prayer, placed on his head
the bronze crown of the first King of the Blue Mountains, Peter. This
was handed to him by the Vladika, to whom it was brought from the National
Treasury by a procession of the high officers. A blessing of the new
King and his Queen Teuta concluded the ceremony. Rupert’s first
act on rising from his knees was to draw his handjar and salute his
people.
After the ceremony in St. Sava, the procession was reformed, and took
its way to the Castle of Vissarion, which is some distance off across a
picturesque creek, bounded on either side by noble cliffs of vast
height. The King led the way, the Queen walking with him and holding
his hand . . . The Castle of Vissarion is of great antiquity, and
picturesque beyond belief. I am sending later on, as a special
article, a description of it . . .
The “Coronation Feast,” as it was called on the menu, was
held in the Great Hall, which is of noble proportions. I enclose copy
of the menu, as our readers may wish to know something of the details of
such a feast in this part of the world.
One feature of the banquet was specially noticeable. As the
National Officials were guests of the King and Queen, they were waited on
and served by the King and Queen in person. The rest of the guests,
including us of the Press, were served by the King’s household, not
the servants—none of that cult were visible—but by the ladies
and gentlemen of the Court.
There was only one toast, and that was given by the King, all standing:
“The Land of the Blue Mountains, and may we all do our duty to the
Land we love!” Before drinking, his mighty handjar flashed out
again, and in an instant every table at which the Blue Mountaineers sat was
ringed with flashing steel. I may add parenthetically that the
handjar is essentially the national weapon. I do not know if the Blue
Mountaineers take it to bed with them, but they certainly wear it
everywhere else. Its drawing seems to emphasize everything in
national life . . .
We embarked again on the warships—one a huge, steel-plated
Dreadnought, up to date in every particular, the other an armoured yacht
most complete in every way, and of unique speed. The King and Queen,
the Lords of the Council, together with the various high ecclesiastics and
great officials, went on the yacht, which the Lord High Admiral, a man of
remarkably masterful physiognomy, himself steered. The rest of those
present at the Coronation came on the warship. The latter went fast,
but the yacht showed her heels all the way. However, the King’s
party waited in the dock in the Blue Mouth. From this a new
cable-line took us all to the State House at Plazac. Here the
procession was reformed, and wound its way to a bare hill in the immediate
vicinity. The King and Queen—the King still wearing the ancient
bronze crown with which the Archbishop had invested him at St.
Sava’s—the Archbishop, the Vladika, and the four Archimandrites
stood together at the top of the hill, the King and Queen being, of course,
in the front. A courteous young gentleman, to whom I had been
accredited at the beginning of the day—all guests were so
attended—explained to me that, as this was the national as opposed to
the religious ceremony, the Vladika, who is the official representative of
the laity, took command here. The ecclesiastics were put prominently
forward, simply out of courtesy, in obedience to the wish of the people, by
whom they were all greatly beloved.
Then commenced another unique ceremony, which, indeed, might well find a
place in our Western countries. As far as ever we could see were
masses of men roughly grouped, not in any uniform, but all in national
costume, and armed only with the handjar. In the front of each of
these groups or bodies stood the National Councillor for that district,
distinguishable by his official robe and chain. There were in all
seventeen of these bodies. These were unequal in numbers, some of
them predominating enormously over others, as, indeed, might be expected in
so mountainous a country. In all there were present, I was told, over
a hundred thousand men. So far as I can judge from long experience of
looking at great bodies of men, the estimate was a just one. I was a
little surprised to see so many, for the population of the Blue Mountains
is never accredited in books of geography as a large one. When I made
inquiry as to how the frontier guard was being for the time maintained, I
was told:
“By the women mainly. But, all the same, we have also a male
guard which covers the whole frontier except that to seaward. Each
man has with him six women, so that the whole line is unbroken.
Moreover, sir, you must bear in mind that in the Blue Mountains our women
are trained to arms as well as our men—ay, and they could give a good
account of themselves, too, against any foe that should assail us.
Our history shows what women can do in defence. I tell you, the
Turkish population would be bigger to-day but for the women who on our
frontier fought of old for defence of their homes!”
“No wonder this nation has kept her freedom for a thousand
years!” I said.
At a signal given by the President of the National Council one of the
Divisions moved forwards. It was not an ordinary movement, but an
intense rush made with all the elan and vigour of hardy and
highly-trained men. They came on, not merely at the double, but as if
delivering an attack. Handjar in hand, they rushed forward. I
can only compare their rush to an artillery charge or to an attack of
massed cavalry battalions. It was my fortune to see the former at
Magenta and the latter at Sadowa, so that I know what such illustration
means. I may also say that I saw the relief column which Roberts
organized rush through a town on its way to relieve Mafeking; and no one
who had the delight of seeing that inspiring progress of a flying army on
their way to relieve their comrades needs to be told what a rush of armed
men can be. With speed which was simply desperate they ran up the
hill, and, circling to the left, made a ring round the topmost plateau,
where stood the King. When the ring was complete, the stream went on
lapping round and round till the whole tally was exhausted. In the
meantime another Division had followed, its leader joining close behind the
end of the first. Then came another and another. An unbroken
line circled and circled round the hill in seeming endless array, till the
whole slopes were massed with moving men, dark in colour, and with
countless glittering points everywhere. When the whole of the
Divisions had thus surrounded the King, there was a moment’s
hush—a silence so still that it almost seemed as if Nature stood
still also. We who looked on were almost afraid to breathe.
Then suddenly, without, so far as I could see, any fugleman or word of
command, the handjars of all that mighty array of men flashed upward as
one, and like thunder pealed the National cry:
“The Blue Mountains and Duty!”
After the cry there was a strange subsidence which made the onlooker rub
his eyes. It seemed as though the whole mass of fighting men had
partially sunk into the ground. Then the splendid truth burst upon
us—the whole nation was kneeling at the feet of their chosen King,
who stood upright.
Another moment of silence, as King Rupert, taking off his crown, held it
up in his left hand, and, holding his great handjar high in his right,
cried in a voice so strong that it came ringing over that serried mass like
a trumpet:
“To Freedom of our Nation, and to Freedom within it, I dedicate
these and myself. I swear!”
So saying, he, too, sank on his knees, whilst we all instinctively
uncovered.
The silence which followed lasted several seconds; then, without a sign,
as though one and all acted instinctively, the whole body stood up.
Thereupon was executed a movement which, with all my experience of soldiers
and war, I never saw equalled—not with the Russian Royal Guard
saluting the Czar at his Coronation, not with an impi of Cetewayo’s
Zulus whirling through the opening of a kraal.
For a second or two the whole mass seemed to writhe or shudder, and
then, lo! the whole District Divisions were massed again in completeness,
its Councillors next the King, and the Divisions radiating outwards down
the hill like wedges.
This completed the ceremony, and everything broke up into units.
Later, I was told by my official friend that the King’s last
movement—the oath as he sank to his knees—was an innovation of
his own. All I can say is, if, in the future, and for all time, it is
not taken for a precedent, and made an important part of the Patriotic
Coronation ceremony, the Blue Mountaineers will prove themselves to be a
much more stupid people than they seem at present to be.
The conclusion of the Coronation festivities was a time of unalloyed
joy. It was the banquet given to the King and Queen by the nation;
the guests of the nation were included in the royal party. It was a
unique ceremony. Fancy a picnic-party of a hundred thousand persons,
nearly all men. There must have been made beforehand vast and
elaborate preparations, ramifying through the whole nation. Each
section had brought provisions sufficient for their own consumption in
addition to several special dishes for the guest-tables; but the
contribution of each section was not consumed by its own members.
It was evidently a part of the scheme that all should derive from a
common stock, so that the feeling of brotherhood and common property should
be preserved in this monumental fashion.
The guest-tables were the only tables to be seen. The bulk of the
feasters sat on the ground. The tables were brought forward by the
men themselves—no such thing as domestic service was known on this
day—from a wood close at hand, where they and the chairs had been
placed in readiness. The linen and crockery used had been sent for
the purpose from the households of every town and village. The
flowers were plucked in the mountains early that morning by the children,
and the gold and silver plate used for adornment were supplied from the
churches. Each dish at the guest-tables was served by the men of each
section in turn.
Over the whole array seemed to be spread an atmosphere of joyousness, of
peace, of brotherhood. It would be impossible to adequately describe
that amazing scene, a whole nation of splendid men surrounding their new
King and Queen, loving to honour and serve them. Scattered about
through that vast crowd were groups of musicians, chosen from amongst
themselves. The space covered by this titanic picnic was so vast that
there were few spots from which you could hear music proceeding from
different quarters.
After dinner we all sat and smoked; the music became rather vocal than
instrumental—indeed, presently we did not hear the sound of any
instrument at all. Only knowing a few words of Balkan, I could not
follow the meanings of the songs, but I gathered that they were all
legendary or historical. To those who could understand, as I was
informed by my tutelary young friend, who stayed beside me the whole of
this memorable day, we were listening to the history of the Land of the
Blue Mountains in ballad form. Somewhere or other throughout that
vast concourse each notable record of ten centuries was being told to eager
ears.
It was now late in the day. Slowly the sun had been dropping down
over the Calabrian Mountains, and the glamorous twilight was stealing over
the immediate scene. No one seemed to notice the coming of the dark,
which stole down on us with an unspeakable mystery. For long we sat
still, the clatter of many tongues becoming stilled into the witchery of
the scene. Lower the sun sank, till only the ruddiness of the
afterglow lit the expanse with rosy light; then this failed in turn, and
the night shut down quickly.
At last, when we could just discern the faces close to us, a
simultaneous movement began. Lights began to flash out in places all
over the hillside. At first these seemed as tiny as glow-worms seen
in a summer wood, but by degrees they grew till the space was set with
little circles of light. These in turn grew and grew in both number
and strength. Flames began to leap out from piles of wood, torches
were lighted and held high. Then the music began again, softly at
first, but then louder as the musicians began to gather to the centre,
where sat the King and Queen. The music was wild and semi-barbaric,
but full of sweet melody. It somehow seemed to bring before us a
distant past; one and all, according to the strength of our imagination and
the volume of our knowledge, saw episodes and phases of bygone history come
before us. There was a wonderful rhythmic, almost choric, force in
the time kept, which made it almost impossible to sit still. It was
an invitation to the dance such as I had never before heard in any nation
or at any time. Then the lights began to gather round. Once
more the mountaineers took something of the same formation as at the
crowning. Where the royal party sat was a level mead, with crisp,
short grass, and round it what one might well call the Ring of the Nation
was formed.
The music grew louder. Each mountaineer who had not a lit torch
already lighted one, and the whole rising hillside was a glory of
light. The Queen rose, and the King an instant after. As they
rose men stepped forward and carried away their chairs, or rather
thrones. The Queen gave the King her hand—this is, it seems,
the privilege of the wife as distinguished from any other woman.
Their feet took the time of the music, and they moved into the centre of
the ring.
That dance was another thing to remember, won from the haunting memories
of that strange day. At first the King and Queen danced all
alone. They began with stately movement, but as the music quickened
their feet kept time, and the swing of their bodies with movements kept
growing more and more ecstatic at every beat till, in true Balkan fashion,
the dance became a very agony of passionate movement.
At this point the music slowed down again, and the mountaineers began to
join in the dance. At first slowly, one by one, they joined in, the
Vladika and the higher priests leading; then everywhere the whole vast
crowd began to dance, till the earth around us seemed to shake. The
lights quivered, flickered, blazed out again, and rose and fell as that
hundred thousand men, each holding a torch, rose and fell with the rhythm
of the dance. Quicker, quicker grew the music, faster grew the
rushing and pounding of the feet, till the whole nation seemed now in an
ecstasy.
I stood near the Vladika, and in the midst of this final wildness I saw
him draw from his belt a short, thin flute; then he put it to his lips and
blew a single note—a fierce, sharp note, which pierced the volume of
sound more surely than would the thunder of a cannon-shot. On the
instant everywhere each man put his torch under his foot.
There was complete and immediate darkness, for the fires, which had by
now fallen low, had evidently been trodden out in the measure of the
dance. The music still kept in its rhythmic beat, but slower than it
had yet been. Little by little this beat was pointed and emphasized
by the clapping of hands—at first only a few, but spreading till
everyone present was beating hands to the slow music in the darkness.
This lasted a little while, during which, looking round, I noticed a faint
light beginning to steal up behind the hills. The moon was
rising.
Again there came a note from the Vladika’s flute—a single
note, sweet and subtle, which I can only compare with a note from a
nightingale, vastly increased in powers. It, too, won through the
thunder of the hand-claps, and on the second the sound ceased. The
sudden stillness, together with the darkness, was so impressive that we
could almost hear our hearts beating. And then came through the
darkness the most beautiful and impressive sound heard yet. That
mighty concourse, without fugleman of any sort, began, in low, fervent
voice, to sing the National Anthem. At first it was of so low tone as
to convey the idea of a mighty assembly of violinists playing with the
mutes on. But it gradually rose till the air above us seemed to throb
and quiver. Each syllable—each word—spoken in unison by
the vast throng was as clearly enunciated as though spoken by a single
voice:
“Guide our feet through darkness, O Jehovah.”
This anthem, sung out of full hearts, remains on our minds as the last
perfection of a perfect day. For myself, I am not ashamed to own that
it made me weep like a child. Indeed, I cannot write of it now as I
would; it unmans me so!
* * * * *
In the early morning, whilst the mountains were still rather grey than
blue, the cable-line took us to the Blue Mouth, where we embarked in the
King’s yacht, The Lady, which took us across the Adriatic at a
pace which I had hitherto considered impossible. The King and Queen
came to the landing to see us off. They stood together at the
right-hand side of the red-carpeted gangway, and shook hands with each
guest as he went on board. The instant the last passenger had stepped
on deck the gangway was withdrawn. The Lord High Admiral, who stood
on the bridge, raised his hand, and we swept towards the mouth of the
gulf. Of course, all hats were off, and we cheered frantically.
I can truly say that if King Rupert and Queen Teuta should ever wish to
found in the Blue Mountains a colony of diplomatists and journalists, those
who were their guests on this great occasion will volunteer to a man.
I think old Hempetch, who is the doyen of English-speaking journalists,
voiced our sentiments when he said:
“May God bless them and theirs with every grace and happiness, and
send prosperity to the Land and the rule!” I think the King and
Queen heard us cheer, they turned to look at our flying ship again.
BOOK IX: BALKA
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued (Longe
Intervallo).
February 10, 1908.
It is so long since I even thought of this journal that I hardly know
where to begin. I always heard that a married man is a pretty busy
man; but since I became one, though it is a new life to me, and of a
happiness undreamt of, I know what that life is. But I had no
idea that this King business was anything like what it is. Why, it
never leaves me a moment at all to myself—or, what is worse, to
Teuta. If people who condemn Kings had only a single month of my life
in that capacity, they would form an opinion different from that which they
hold. It might be useful to have a Professor of Kingship in the
Anarchists’ College—whenever it is founded!
Everything has gone on well with us, I am glad to say. Teuta is in
splendid health, though she has—but only very
lately—practically given up going on her own aeroplane. It was,
I know, a great sacrifice to make, just as she had become an expert at
it. They say here that she is one of the best drivers in the Blue
Mountains—and that is in the world, for we have made that form of
movement our own. Ever since we found the pitch-blende pockets in the
Great Tunnel, and discovered the simple process of extracting the radium
from it, we have gone on by leaps and bounds. When first Teuta told
me she would “aero” no more for a while, I thought she was
wise, and backed her up in it: for driving an aeroplane is trying work and
hard on the nerves. I only learned then the reason for her
caution—the usual one of a young wife. That was three months
ago, and only this morning she told me she would not go sailing in the air,
even with me, till she could do so “without risk”—she did
not mean risk to herself. Aunt Janet knew what she meant, and
counselled her strongly to stick to her resolution. So for the next
few months I am to do my air-sailing alone.
The public works which we began immediately after the Coronation are
going strong. We began at the very beginning on an elaborate
system. The first thing was to adequately fortify the Blue
Mouth. Whilst the fortifications were being constructed we kept all
the warships in the gulf. But when the point of safety was reached,
we made the ships do sentry-go along the coast, whilst we trained men for
service at sea. It is our plan to take by degrees all the young men
and teach them this wise, so that at the end the whole population shall be
trained for sea as well as for land. And as we are teaching them the
airship service, too, they will be at home in all the elements—except
fire, of course, though if that should become a necessity, we shall tackle
it too!
We started the Great Tunnel at the farthest inland point of the Blue
Mouth, and ran it due east at an angle of 45 degrees, so that, when
complete, it would go right through the first line of hills, coming out on
the plateau Plazac. The plateau is not very wide—half a mile at
most—and the second tunnel begins on the eastern side of it.
This new tunnel is at a smaller angle, as it has to pierce the second
hill—a mountain this time. When it comes out on the east side
of that, it will tap the real productive belt. Here it is that our
hardwood-trees are finest, and where the greatest mineral deposits are
found. This plateau is of enormous length, and runs north arid south
round the great bulk of the central mountain, so that in time, when we put
up a circular railway, we can bring, at a merely nominal cost, all sorts of
material up or down. It is on this level that we have built the great
factories for war material. We are tunnelling into the mountains,
where are the great deposits of coal. We run the trucks in and out on
the level, and can get perfect ventilation with little cost or
labour. Already we are mining all the coal which we consume within
our own confines, and we can, if we wish, within a year export
largely. The great slopes of these tunnels give us the necessary aid
of specific gravity, and as we carry an endless water-supply in great tubes
that way also, we can do whatever we wish by hydraulic power. As one
by one the European and Asiatic nations began to reduce their war
preparations, we took over their disbanded workmen though our agents, so
that already we have a productive staff of skilled workmen larger than
anywhere else in the world. I think myself that we were fortunate in
being able to get ahead so fast with our preparations for war manufacture,
for if some of the “Great Powers,” as they call themselves,
knew the measure of our present production, they would immediately try to
take active measures against us. In such case we should have to fight
them, which would delay us. But if we can have another year
untroubled, we shall, so far as war material is concerned, be able to defy
any nation in the world. And if the time may only come peacefully
till we have our buildings and machinery complete, we can prepare
war-stores and implements for the whole Balkan nations. And
then—But that is a dream. We shall know in good time.
In the meantime all goes well. The cannon foundries are built and
active. We are already beginning to turn out finished work. Of
course, our first guns are not very large, but they are good. The big
guns, and especially siege-guns, will come later. And when the great
extensions are complete, and the boring and wire-winding machines are in
working order, we can go merrily on. I suppose that by that time the
whole of the upper plateau will be like a manufacturing town—at any
rate, we have plenty of raw material to hand. The haematite mines
seem to be inexhaustible, and as the raising of the ore is cheap and easy
by means of our extraordinary water-power, and as coal comes down to the
plateau by its own gravity on the cable-line, we have natural advantages
which exist hardly anywhere else in the world—certainly not all
together, as here. That bird’s eye view of the Blue Mouth which
we had from the aeroplane when Teuta saw that vision of the future has not
been in vain. The aeroplane works are having a splendid output.
The aeroplane is a large and visible product; there is no mistaking when it
is there! We have already a large and respectable aerial fleet.
The factories for explosives are, of course, far away in bare valleys,
where accidental effects are minimized. So, too, are the radium
works, wherein unknown dangers may lurk. The turbines in the tunnel
give us all the power we want at present, and, later on, when the new
tunnel, which we call the “water tunnel,” which is already
begun, is complete, the available power will be immense. All these
works are bringing up our shipping, and we are in great hopes for the
future.
So much for our material prosperity. But with it comes a larger
life and greater hopes. The stress of organizing and founding these
great works is practically over. As they are not only
self-supporting, but largely productive, all anxiety in the way of national
expenditure is minimized. And, more than all, I am able to give my
unhampered attention to those matters of even more than national importance
on which the ultimate development, if not the immediate strength, of our
country must depend.
I am well into the subject of a great Balkan Federation. This, it
turns out, has for long been the dream of Teuta’s life, as also that
of the present Archimandrite of Plazac, her father, who, since I last
touched this journal, having taken on himself a Holy Life, was, by will of
the Church, the Monks, and the People, appointed to that great office on
the retirement of Petrof Vlastimir.
Such a Federation had long been in the air. For myself, I had seen
its inevitableness from the first. The modern aggressions of the Dual
Nation, interpreted by her past history with regard to Italy, pointed
towards the necessity of such a protective measure. And now, when
Servia and Bulgaria were used as blinds to cover her real movements to
incorporate with herself as established the provinces, once Turkish, which
had been entrusted to her temporary protection by the Treaty of Berlin;
when it would seem that Montenegro was to be deprived for all time of the
hope of regaining the Bocche di Cattaro, which she had a century ago won,
and held at the point of the sword, until a Great Power had, under a wrong
conviction, handed it over to her neighbouring Goliath; when the Sandjack
of Novi-Bazar was threatened with the fate which seemed to have already
overtaken Bosnia and Herzegovina; when gallant little Montenegro was
already shut out from the sea by the octopus-like grip of Dalmatia
crouching along her western shore; when Turkey was dwindling down to almost
ineptitude; when Greece was almost a byword, and when Albania as a
nation—though still nominally subject—was of such unimpaired
virility that there were great possibilities of her future, it was
imperative that something must happen if the Balkan race was not to be
devoured piecemeal by her northern neighbours. To the end of ultimate
protection I found most of them willing to make defensive alliance.
And as the true defence consists in judicious attack, I have no doubt
that an alliance so based must ultimately become one for all
purposes. Albania was the most difficult to win to the scheme, as her
own complications with her suzerain, combined with the pride and
suspiciousness of her people, made approach a matter of extreme
caution. It was only possible when I could induce her rulers to see
that, no matter how great her pride and valour, the magnitude of northern
advance, if unchecked, must ultimately overwhelm her.
I own that this map-making was nervous work, for I could not shut my
eyes to the fact that German lust of enlargement lay behind Austria’s
advance. At and before that time expansion was the dominant idea of
the three Great Powers of Central Europe. Russia went eastward,
hoping to gather to herself the rich north-eastern provinces of China, till
ultimately she should dominate the whole of Northern Europe and Asia from
the Gulf of Finland to the Yellow Sea. Germany wished to link the
North Sea to the Mediterranean by her own territory, and thus stand as a
flawless barrier across Europe from north to south.
When Nature should have terminated the headship of the Empire-Kingdom,
she, as natural heir, would creep southward through the German-speaking
provinces. Thus Austria, of course kept in ignorance of her
neighbour’s ultimate aims, had to extend towards the south. She
had been barred in her western movement by the rise of the Irredentist
party in Italy, and consequently had to withdraw behind the frontiers of
Carinthia, Carniola, and Istria.
My own dream of the new map was to make “Balka”—the
Balkan Federation—take in ultimately all south of a line drawn from
the Isle of Serpents to Aquileia. There would—must—be
difficulties in the carrying out of such a scheme. Of course, it
involved Austria giving up Dalmatia, Istria, and Sclavonia, as well as a
part of Croatia and the Hungarian Banat. On the contrary, she might
look for centuries of peace in the south. But it would make for peace
so strongly that each of the States impinging on it would find it worth
while to make a considerable sacrifice to have it effected. To its
own integers it would offer a lasting settlement of interests which at
present conflicted, and a share in a new world-power. Each of these
integers would be absolutely self-governing and independent, being only
united for purposes of mutual good. I did not despair that even
Turkey and Greece, recognizing that benefit and safety would ensue without
the destruction or even minimizing of individuality, would, sooner or
later, come into the Federation. The matter is already so far
advanced that within a month the various rulers of the States involved are
to have a secret and informal meeting. Doubtless some larger plan and
further action will be then evolved. It will be an anxious time for
all in this zone—and outside it—till this matter is all
settled. In any case, the manufacture of war material will go on
until it is settled, one way or another.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
March 6, 1908.
I breathe more freely. The meeting has taken place here at
Vissarion. Nominal cause of meeting: a hunting-party in the Blue
Mountains. Not any formal affair. Not a Chancellor or Secretary
of State or Diplomatist of any sort present. All headquarters.
It was, after all, a real hunting-party. Good sportsmen, plenty of
game, lots of beaters, everything organized properly, and an effective
tally of results. I think we all enjoyed ourselves in the matter of
sport; and as the political result was absolute unanimity of purpose and
intention, there could be no possible cause of complaint.
So it is all decided. Everything is pacific. There is not a
suggestion even of war, revolt, or conflicting purpose of any kind.
We all go on exactly as we are doing for another year, pursuing our own
individual objects, just as at present. But we are all to see that in
our own households order prevails. All that is supposed to be
effective is to be kept in good working order, and whatever is, at present,
not adequate to possibilities is to be made so. This is all simply
protective and defensive. We understand each other. But if any
hulking stranger should undertake to interfere in our domestic concerns, we
shall all unite on the instant to keep things as we wish them to
remain. We shall be ready. Alfred’s maxim of Peace shall
be once more exemplified. In the meantime the factories shall work
overtime in our own mountains, and the output shall be for the general good
of our special community—the bill to be settled afterwards
amicably. There can hardly be any difference of opinion about that,
as the others will be the consumers of our surplus products. We are
the producers, who produce for ourselves first, and then for the limited
market of those within the Ring. As we undertake to guard our own
frontiers—sea and land—and are able to do so, the goods are to
be warehoused in the Blue Mountains until required—if at
all—for participation in the markets of the world, and especially in
the European market. If all goes well and the markets are inactive,
the goods shall be duly delivered to the purchasers as arranged.
So much for the purely mercantile aspect.
THE VOIVODIN JANET MACKELPIE’S NOTES.
May 21, 1908.
As Rupert began to neglect his Journal when he was made a King, so, too,
I find in myself a tendency to leave writing to other people. But one
thing I shall not be content to leave to others—little Rupert.
The baby of Rupert and Teuta is much too precious a thing to be spoken of
except with love, quite independent of the fact that he will be, in natural
course, a King! So I have promised Teuta that whatever shall be put
into this record of the first King of the Sent Leger Dynasty relating to
His Royal Highness the Crown Prince shall only appear in either her hand or
my own. And she has deputed the matter to me.
Our dear little Prince arrived punctually and in perfect
condition. The angels that carried him evidently took the greatest
care of him, and before they left him they gave him dower of all their
best. He is a dear! Like both his father and his mother, and
that says everything. My own private opinion is that he is a born
King! He does not know what fear is, and he thinks more of everyone
else than he does of his dear little self. And if those things do not
show a truly royal nature, I do not know what does . . .
Teuta has read this. She held up a warning finger, and said:
“Aunt Janet dear, that is all true. He is a dear, and a
King, and an angel! But we mustn’t have too much about him just
yet. This book is to be about Rupert. So our little man can
only be what we shall call a corollary.” And so it is.
I should mention here that the book is Teuta’s idea. Before
little Rupert came she controlled herself wonderfully, doing only what was
thought best for her under the circumstances. As I could see that it
would be a help for her to have some quiet occupation which would interest
her without tiring her, I looked up (with his permission, of course) all
Rupert’s old letters and diaries, and journals and reports—all
that I had kept for him during his absences on his adventures. At
first I was a little afraid they might harm her, for at times she got so
excited over some things that I had to caution her. Here again came
in her wonderful self-control. I think the most soothing argument I
used with her was to point out that the dear boy had come through all the
dangers safely, and was actually with us, stronger and nobler than
ever.
After we had read over together the whole matter several times—for
it was practically new to me too, and I got nearly as excited as she was,
though I have known him so much longer—we came to the conclusion that
this particular volume would have to be of selected matter. There is
enough of Rupert’s work to make a lot of volumes and we have an
ambitious literary project of some day publishing an edition de luxe
of his whole collected works. It will be a rare showing amongst the
works of Kings. But this is to be all about himself, so that in the
future it may serve as a sort of backbone of his personal history.
By-and-by we came to a part when we had to ask him questions; and he was
so interested in Teuta’s work—he is really bound up body and
soul in his beautiful wife, and no wonder—that we had to take him
into full confidence. He promised he would help us all he could by
giving us the use of his later journals, and such letters and papers as he
had kept privately. He said he would make one condition—I use
his own words: “As you two dear women are to be my editors, you must
promise to put in everything exactly as I wrote it. It will not do to
have any fake about this. I do not wish anything foolish or
egotistical toned down out of affection for me. It was all written in
sincerity, and if I had faults, they must not be hidden. If it is to
be history, it must be true history, even if it gives you and me or any of
us away.”
So we promised.
He also said that, as Sir Edward Bingham Trent, Bart.—as he is
now—was sure to have some matter which we should like, he would write
and ask him to send such to us. He also said that Mr. Ernest Roger
Halbard Melton, of Humcroft, Salop (he always gives this name and address
in full, which is his way of showing contempt), would be sure to have some
relevant matter, and that he would have him written to on the
subject. This he did. The Chancellor wrote him in his most
grandiloquent style. Mr. E. R. H. Melton, of H., S., replied by
return post. His letter is a document which speaks for itself:
Humcroft, Salop,
May 30, 1908.
My dear cousin King Rupert,
I am honoured by the request made on your behalf by the Lord High
Chancellor of your kingdom that I should make a literary contribution to
the volume which my cousin, Queen Teuta, is, with the help of your former
governess, Miss MacKelpie, compiling. I am willing to do so, as you
naturally wish to have in that work some contemporary record made by the
Head of the House of Melton, with which you are connected, though only on
the distaff side. It is a natural ambition enough, even on the part
of a barbarian—or perhaps semi-barbarian—King, and far be it
from me, as Head of the House, to deny you such a coveted privilege.
Perhaps you may not know that I am now Head of the House; my father died
three days ago. I offered my mother the use of the Dower
House—to the incumbency of which, indeed, she is entitled by her
marriage settlement. But she preferred to go to live at her seat,
Carfax, in Kent. She went this morning after the funeral. In
letting you have the use of my manuscript I make only one stipulation, but
that I expect to be rigidly adhered to. It is that all that I have
written be put in the book in extenso. I do not wish any
record of mine to be garbled to suit other ends than those ostensible, or
whatever may be to the honour of myself or my House to be burked. I
dare say you have noticed, my dear Rupert, that the compilers of family
histories often, through jealousy, alter matter that they are allowed to
use so as to suit their own purpose or minister to their own vanity.
I think it right to tell you that I have had a certified copy made by
Petter and Galpin, the law stationers, so that I shall be able to verify
whether my stipulation has been honourably observed. I am having the
book, which is naturally valuable, carefully packed, and shall have it
forwarded to Sir Edward Bingham Trent, Baronet (which he now
is—Heaven save the mark!), the Attorney. Please see that he
returns it to me, and in proper order. He is not to publish for
himself anything in it about him. A man of that class is apt to
advertise the fact of anyone of distinction taking any notice of him.
I would bring out the MS. to you myself, and stay for a while with you for
some sport, only your lot—subjects I suppose you call them!—are
such bounders that a gentleman’s life is hardly safe amongst
them. I never met anyone who had so poor an appreciation of a joke as
they have. By the way, how is Teuta? She is one of them.
I heard all about the hatching business. I hope the kid is all
right. This is only a word in your ear, so don’t get cocky, old
son. I am open to a godfathership. Think of that, Hedda!
Of course, if the other godfather and the godmother are up to the mark; I
don’t want to have to boost up the whole lot! Savvy? Kiss
Teuta and the kid for me. I must have the boy over here for a bit
later on—when he is presentable, and has learned not to be a
nuisance. It will be good for him to see something of a real
first-class English country house like Humcroft. To a person only
accustomed to rough ways and meagre living its luxury will make a memory
which will serve in time as an example to be aimed at. I shall write
again soon. Don’t hesitate to ask any favour which I may be
able to confer on you. So long!
Your affectionate cousin,
Ernest Roger Halbard Melton.
Extract from Letter from E. Bingham Trent to Queen Teuta of the Blue
Mountains.
. . . So I thought the best way to serve that appalling cad would be to
take him at his word, and put in his literary contribution in full. I
have had made and attested a copy of his “Record,” as he calls
it, so as to save you trouble. But I send the book itself, because I
am afraid that unless you see his words in his own writing, you will not
believe that he or anyone else ever penned seriously a document so
incriminating. I am sure he must have forgotten what he had written,
for even such a dull dog as he is could never have made public such a thing
knowingly. . . Such a nature has its revenges on itself. In this case
the officers of revenge are his ipsissima verba.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
February 1, 1909.
All is now well in train. When the Czar of Russia, on being asked
by the Sclavs (as was meet) to be the referee in the “Balkan
Settlement,” declined on the ground that he was himself by inference
an interested party, it was unanimously agreed by the Balkan rulers that
the Western King should be asked to arbitrate, as all concerned had perfect
confidence in his wisdom, as well as his justice. To their wish he
graciously assented. The matter has now been for more than six months
in his hands, and he has taken endless trouble to obtain full
information. He has now informed us through his Chancellor that his
decision is almost ready, and will be communicated as soon as possible.
We have another hunting-party at Vissarion next week. Teuta is
looking forward to it with extraordinary interest. She hopes then to
present to our brothers of the Balkans our little son, and she is eager to
know if they endorse her mother-approval of him.
RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.
April 15, 1909.
The arbitrator’s decision has been communicated to us through the
Chancellor of the Western King, who brought it to us himself as a special
act of friendliness. It met with the enthusiastic approval of
all. The Premier remained with us during the progress of the
hunting-party, which was one of the most joyous occasions ever known.
We are all of good heart, for the future of the Balkan races is now
assured. The strife—internal and external—of a thousand
years has ceased, and we look with hope for a long and happy time.
The Chancellor brought messages of grace and courtliness and friendliness
to all. And when I, as spokesman of the party, asked him if we might
convey a request of His Majesty that he would honour us by attending the
ceremony of making known formally the Balkan Settlement, he answered that
the King had authorized him to say that he would, if such were wished by
us, gladly come; and that if he should come, he would attend with a fleet
as an escort. The Chancellor also told me from himself that it might
be possible to have other nationalities represented on such a great
occasion by Ambassadors and even fleets, though the monarchs themselves
might not be able to attend. He hinted that it might be well if I put
the matter in train. (He evidently took it for granted that, though I
was only one of several, the matter rested with me—possibly he chose
me as the one to whom to make the confidence, as I was born a
stranger.) As we talked it over, he grew more enthusiastic, and
finally said that, as the King was taking the lead, doubtless all the
nations of the earth friendly to him would like to take a part in the
ceremony. So it is likely to turn out practically an international
ceremony of a unique kind. Teuta will love it, and we shall all do
what we can.
JANET MACKELPIE’S NOTES.
June 1, 1909.
Our dear Teuta is full of the forthcoming celebration of the Balkan
Federation, which is to take place this day month, although I must say, for
myself, that the ceremony is attaining to such dimensions that I am
beginning to have a sort of vague fear of some kind. It almost seems
uncanny. Rupert is working unceasingly—has been for some
time. For weeks past he seems to have been out day and night on his
aeroplane, going through and round over the country arranging matters, and
seeing for himself that what has been arranged is being done. Uncle
Colin is always about, too, and so is Admiral Rooke. But now Teuta is
beginning to go with Rupert. That girl is simply fearless—just
like Rupert. And they both seem anxious that little Rupert shall be
the same. Indeed, he is the same. A few mornings ago Rupert and
Teuta were about to start just after dawn from the top of the Castle.
Little Rupert was there—he is always awake early and as bright as a
bee. I was holding him in my arms, and when his mother leant over to
kiss him good-bye, he held out his arms to her in a way that said as
plainly as if he had spoken, “Take me with you.”
She looked appealingly at Rupert, who nodded, and said: “All
right. Take him, darling. He will have to learn some day, and
the sooner the better.” The baby, looking eagerly from one to
the other with the same questioning in his eyes as there is sometimes in
the eyes of a kitten or a puppy—but, of course, with an eager soul
behind it—saw that he was going, and almost leaped into his
mother’s arms. I think she had expected him to come, for she
took a little leather dress from Margareta, his nurse, and, flushing with
pride, began to wrap him in it. When Teuta, holding him in her arms,
stepped on the aeroplane, and took her place in the centre behind Rupert,
the young men of the Crown Prince’s Guard raised a cheer, amid which
Rupert pulled the levers, and they glided off into the dawn.
The Crown Prince’s Guard was established by the mountaineers
themselves the day of his birth. Ten of the biggest and most powerful
and cleverest young men of the nation were chosen, and were sworn in with a
very impressive ceremony to guard the young Prince. They were to so
arrange and order themselves and matters generally that two at least of
them should always have him, or the place in which he was, within their
sight. They all vowed that the last of their lives should go before
harm came to him. Of course, Teuta understood, and so did
Rupert. And these young men are the persons most privileged in the
whole Castle. They are dear boys, every one of them, and we are all
fond of them and respect them. They simply idolize the baby.
Ever since that morning little Rupert has, unless it is at a time
appointed for his sleeping, gone in his mother’s arms. I think
in any other place there would be some State remonstrance at the whole
royal family being at once and together in a dangerous position, but in the
Blue Mountains danger and fear are not thought of—indeed, they can
hardly be in their terminology. And I really think the child enjoys
it even more than his parents. He is just like a little bird that has
found the use of his wings. Bless him!
I find that even I have to study Court ritual a little. So many
nationalities are to be represented at the ceremony of the “Balkan
Settlement,” and so many Kings and Princes and notabilities of all
kinds are coming, that we must all take care not to make any
mistakes. The Press alone would drive anyone silly. Rupert and
Teuta come and sit with me sometimes in the evening when we are all too
tired to work, and they rest themselves by talking matters over.
Rupert says that there will be over five hundred reporters, and that the
applications for permission are coming in so fast that there may be a
thousand when the day comes. Last night he stopped in the middle of
speaking of it, and said:
“I have an inspiration! Fancy a thousand
journalists,—each wanting to get ahead of the rest, and all willing
to invoke the Powers of Evil for exclusive information! The only man
to look after this department is Rooke. He knows how to deal with
men, and as we have already a large staff to look after the journalistic
guests, he can be at the head, and appoint his own deputies to act for
him. Somewhere and sometime the keeping the peace will be a matter of
nerve and resolution, and Rooke is the man for the job.”
We were all concerned about one thing, naturally important in the eyes
of a woman: What robes was Teuta to wear? In the old days, when there
were Kings and Queens, they doubtless wore something gorgeous or
impressive; but whatever it was that they wore has gone to dust centuries
ago, and there were no illustrated papers in those primitive days.
Teuta was talking to me eagerly, with her dear beautiful brows all
wrinkled, when Rupert who was reading a bulky document of some kind, looked
up and said:
“Of course, darling, you will wear your Shroud?”
“Capital!” she said, clapping her hands like a joyous
child. “The very thing, and our people will like it.”
I own that for a moment I was dismayed. It was a horrible test of
a woman’s love and devotion. At a time when she was
entertaining Kings and notabilities in her own house—and be sure they
would all be decked in their finery—to have to appear in such a
garment! A plain thing with nothing even pretty, let alone gorgeous,
about it! I expressed my views to Rupert, for I feared that Teuta
might be disappointed, though she might not care to say so; but before he
could say a word Teuta answered:
“Oh, thank you so much, dear! I should love that above
everything, but I did not like to suggest it, lest you should think me
arrogant or presuming; for, indeed, Rupert, I am very proud of it, and of
the way our people look on it.”
“Why not?” said Rupert, in his direct way. “It
is a thing for us all to be proud of; the nation has already adopted it as
a national emblem—our emblem of courage and devotion and patriotism,
which will always, I hope, be treasured beyond price by the men and women
of our Dynasty, the Nation, that is—of the Nation that is to
be.”
Later on in the evening we had a strange endorsement of the national
will. A “People’s Deputation” of mountaineers,
without any official notice or introduction, arrived at the Castle late in
the evening in the manner established by Rupert’s “Proclamation
of Freedom,” wherein all citizens were entitled to send a deputation
to the King, at will and in private, on any subject of State
importance. This deputation was composed of seventeen men, one
selected from each political section, so that the body as a whole
represented the entire nation. They were of all sorts of social rank
and all degrees of fortune, but they were mainly “of the
people.” They spoke hesitatingly—possibly because Teuta,
or even because I, was present—but with a manifest earnestness.
They made but one request—that the Queen should, on the great
occasion of the Balkan Federation, wear as robes of State the Shroud that
they loved to see her in. The spokesman, addressing the Queen, said
in tones of rugged eloquence:
“This is a matter, Your Majesty, that the women naturally have a
say in, so we have, of course, consulted them. They have discussed
the matter by themselves, and then with us, and they are agreed without a
flaw that it will be good for the Nation and for Womankind that you do this
thing. You have shown to them, and to the world at large, what women
should do, what they can do, and they want to make, in memory of your great
act, the Shroud a garment of pride and honour for women who have deserved
well of their country. In the future it can be a garment to be worn
only by privileged women who have earned the right. But they hope,
and we hope with them, that on this occasion of our Nation taking the lead
before the eyes of the world, all our women may wear it on that day as a
means of showing overtly their willingness to do their duty, even to the
death. And so”—here he turned to the
King—“Rupert, we trust that Her Majesty Queen Teuta will
understand that in doing as the women of the Blue Mountains wish, she will
bind afresh to the Queen the loyal devotion which she won from them as
Voivodin. Henceforth and for all time the Shroud shall be a dress of
honour in our Land.”
Teuta looked all ablaze with love and pride and devotion. Stars in
her eyes shone like white fire as she assured them of the granting of their
request. She finished her little speech:
“I feared that if I carried out my own wish, it might look
arrogant, but Rupert has expressed the same wish, and now I feel that I am
free to wear that dress which brought me to you and to
Rupert”—here she beamed on him, and took his
hand—“fortified as I am by your wishes and the command of my
lord the King.”
Rupert took her in his arms and kissed her fondly before them all,
saying:
“Tell your wives, my brothers, and the rest of the Blue Mountain
women, that that is the answer of the husband who loves and honours his
wife. All the world shall see at the ceremony of the Federation of
Balka that we men love and honour the women who are loyal and can die for
duty. And, men of the Blue Mountains, some day before long we shall
organize that great idea, and make it a permanent thing—that the
Order of the Shroud is the highest guerdon that a noble-hearted woman can
wear.”
Teuta disappeared for a few moments, and came back with the Crown Prince
in her arms. Everyone present asked to be allowed to kiss him, which
they did kneeling.
THE FEDERATION BALKA.
By the Correspondents of “Free America.”
The Editors of Free America have thought it well to put in
consecutive order the reports and descriptions of their Special
Correspondents, of whom there were present no less than eight. Not a
word they wrote is omitted, but the various parts of their reports are
placed in different order, so that, whilst nothing which any of them
recorded is left out, the reader may be able to follow the proceedings from
the various points of view of the writers who had the most favourable
opportunity of moment. In so large an assemblage of
journalists—there were present over a thousand—they could not
all be present in one place; so our men, in consultation amongst
themselves, arranged to scatter, so as to cover the whole proceeding from
the various “coigns of vantage,” using their skill and
experience in selecting these points. One was situated on the summit
of the steel-clad tower in the entrance to the Blue Mouth; another on the
“Press-boat,” which was moored alongside King Rupert’s
armoured yacht, The Lady, whereon were gathered the various Kings
and rulers of the Balkan States, all of whom were in the Federation;
another was in a swift torpedo-boat, with a roving commission to cruise
round the harbour as desired; another took his place on the top of the
great mountain which overlooks Plazac, and so had a bird’s-eye view
of the whole scene of operations; two others were on the forts to right and
left of the Blue Mouth; another was posted at the entrance to the Great
Tunnel which runs from the water level right up through the mountains to
the plateau, where the mines and factories are situate; another had the
privilege of a place on an aeroplane, which went everywhere and saw
everything. This aeroplane was driven by an old Special Correspondent
of Free America, who had been a chum of our Special in the Japanese
and Russian War, and who has taken service on the Blue Mountain Official
Gazette.
Plazac,
June 30, 1909.
Two days before the time appointed for the ceremony the guests of the
Land of the Blue Mountains began to arrive. The earlier comers were
mostly the journalists who had come from almost over the whole inhabited
world. King Rupert, who does things well, had made a camp for their
exclusive use. There was a separate tent for each—of course, a
small one, as there were over a thousand journalists—but there were
big tents for general use scattered about—refectories, reading and
writing rooms, a library, idle rooms for rest, etc. In the rooms for
reading and writing, which were the work-rooms for general use, were
newspapers, the latest attainable from all over the world, Blue-Books,
guides, directories, and all such aids to work as forethought could
arrange. There was for this special service a body of some hundreds
of capable servants in special dress and bearing identification
numbers—in fact, King Rupert “did us fine,” to use a
slang phrase of pregnant meaning.
There were other camps for special service, all of them well arranged,
and with plenty of facility for transport. Each of the Federating
Monarchs had a camp of his own, in which he had erected a magnificent
pavilion. For the Western King, who had acted as Arbitrator in the
matter of the Federation, a veritable palace had been built by King
Rupert—a sort of Aladdin’s palace it must have been, for only a
few weeks ago the place it occupied was, I was told, only primeval
wilderness. King Rupert and his Queen, Teuta, had a pavilion like the
rest of the Federators of Balka, but infinitely more modest, both in size
and adornments.
Everywhere were guards of the Blue Mountains, armed only with the
“handjar,” which is the national weapon. They wore the
national dress, but so arranged in colour and accoutrement that the general
air of uniformity took the place of a rigid uniform. There must have
been at least seventy or eighty thousand of them.
The first day was one of investigation of details by the visitors.
During the second day the retinues of the great Federators came. Some
of these retinues were vast. For instance, the Soldan (though only
just become a Federator) sent of one kind or another more than a thousand
men. A brave show they made, for they are fine men, and drilled to
perfection. As they swaggered along, singly or in mass, with their
gay jackets and baggy trousers, their helmets surmounted by the golden
crescent, they looked a foe not to be despised. Landreck Martin, the
Nestor of journalists, said to me, as we stood together looking at
them:
“To-day we witness a new departure in Blue Mountain history.
This is the first occasion for a thousand years that so large a Turkish
body has entered the Blue Mountains with a reasonable prospect of ever
getting out again.”
July 1, 1909.
To-day, the day appointed for the ceremony, was auspiciously fine, even
for the Blue Mountains, where at this time of year the weather is nearly
always fine. They are early folk in the Blue Mountains, but to-day
things began to hum before daybreak. There were bugle-calls all over
the place—everything here is arranged by calls of musical
instruments—trumpets, or bugles, or drums (if, indeed, the drum can
be called a musical instrument)—or by lights, if it be after
dark. We journalists were all ready; coffee and bread-and-butter had
been thoughtfully served early in our sleeping-tents, and an elaborate
breakfast was going on all the time in the refectory pavilions. We
had a preliminary look round, and then there was a sort of general pause
for breakfast. We took advantage of it, and attacked the
sumptuous—indeed, memorable—meal which was served for us.
The ceremony was to commence at noon, but at ten o’clock the whole
place was astir—not merely beginning to move, but actually moving;
everybody taking their places for the great ceremony. As noon drew
near, the excitement was intense and prolonged. One by one the
various signatories to the Federation began to assemble. They all
came by sea; such of them as had sea-boards of their own having their
fleets around them. Such as had no fleets of their own were attended
by at least one of the Blue Mountain ironclads. And I am bound to say
that I never in my life saw more dangerous craft than these little warships
of King Rupert of the Blue Mountains. As they entered the Blue Mouth
each ship took her appointed station, those which carried the signatories
being close together in an isolated group in a little bay almost surrounded
by high cliffs in the farthest recesses of the mighty harbour. King
Rupert’s armoured yacht all the time lay close inshore, hard by the
mouth of the Great Tunnel which runs straight into the mountain from a wide
plateau, partly natural rock, partly built up with mighty blocks of
stone. Here it is, I am told, that the inland products are brought
down to the modern town of Plazac. Just as the clocks were chiming
the half-hour before noon this yacht glided out into the expanse of the
“Mouth.” Behind her came twelve great barges, royally
decked, and draped each in the colour of the signatory nation. On
each of these the ruler entered with his guard, and was carried to
Rupert’s yacht, he going on the bridge, whilst his suite remained on
the lower deck. In the meantime whole fleets had been appearing on
the southern horizon; the nations were sending their maritime quota to the
christening of “Balka”! In such wonderful order as can
only be seen with squadrons of fighting ships, the mighty throng swept into
the Blue Mouth, and took up their stations in groups. The only
armament of a Great Power now missing was that of the Western King.
But there was time. Indeed, as the crowd everywhere began to look at
their watches a long line of ships began to spread up northward from the
Italian coast. They came at great speed—nearly twenty
knots. It was a really wonderful sight—fifty of the finest
ships in the world; the very latest expression of naval giants, each
seemingly typical of its class—Dreadnoughts, cruisers,
destroyers. They came in a wedge, with the King’s yacht flying
the Royal Standard the apex. Every ship of the squadron bore a red
ensign long enough to float from the masthead to the water. From the
armoured tower in the waterway one could see the myriad of
faces—white stars on both land and sea—for the great harbour
was now alive with ships and each and all of them alive with men.
Suddenly, without any direct cause, the white masses became
eclipsed—everyone had turned round, and was looking the other
way. I looked across the bay and up the mountain behind—a
mighty mountain, whose slopes run up to the very sky, ridge after ridge
seeming like itself a mountain. Far away on the very top the standard
of the Blue Mountains was run up on a mighty Flagstaff which seemed like a
shaft of light. It was two hundred feet high, and painted white, and
as at the distance the steel stays were invisible, it towered up in lonely
grandeur. At its foot was a dark mass grouped behind a white space,
which I could not make out till I used my field-glasses.
Then I knew it was King Rupert and the Queen in the midst of a group of
mountaineers. They were on the aero station behind the platform of
the aero, which seemed to shine—shine, not glitter—as though it
were overlaid with plates of gold.
Again the faces looked west. The Western Squadron was drawing near
to the entrance of the Blue Mouth. On the bridge of the yacht stood
the Western King in uniform of an Admiral, and by him his Queen in a dress
of royal purple, splendid with gold. Another glance at the
mountain-top showed that it had seemed to become alive. A whole park
of artillery seemed to have suddenly sprung to life, round each its crew
ready for action. Amongst the group at the foot of the Flagstaff we
could distinguish King Rupert; his vast height and bulk stood out from and
above all round him. Close to him was a patch of white, which we
understood to be Queen Teuta, whom the Blue Mountaineers simply adore.
By this time the armoured yacht, bearing all the signatories to
“Balka” (excepting King Rupert), had moved out towards the
entrance, and lay still and silent, waiting the coming of the Royal
Arbitrator, whose whole squadron simultaneously slowed down, and hardly
drifted in the seething water of their backing engines.
When the flag which was in the yacht’s prow was almost opposite
the armoured fort, the Western King held up a roll of vellum handed to him
by one of his officers. We onlookers held our breath, for in an
instant was such a scene as we can never hope to see again.
At the raising of the Western King’s hand, a gun was fired away on
the top of the mountain where rose the mighty Flagstaff with the standard
of the Blue Mountains. Then came the thunder of salute from the guns,
bright flashes and reports, which echoed down the hillsides in never-ending
sequence. At the first gun, by some trick of signalling, the flag of
the Federated “Balka” floated out from the top of the
Flagstaff, which had been mysteriously raised, and flew above that of the
Blue Mountains.
At the same moment the figures of Rupert and Teuta sank; they were
taking their places on the aeroplane. An instant after, like a great
golden bird, it seemed to shoot out into the air, and then, dipping its
head, dropped downward at an obtuse angle. We could see the King and
Queen from time waist upwards—the King in Blue Mountain dress of
green; the Queen, wrapped in her white Shroud, holding her baby on her
breast. When far out from the mountain-top and over the Blue Mouth,
the wings and tail of the great bird-like machine went up, and the aero
dropped like a stone, till it was only some few hundred feet over the
water. Then the wings and tail went down, but with diminishing
speed. Below the expanse of the plane the King and Queen were now
seen seated together on the tiny steering platform, which seemed to have
been lowered; she sat behind her husband, after the manner of matrons of
the Blue Mountains. That coming of that aeroplane was the most
striking episode of all this wonderful day.
After floating for a few seconds, the engines began to work, whilst the
planes moved back to their normal with beautiful simultaneity. There
was a golden aero finding its safety in gliding movement. At the same
time the steering platform was rising, so that once more the occupants were
not far below, but above the plane. They were now only about a
hundred feet above the water, moving from the far end of the Blue Mouth
towards the entrance in the open space between the two lines of the
fighting ships of the various nationalities, all of which had by now their
yards manned—a manoeuvre which had begun at the firing of the first
gun on the mountain-top. As the aero passed along, all the seamen
began to cheer—a cheering which they kept up till the King and Queen
had come so close to the Western King’s vessel that the two Kings and
Queens could greet each other. The wind was now beginning to blow
westward from the mountain-top, and it took the sounds towards the armoured
fort, so that at moments we could distinguish the cheers of the various
nationalities, amongst which, more keen than the others, came the soft
“Ban Zai!” of the Japanese.
King Rupert, holding his steering levers, sat like a man of
marble. Behind him his beautiful wife, clad in her Shroud, and
holding in her arms the young Crown Prince, seemed like a veritable
statue.
The aero, guided by Rupert’s unerring hand, lit softly on the
after-deck of the Western King’s yacht; and King Rupert, stepping on
deck, lifted from her seat Queen Teuta with her baby in her arms. It
was only when the Blue Mountain King stood amongst other men that one could
realize his enormous stature. He stood literally head and shoulders
over every other man present.
Whilst the aeroplane was giving up its burden, the Western King and his
Queen were descending from the bridge. The host and hostess, hand in
hand—after their usual fashion, as it seems—hurried forward to
greet their guests. The meeting was touching in its simplicity.
The two monarchs shook hands, and their consorts, representatives of the
foremost types of national beauty of the North and South, instinctively
drew close and kissed each other. Then the hostess Queen, moving
towards the Western King, kneeled before him with the gracious obeisance of
a Blue Mountain hostess, and kissed his hand.
Her words of greeting were:
“You are welcome, sire, to the Blue Mountains. We are
grateful to you for all you have done for Balka, and to you and Her Majesty
for giving us the honour of your presence.”
The King seemed moved. Accustomed as he was to the ritual of great
occasions, the warmth and sincerity, together with the gracious humility of
this old Eastern custom, touched him, monarch though he was of a great land
and many races in the Far East. Impulsively he broke through Court
ritual, and did a thing which, I have since been told, won for him for ever
a holy place in the warm hearts of the Blue Mountaineers. Sinking on
his knee before the beautiful shroud-clad Queen, he raised her hand and
kissed it. The act was seen by all in and around the Blue Mouth, and
a mighty cheering rose, which seemed to rise and swell as it ran far and
wide up the hillsides, till it faded away on the far-off mountain-top,
where rose majestically the mighty Flagstaff bearing the standard of the
Balkan Federation.
For myself, I can never forget that wonderful scene of a nation’s
enthusiasm, and the core of it is engraven on my memory. That
spotless deck, typical of all that is perfect in naval use; the King and
Queen of the greatest nation of the earth [3] received by the newest King and
Queen—a King and Queen who won empire for themselves, so that the
former subject of another King received him as a brother-monarch on a
history-making occasion, when a new world-power was, under his tutelage,
springing into existence. The fair Northern Queen in the arms of the
dark Southern Queen with the starry eyes. The simple splendour of
Northern dress arrayed against that of almost peasant plainness of the
giant King of the South. But all were eclipsed—even the
thousand years of royal lineage of the Western King, Rupert’s natural
dower of stature, and the other Queen’s bearing of royal dignity and
sweetness—by the elemental simplicity of Teuta’s Shroud.
Not one of all that mighty throng but knew something of her wonderful
story; and not one but felt glad and proud that such a noble woman had won
an empire through her own bravery, even in the jaws of the grave.
The armoured yacht, with the remainder of the signatories to the Balkan
Federation, drew close, and the rulers stepped on board to greet the
Western King, the Arbitrator, Rupert leaving his task as personal host and
joining them. He took his part modestly in the rear of the group, and
made a fresh obeisance in his new capacity.
Presently another warship, The Balka, drew close. It
contained the ambassadors of Foreign Powers, and the Chancellors and high
officials of the Balkan nations. It was followed by a fleet of
warships, each one representing a Balkan Power. The great Western
fleet lay at their moorings, but with the exception of manning their yards,
took no immediate part in the proceedings.
On the deck of the new-comer the Balkan monarchs took their places, the
officials of each State grading themselves behind their monarch. The
Ambassadors formed a foremost group by themselves.
Last came the Western King, quite alone (save for the two Queens),
bearing in his hand the vellum scroll, the record of his arbitration.
This he proceeded to read, a polyglot copy of it having been already
supplied to every Monarch, Ambassador, and official present. It was a
long statement, but the occasion was so stupendous—so
intense—that the time flew by quickly. The cheering had ceased
the moment the Arbitrator opened the scroll, and a veritable silence of the
grave abounded.
When the reading was concluded Rupert raised his hand, and on the
instant came a terrific salvo of cannon-shots from not only the ships in
the port, but seemingly all up and over the hillsides away to the very
summit.
When the cheering which followed the salute had somewhat toned down,
those on board talked together, and presentations were made. Then the
barges took the whole company to the armour-clad fort in the entrance-way
to the Blue Mouth. Here, in front, had been arranged for the
occasion, platforms for the starting of aeroplanes. Behind them were
the various thrones of state for the Western King and Queen, and the
various rulers of “Balka”—as the new and completed Balkan
Federation had become—de jure as well as de
facto. Behind were seats for the rest of the company. All
was a blaze of crimson and gold. We of the Press were all expectant,
for some ceremony had manifestly been arranged, but of all details of it we
had been kept in ignorance. So far as I could tell from the faces,
those present were at best but partially informed. They were
certainly ignorant of all details, and even of the entire programme of the
day. There is a certain kind of expectation which is not concerned in
the mere execution of fore-ordered things.
The aero on which the King and Queen had come down from the mountain now
arrived on the platform in the charge of a tall young mountaineer, who
stepped from the steering-platform at once. King Rupert, having
handed his Queen (who still carried her baby) into her seat, took his
place, and pulled a lever. The aero went forward, and seemed to fall
head foremost off the fort. It was but a dip, however, such as a
skilful diver takes from a height into shallow water, for the plane made an
upward curve, and in a few seconds was skimming upwards towards the
Flagstaff. Despite the wind, it arrived there in an incredibly short
time. Immediately after his flight another aero, a big one this time,
glided to the platform. To this immediately stepped a body of ten
tall, fine-looking young men. The driver pulled his levers, and the
plane glided out on the track of the King. The Western King, who was
noticing, said to the Lord High Admiral, who had been himself in command of
the ship of war, and now stood close behind him:
“Who are those men, Admiral?”
“The Guard of the Crown Prince, Your Majesty. They are
appointed by the Nation.”
“Tell me, Admiral, have they any special duties?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” came the answer: “to die, if need
be, for the young Prince!”
“Quite right! That is fine service. But how if any of
them should die?”
“Your Majesty, if one of them should die, there are ten thousand
eager to take his place.”
“Fine, fine! It is good to have even one man eager to give
his life for duty. But ten thousand! That is what makes a
nation!”
When King Rupert reached the platform by the Flagstaff, the Royal
Standard of the Blue Mountains was hauled up under it. Rupert stood
up and raised his hand. In a second a cannon beside him was fired;
then, quick as thought, others were fired in sequence, as though by one
prolonged lightning-flash. The roar was incessant, but getting less
in detonating sound as the distance and the hills subdued it. But in
the general silence which prevailed round us we could hear the sound as
though passing in a distant circle, till finally the line which had gone
northward came back by the south, stopping at the last gun to
south’ard of the Flagstaff.
“What was that wonderful circle?” asked the King of the Lord
High Admiral.
“That, Your Majesty, is the line of the frontier of the Blue
Mountains. Rupert has ten thousand cannon in line.”
“And who fires them? I thought all the army must be
here.”
“The women, Your Majesty. They are on frontier duty to-day,
so that the men can come here.”
Just at that moment one of the Crown Prince’s Guards brought to
the side of the King’s aero something like a rubber ball on the end
of a string. The Queen held it out to the baby in her arms, who
grabbed at it. The guard drew back. Pressing that ball must
have given some signal, for on the instant a cannon, elevated to
perpendicular, was fired. A shell went straight up an enormous
distance. The shell burst, and sent out both a light so bright that
it could be seen in the daylight, and a red smoke, which might have been
seen from the heights of the Calabrian Mountains over in Italy.
As the shell burst, the King’s aero seemed once more to spring
from the platform out into mid-air, dipped as before, and glided out over
the Blue Mouth with a rapidity which, to look at, took one’s breath
away.
As it came, followed by the aero of the Crown Prince’s Guard and a
group of other aeros, the whole mountain-sides seemed to become
alive. From everywhere, right away up to the farthest visible
mountain-tops, darted aeroplanes, till a host of them were rushing with
dreadful speed in the wake of the King. The King turned to Queen
Teuta, and evidently said something, for she beckoned to the Captain of the
Crown Prince’s Guard, who was steering the plane. He swerved
away to the right, and instead of following above the open track between
the lines of warships, went high over the outer line. One of those on
board began to drop something, which, fluttering down, landed on every
occasion on the bridge of the ship high over which they then were.
The Western King said again to the Gospodar Rooke (the Lord High
Admiral):
“It must need some skill to drop a letter with such
accuracy.”
With imperturbable face the Admiral replied:
“It is easier to drop bombs, Your Majesty.”
The flight of aeroplanes was a memorable sight. It helped to make
history. Henceforth no nation with an eye for either defence or
attack can hope for success without the mastery of the air.
In the meantime—and after that time, too—God help the nation
that attacks “Balka” or any part of it, so long as Rupert and
Teuta live in the hearts of that people, and bind them into an irresistible
unity.
Footnotes:
Vladika, a high functionary in the Land of
the Blue Mountains. He is a sort of official descendant of the old
Prince-Bishops who used at one time to govern the State. In process
of time the system has changed, but the function—shorn of its
personal dominance—remains. The nation is at present governed
by the Council. The Church (which is, of course, the Eastern Church)
is represented by the Archbishop, who controls the whole spiritual
functions and organization. The connecting-link between
them—they being quite independent organizations—is the Vladika,
who is ex officio a member of the National Council. By custom
he does not vote, but is looked on as an independent adviser who is in the
confidence of both sides of national control.
Editorial
Note—We shall, in our issue of Saturday week, give a full
record of the romantic story of Queen Teuta and her Shroud, written by Mr.
Mordred Booth, and illustrated by our special artist, Mr. Neillison Browne,
who is Mr. Booth’s artistic collaborateur in the account of King
Rupert’s Coronation.
Greatest Kingdom—Editor Free
America.
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