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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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
"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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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? | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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 _maitre
d'hotel_ in a stupor of concern. The English nobleman, he said, had
found fault with everything, and used to him language to which he was
not accustomed. I quieted him, telling him that the stranger was
probably unused to foreign ways, and assuring him that Your Honour
had every faith in him. He announced himself satisfied and happy at
the assurance. But I noticed that he promptly put everything in the
hands of the headwaiter, telling him to satisfy the milor at any
cost, and then went away to some urgent business in Vienna. Clever
man! I took Mr. Melton's orders for our journey in the morning, and asked
if there was anything for which he wished. He simply said to me:
"Everything is rotten. Go to hell, and shut the door after you!" His man, who seems a very decent little fellow, though he is as vain
as a peacock, and speaks with a Cockney accent which is simply
terrible, came down the passage after me, and explained "on his own,"
as he expressed it, that his master, "Mr. Ernest," was upset by the
long journey, and that I was not to mind. I did not wish to make him
uncomfortable, so I explained that I minded nothing except what Your
Honour wished; that the steam-yacht would be ready at 7 a.m.; and
that I should be waiting in the hotel from that time on till Mr.
Melton cared to start, to bring him aboard. In the morning I waited till the man Jenkinson came and told me that
Mr. Ernest would start at ten. I asked if he would breakfast on
board; he answered that he would take his _cafe-complet_ at the
hotel, but breakfast on board. We left at ten, and took the electric pinnace out to the _Trent_,
which lay, with steam up, in the roads. Breakfast was served on
board, by his orders, and presently he came up on the bridge, where I
was in command. He brought his man Jenkinson with him. Seeing me
there, and not (I suppose) understanding that I was in command, he
unceremoniously ordered me to go on the deck. Indeed, he named a
place much lower. I made a sign of silence to the quartermaster at
the wheel, who had released the spokes, and was going, I feared, to
make some impertinent remark. Jenkinson joined me presently, and
said, as some sort of explanation of his master's discourtesy (of
which he was manifestly ashamed), if not as an amende:
"The governor is in a hell of a wax this morning." When we got in sight of Meleda, Mr. Melton sent for me and asked me
where we were to land. I told him that, unless he wished to the
contrary, we were to run to Vissarion; but that my instructions were
to land at whatever port he wished. Whereupon he told me that he
wished to stay the night at some place where he might be able to see
some "life." He was pleased to add something, which I presume he
thought jocular, about my being able to "coach" him in such matters,
as doubtless even "an old has-been like you" had still some sort of
an eye for a pretty girl. I told him as respectfully as I could that
I had no knowledge whatever on such subjects, which were possibly of
some interest to younger men, but of none to me. He said no more; so
after waiting for further orders, but without receiving any, I said:
"I suppose, sir, we shall run to Vissarion?" "Run to the devil, if you like!" was his reply, as he turned away. When we arrived in the creek at Vissarion, he seemed much
milder--less aggressive in his manner; but when he heard that you
were detained at Plazac, he got rather "fresh"--I use the American
term--again. I greatly feared there would be a serious misfortune
before we got into the Castle, for on the dock was Julia, the wife of
Michael, the Master of the Wine, who is, as you know, very beautiful. Mr. Melton seemed much taken with her; and she, being flattered by
the attention of a strange gentleman and Your Honour's kinsman, put
aside the stand-offishness of most of the Blue Mountain women. Whereupon Mr. Melton, forgetting himself, took her in his arms and
kissed her. Instantly there was a hubbub. The mountaineers present
drew their handjars, and almost on the instant sudden death appeared
to be amongst us. Happily the men waited as Michael, who had just
arrived on the quay-wall as the outrage took place, ran forward,
wheeling his handjar round his head, and manifestly intending to
decapitate Mr. Melton. On the instant--I am sorry to say it, for it
created a terribly bad effect--Mr. Melton dropped on his knees in a
state of panic. There was just this good use in it--that there was a
pause of a few seconds. During that time the little Cockney valet,
who has the heart of a man in him, literally burst his way forward,
and stood in front of his master in boxing attitude, calling out:
"'Ere, come on, the 'ole lot of ye! 'E ain't done no 'arm. He honly
kissed the gal, as any man would. If ye want to cut off somebody's
'ed, cut off mine. I ain't afride!" There was such genuine pluck in
this, and it formed so fine a contrast to the other's craven attitude
(forgive me, Your Honour; but you want the truth! ), that I was glad
he was an Englishman, too. The mountaineers recognized his spirit,
and saluted with their handjars, even Michael amongst the number. Half turning his head, the little man said in a fierce whisper:
"Buck up, guv'nor! Get up, or they'll slice ye! 'Ere's Mr. Rooke;
'e'll see ye through it." By this time the men were amenable to reason, and when I reminded
them that Mr. Melton was Your Honour's cousin, they put aside their
handjars and went about their work. I asked Mr. Melton to follow,
and led the way to the Castle. When we got close to the great entrance within the walled courtyard,
we found a large number of the servants gathered, and with them many
of the mountaineers, who have kept an organized guard all round the
Castle ever since the abducting of the Voivodin. As both Your Honour
and the Voivode were away at Plazac, the guard had for the time been
doubled. When the steward came and stood in the doorway, the
servants stood off somewhat, and the mountaineers drew back to the
farther sides and angles of the courtyard. The Voivodin had, of
course, been informed of the guest's (your cousin) coming, and came
to meet him in the old custom of the Blue Mountains. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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? | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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 precis, 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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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 a la cocotte. Scrambled eggs on toast. Stewed chicken, with paprika. Cold chicken. Devilled slices of Westphalian Cold ham. ham (boiled in wine). 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 Vendome, 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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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! | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
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:
{1} 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. {2} 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. | Stoker, Bram - The Lady of the Shroud |
Transcribed form the 1911 W. Foulsham & Co. Ltd. edition by David Price,
email [email protected]
THE LAIR OF THE WHITE WORM
To my friend Bertha Nicoll with affectionate esteem. CHAPTER I--ADAM SALTON ARRIVES
Adam Salton sauntered into the Empire Club, Sydney, and found awaiting
him a letter from his grand-uncle. He had first heard from the old
gentleman less than a year before, when Richard Salton had claimed
kinship, stating that he had been unable to write earlier, as he had
found it very difficult to trace his grand-nephew's address. Adam was
delighted and replied cordially; he had often heard his father speak of
the older branch of the family with whom his people had long lost touch. Some interesting correspondence had ensued. Adam eagerly opened the
letter which had only just arrived, and conveyed a cordial invitation to
stop with his grand-uncle at Lesser Hill, for as long a time as he could
spare. "Indeed," Richard Salton went on, "I am in hopes that you will make your
permanent home here. You see, my dear boy, you and I are all that remain
of our race, and it is but fitting that you should succeed me when the
time comes. In this year of grace, 1860, I am close on eighty years of
age, and though we have been a long-lived race, the span of life cannot
be prolonged beyond reasonable bounds. I am prepared to like you, and to
make your home with me as happy as you could wish. So do come at once on
receipt of this, and find the welcome I am waiting to give you. I send,
in case such may make matters easy for you, a banker's draft for 200
pounds. Come soon, so that we may both of us enjoy many happy days
together. If you are able to give me the pleasure of seeing you, send me
as soon as you can a letter telling me when to expect you. Then when you
arrive at Plymouth or Southampton or whatever port you are bound for,
wait on board, and I will meet you at the earliest hour possible." * * * * *
Old Mr. Salton was delighted when Adam's reply arrived and sent a groom
hot-foot to his crony, Sir Nathaniel de Salis, to inform him that his
grand-nephew was due at Southampton on the twelfth of June. Mr. Salton gave instructions to have ready a carriage early on the
important day, to start for Stafford, where he would catch the 11.40 a.m.
train. He would stay that night with his grand-nephew, either on the
ship, which would be a new experience for him, or, if his guest should
prefer it, at a hotel. In either case they would start in the early
morning for home. He had given instructions to his bailiff to send the
postillion carriage on to Southampton, to be ready for their journey
home, and to arrange for relays of his own horses to be sent on at once. He intended that his grand-nephew, who had been all his life in
Australia, should see something of rural England on the drive. He had
plenty of young horses of his own breeding and breaking, and could depend
on a journey memorable to the young man. The luggage would be sent on by
rail to Stafford, where one of his carts would meet it. Mr. Salton,
during the journey to Southampton, often wondered if his grand-nephew was
as much excited as he was at the idea of meeting so near a relation for
the first time; and it was with an effort that he controlled himself. The
endless railway lines and switches round the Southampton Docks fired his
anxiety afresh. As the train drew up on the dockside, he was getting his hand traps
together, when the carriage door was wrenched open and a young man jumped
in. "How are you, uncle? I recognised you from the photo you sent me! I
wanted to meet you as soon as I could, but everything is so strange to me
that I didn't quite know what to do. However, here I am. I am glad to
see you, sir. I have been dreaming of this happiness for thousands of
miles; now I find that the reality beats all the dreaming!" As he spoke
the old man and the young one were heartily wringing each other's hands. The meeting so auspiciously begun proceeded well. Adam, seeing that the
old man was interested in the novelty of the ship, suggested that he
should stay the night on board, and that he would himself be ready to
start at any hour and go anywhere that the other suggested. This
affectionate willingness to fall in with his own plans quite won the old
man's heart. He warmly accepted the invitation, and at once they became
not only on terms of affectionate relationship, but almost like old
friends. The heart of the old man, which had been empty for so long,
found a new delight. The young man found, on landing in the old country,
a welcome and a surrounding in full harmony with all his dreams
throughout his wanderings and solitude, and the promise of a fresh and
adventurous life. It was not long before the old man accepted him to
full relationship by calling him by his Christian name. After a long
talk on affairs of interest, they retired to the cabin, which the elder
was to share. Richard Salton put his hands affectionately on the boy's
shoulders--though Adam was in his twenty-seventh year, he was a boy, and
always would be, to his grand-uncle. "I am so glad to find you as you are, my dear boy--just such a young man
as I had always hoped for as a son, in the days when I still had such
hopes. However, that is all past. But thank God there is a new life to
begin for both of us. To you must be the larger part--but there is still
time for some of it to be shared in common. I have waited till we should
have seen each other to enter upon the subject; for I thought it better
not to tie up your young life to my old one till we should have
sufficient personal knowledge to justify such a venture. Now I can, so
far as I am concerned, enter into it freely, since from the moment my
eyes rested on you I saw my son--as he shall be, God willing--if he
chooses such a course himself." "Indeed I do, sir--with all my heart!" "Thank you, Adam, for that." The old, man's eyes filled and his voice
trembled. Then, after a long silence between them, he went on: "When I
heard you were coming I made my will. It was well that your interests
should be protected from that moment on. Here is the deed--keep it,
Adam. All I have shall belong to you; and if love and good wishes, or
the memory of them, can make life sweeter, yours shall be a happy one. Now, my dear boy, let us turn in. We start early in the morning and have
a long drive before us. I hope you don't mind driving? I was going to
have the old travelling carriage in which my grandfather, your
great-grand-uncle, went to Court when William IV. was king. It is all
right--they built well in those days--and it has been kept in perfect
order. But I think I have done better: I have sent the carriage in which
I travel myself. The horses are of my own breeding, and relays of them
shall take us all the way. I hope you like horses? They have long been
one of my greatest interests in life." "I love them, sir, and I am happy to say I have many of my own. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
My
father gave me a horse farm for myself when I was eighteen. I devoted
myself to it, and it has gone on. Before I came away, my steward gave me
a memorandum that we have in my own place more than a thousand, nearly
all good." "I am glad, my boy. Another link between us." "Just fancy what a delight it will be, sir, to see so much of England--and
with you!" "Thank you again, my boy. I will tell you all about your future home and
its surroundings as we go. We shall travel in old-fashioned state, I
tell you. My grandfather always drove four-in-hand; and so shall we." "Oh, thanks, sir, thanks. May I take the ribbons sometimes?" "Whenever you choose, Adam. The team is your own. Every horse we use to-
day is to be your own." "You are too generous, uncle!" "Not at all. Only an old man's selfish pleasure. It is not every day
that an heir to the old home comes back. And--oh, by the way . . . No,
we had better turn in now--I shall tell you the rest in the morning." CHAPTER II--THE CASWALLS OF CASTRA REGIS
Mr. Salton had all his life been an early riser, and necessarily an early
waker. But early as he woke on the next morning--and although there was
an excuse for not prolonging sleep in the constant whirr and rattle of
the "donkey" engine winches of the great ship--he met the eyes of Adam
fixed on him from his berth. His grand-nephew had given him the sofa,
occupying the lower berth himself. The old man, despite his great
strength and normal activity, was somewhat tired by his long journey of
the day before, and the prolonged and exciting interview which followed
it. So he was glad to lie still and rest his body, whilst his mind was
actively exercised in taking in all he could of his strange surroundings. Adam, too, after the pastoral habit to which he had been bred, woke with
the dawn, and was ready to enter on the experiences of the new day
whenever it might suit his elder companion. It was little wonder, then,
that, so soon as each realised the other's readiness, they simultaneously
jumped up and began to dress. The steward had by previous instructions
early breakfast prepared, and it was not long before they went down the
gangway on shore in search of the carriage. They found Mr. Salton's bailiff looking out for them on the dock, and he
brought them at once to where the carriage was waiting in the street. Richard Salton pointed out with pride to his young companion the
suitability of the vehicle for every need of travel. To it were
harnessed four useful horses, with a postillion to each pair. "See," said the old man proudly, "how it has all the luxuries of useful
travel--silence and isolation as well as speed. There is nothing to
obstruct the view of those travelling and no one to overhear what they
may say. I have used that trap for a quarter of a century, and I never
saw one more suitable for travel. You shall test it shortly. We are
going to drive through the heart of England; and as we go I'll tell you
what I was speaking of last night. Our route is to be by Salisbury,
Bath, Bristol, Cheltenham, Worcester, Stafford; and so home." Adam remained silent a few minutes, during which he seemed all eyes, for
he perpetually ranged the whole circle of the horizon. "Has our journey to-day, sir," he asked, "any special relation to what
you said last night that you wanted to tell me?" "Not directly; but indirectly, everything." "Won't you tell me now--I see we cannot be overheard--and if anything
strikes you as we go along, just run it in. I shall understand." So old Salton spoke:
"To begin at the beginning, Adam. That lecture of yours on 'The Romans
in Britain,' a report of which you posted to me, set me thinking--in
addition to telling me your tastes. I wrote to you at once and asked you
to come home, for it struck me that if you were fond of historical
research--as seemed a fact--this was exactly the place for you, in
addition to its being the home of your own forbears. If you could learn
so much of the British Romans so far away in New South Wales, where there
cannot be even a tradition of them, what might you not make of the same
amount of study on the very spot. Where we are going is in the real
heart of the old kingdom of Mercia, where there are traces of all the
various nationalities which made up the conglomerate which became
Britain." "I rather gathered that you had some more definite--more personal reason
for my hurrying. After all, history can keep--except in the making!" "Quite right, my boy. I had a reason such as you very wisely guessed. I
was anxious for you to be here when a rather important phase of our local
history occurred." "What is that, if I may ask, sir?" "Certainly. The principal landowner of our part of the county is on his
way home, and there will be a great home-coming, which you may care to
see. The fact is, for more than a century the various owners in the
succession here, with the exception of a short time, have lived abroad." "How is that, sir, if I may ask?" "The great house and estate in our part of the world is Castra Regis, the
family seat of the Caswall family. The last owner who lived here was
Edgar Caswall, grandfather of the man who is coming here--and he was the
only one who stayed even a short time. This man's grandfather, also
named Edgar--they keep the tradition of the family Christian
name--quarrelled with his family and went to live abroad, not keeping up
any intercourse, good or bad, with his relatives, although this
particular Edgar, as I told you, did visit his family estate, yet his son
was born and lived and died abroad, while his grandson, the latest
inheritor, was also born and lived abroad till he was over thirty--his
present age. This was the second line of absentees. The great estate of
Castra Regis has had no knowledge of its owner for five
generations--covering more than a hundred and twenty years. It has been
well administered, however, and no tenant or other connected with it has
had anything of which to complain. All the same, there has been much
natural anxiety to see the new owner, and we are all excited about the
event of his coming. Even I am, though I own my own estate, which,
though adjacent, is quite apart from Castra Regis.--Here we are now in
new ground for you. That is the spire of Salisbury Cathedral, and when
we leave that we shall be getting close to the old Roman county, and you
will naturally want your eyes. So we shall shortly have to keep our
minds on old Mercia. However, you need not be disappointed. My old
friend, Sir Nathaniel de Salis, who, like myself, is a free-holder near
Castra Regis--his estate, Doom Tower, is over the border of Derbyshire,
on the Peak--is coming to stay with me for the festivities to welcome
Edgar Caswall. He is just the sort of man you will like. He is devoted
to history, and is President of the Mercian Archaeological Society. He
knows more of our own part of the country, with its history and its
people, than anyone else. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
I expect he will have arrived before us, and
we three can have a long chat after dinner. He is also our local
geologist and natural historian. So you and he will have many interests
in common. Amongst other things he has a special knowledge of the Peak
and its caverns, and knows all the old legends of prehistoric times." They spent the night at Cheltenham, and on the following morning resumed
their journey to Stafford. Adam's eyes were in constant employment, and
it was not till Salton declared that they had now entered on the last
stage of their journey, that he referred to Sir Nathaniel's coming. As the dusk was closing down, they drove on to Lesser Hill, Mr. Salton's
house. It was now too dark to see any details of their surroundings. Adam could just see that it was on the top of a hill, not quite so high
as that which was covered by the Castle, on whose tower flew the flag,
and which was all ablaze with moving lights, manifestly used in the
preparations for the festivities on the morrow. So Adam deferred his
curiosity till daylight. His grand-uncle was met at the door by a fine
old man, who greeted him warmly. "I came over early as you wished. I suppose this is your grand-nephew--I
am glad to meet you, Mr. Adam Salton. I am Nathaniel de Salis, and your
uncle is one of my oldest friends." Adam, from the moment of their eyes meeting, felt as if they were already
friends. The meeting was a new note of welcome to those that had already
sounded in his ears. The cordiality with which Sir Nathaniel and Adam met, made the imparting
of information easy. Sir Nathaniel was a clever man of the world, who
had travelled much, and within a certain area studied deeply. He was a
brilliant conversationalist, as was to be expected from a successful
diplomatist, even under unstimulating conditions. But he had been
touched and to a certain extent fired by the younger man's evident
admiration and willingness to learn from him. Accordingly the
conversation, which began on the most friendly basis, soon warmed to an
interest above proof, as the old man spoke of it next day to Richard
Salton. He knew already that his old friend wanted his grand-nephew to
learn all he could of the subject in hand, and so had during his journey
from the Peak put his thoughts in sequence for narration and explanation. Accordingly, Adam had only to listen and he must learn much that he
wanted to know. When dinner was over and the servants had withdrawn,
leaving the three men at their wine, Sir Nathaniel began. "I gather from your uncle--by the way, I suppose we had better speak of
you as uncle and nephew, instead of going into exact relationship? In
fact, your uncle is so old and dear a friend, that, with your permission,
I shall drop formality with you altogether and speak of you and to you as
Adam, as though you were his son." "I should like," answered the young man, "nothing better!" The answer warmed the hearts of both the old men, but, with the usual
avoidance of Englishmen of emotional subjects personal to themselves,
they instinctively returned to the previous question. Sir Nathaniel took
the lead. "I understand, Adam, that your uncle has posted you regarding the
relationships of the Caswall family?" "Partly, sir; but I understood that I was to hear minuter details from
you--if you would be so good." "I shall be delighted to tell you anything so far as my knowledge goes. Well, the first Caswall in our immediate record is an Edgar, head of the
family and owner of the estate, who came into his kingdom just about the
time that George III. did. He had one son of about twenty-four. There
was a violent quarrel between the two. No one of this generation has any
idea of the cause; but, considering the family characteristics, we may
take it for granted that though it was deep and violent, it was on the
surface trivial. "The result of the quarrel was that the son left the house without a
reconciliation or without even telling his father where he was going. He
never came back again. A few years after, he died, without having in the
meantime exchanged a word or a letter with his father. He married abroad
and left one son, who seems to have been brought up in ignorance of all
belonging to him. The gulf between them appears to have been
unbridgable; for in time this son married and in turn had a son, but
neither joy nor sorrow brought the sundered together. Under such
conditions no _rapprochement_ was to be looked for, and an utter
indifference, founded at best on ignorance, took the place of family
affection--even on community of interests. It was only due to the
watchfulness of the lawyers that the birth of this new heir was ever made
known. He actually spent a few months in the ancestral home. "After this the family interest merely rested on heirship of the estate. As no other children have been born to any of the newer generations in
the intervening years, all hopes of heritage are now centred in the
grandson of this man. "Now, it will be well for you to bear in mind the prevailing
characteristics of this race. These were well preserved and unchanging;
one and all they are the same: cold, selfish, dominant, reckless of
consequences in pursuit of their own will. It was not that they did not
keep faith, though that was a matter which gave them little concern, but
that they took care to think beforehand of what they should do in order
to gain their own ends. If they should make a mistake, someone else
should bear the burthen of it. This was so perpetually recurrent that it
seemed to be a part of a fixed policy. It was no wonder that, whatever
changes took place, they were always ensured in their own possessions. They were absolutely cold and hard by nature. Not one of them--so far as
we have any knowledge--was ever known to be touched by the softer
sentiments, to swerve from his purpose, or hold his hand in obedience to
the dictates of his heart. The pictures and effigies of them all show
their adherence to the early Roman type. Their eyes were full; their
hair, of raven blackness, grew thick and close and curly. Their figures
were massive and typical of strength. "The thick black hair, growing low down on the neck, told of vast
physical strength and endurance. But the most remarkable characteristic
is the eyes. Black, piercing, almost unendurable, they seem to contain
in themselves a remarkable will power which there is no gainsaying. It
is a power that is partly racial and partly individual: a power
impregnated with some mysterious quality, partly hypnotic, partly
mesmeric, which seems to take away from eyes that meet them all power of
resistance--nay, all power of wishing to resist. With eyes like those,
set in that all-commanding face, one would need to be strong indeed to
think of resisting the inflexible will that lay behind. "You may think, Adam, that all this is imagination on my part, especially
as I have never seen any of them. So it is, but imagination based on
deep study. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
I have made use of all I know or can surmise logically
regarding this strange race. With such strange compelling qualities, is
it any wonder that there is abroad an idea that in the race there is some
demoniac possession, which tends to a more definite belief that certain
individuals have in the past sold themselves to the Devil? "But I think we had better go to bed now. We have a lot to get through
to-morrow, and I want you to have your brain clear, and all your
susceptibilities fresh. Moreover, I want you to come with me for an
early walk, during which we may notice, whilst the matter is fresh in our
minds, the peculiar disposition of this place--not merely your
grand-uncle's estate, but the lie of the country around it. There are
many things on which we may seek--and perhaps find--enlightenment. The
more we know at the start, the more things which may come into our view
will develop themselves." CHAPTER III--DIANA'S GROVE
Curiosity took Adam Salton out of bed in the early morning, but when he
had dressed and gone downstairs; he found that, early as he was, Sir
Nathaniel was ahead of him. The old gentleman was quite prepared for a
long walk, and they started at once. Sir Nathaniel, without speaking, led the way to the east, down the hill. When they had descended and risen again, they found themselves on the
eastern brink of a steep hill. It was of lesser height than that on
which the Castle was situated; but it was so placed that it commanded the
various hills that crowned the ridge. All along the ridge the rock
cropped out, bare and bleak, but broken in rough natural castellation. The form of the ridge was a segment of a circle, with the higher points
inland to the west. In the centre rose the Castle, on the highest point
of all. Between the various rocky excrescences were groups of trees of
various sizes and heights, amongst some of which were what, in the early
morning light, looked like ruins. These--whatever they were--were of
massive grey stone, probably limestone rudely cut--if indeed they were
not shaped naturally. The fall of the ground was steep all along the
ridge, so steep that here and there both trees and rocks and buildings
seemed to overhang the plain far below, through which ran many streams. Sir Nathaniel stopped and looked around, as though to lose nothing of the
effect. The sun had climbed the eastern sky and was making all details
clear. He pointed with a sweeping gesture, as though calling Adam's
attention to the extent of the view. Having done so, he covered the
ground more slowly, as though inviting attention to detail. Adam was a
willing and attentive pupil, and followed his motions exactly, missing--or
trying to miss--nothing. "I have brought you here, Adam, because it seems to me that this is the
spot on which to begin our investigations. You have now in front of you
almost the whole of the ancient kingdom of Mercia. In fact, we see the
whole of it except that furthest part, which is covered by the Welsh
Marches and those parts which are hidden from where we stand by the high
ground of the immediate west. We can see--theoretically--the whole of
the eastern bound of the kingdom, which ran south from the Humber to the
Wash. I want you to bear in mind the trend of the ground, for some time,
sooner or later, we shall do well to have it in our mind's eye when we
are considering the ancient traditions and superstitions, and are trying
to find the _rationale_ of them. Each legend, each superstition which we
receive, will help in the understanding and possible elucidation of the
others. And as all such have a local basis, we can come closer to the
truth--or the probability--by knowing the local conditions as we go
along. It will help us to bring to our aid such geological truth as we
may have between us. For instance, the building materials used in
various ages can afford their own lessons to understanding eyes. The
very heights and shapes and materials of these hills--nay, even of the
wide plain that lies between us and the sea--have in themselves the
materials of enlightening books." "For instance, sir?" said Adam, venturing a question. "Well, look at those hills which surround the main one where the site for
the Castle was wisely chosen--on the highest ground. Take the others. There is something ostensible in each of them, and in all probability
something unseen and unproved, but to be imagined, also." "For instance?" continued Adam. "Let us take them _seriatim_. That to the east, where the trees are,
lower down--that was once the location of a Roman temple, possibly
founded on a pre-existing Druidical one. Its name implies the former,
and the grove of ancient oaks suggests the latter." "Please explain." "The old name translated means 'Diana's Grove.' Then the next one higher
than it, but just beyond it, is called '_Mercy_'--in all probability a
corruption or familiarisation of the word _Mercia_, with a Roman pun
included. We learn from early manuscripts that the place was called
_Vilula Misericordiae_. It was originally a nunnery, founded by Queen
Bertha, but done away with by King Penda, the reactionary to Paganism
after St. Augustine. Then comes your uncle's place--Lesser Hill. Though
it is so close to the Castle, it is not connected with it. It is a
freehold, and, so far as we know, of equal age. It has always belonged
to your family." "Then there only remains the Castle!" "That is all; but its history contains the histories of all the others--in
fact, the whole history of early England." Sir Nathaniel, seeing the
expectant look on Adam's face, went on:
"The history of the Castle has no beginning so far as we know. The
furthest records or surmises or inferences simply accept it as existing. Some of these--guesses, let us call them--seem to show that there was
some sort of structure there when the Romans came, therefore it must have
been a place of importance in Druid times--if indeed that was the
beginning. Naturally the Romans accepted it, as they did everything of
the kind that was, or might be, useful. The change is shown or inferred
in the name Castra. It was the highest protected ground, and so
naturally became the most important of their camps. A study of the map
will show you that it must have been a most important centre. It both
protected the advances already made to the north, and helped to dominate
the sea coast. It sheltered the western marches, beyond which lay savage
Wales--and danger. It provided a means of getting to the Severn, round
which lay the great Roman roads then coming into existence, and made
possible the great waterway to the heart of England--through the Severn
and its tributaries. It brought the east and the west together by the
swiftest and easiest ways known to those times. And, finally, it
provided means of descent on London and all the expanse of country
watered by the Thames. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
"With such a centre, already known and organised, we can easily see that
each fresh wave of invasion--the Angles, the Saxons, the Danes, and the
Normans--found it a desirable possession and so ensured its upholding. In
the earlier centuries it was merely a vantage ground. But when the
victorious Romans brought with them the heavy solid fortifications
impregnable to the weapons of the time, its commanding position alone
ensured its adequate building and equipment. Then it was that the
fortified camp of the Caesars developed into the castle of the king. As
we are as yet ignorant of the names of the first kings of Mercia, no
historian has been able to guess which of them made it his ultimate
defence; and I suppose we shall never know now. In process of time, as
the arts of war developed, it increased in size and strength, and
although recorded details are lacking, the history is written not merely
in the stone of its building, but is inferred in the changes of
structure. Then the sweeping changes which followed the Norman Conquest
wiped out all lesser records than its own. To-day we must accept it as
one of the earliest castles of the Conquest, probably not later than the
time of Henry I. Roman and Norman were both wise in their retention of
places of approved strength or utility. So it was that these surrounding
heights, already established and to a certain extent proved, were
retained. Indeed, such characteristics as already pertained to them were
preserved, and to-day afford to us lessons regarding things which have
themselves long since passed away. "So much for the fortified heights; but the hollows too have their own
story. But how the time passes! We must hurry home, or your uncle will
wonder what has become of us." He started with long steps towards Lesser Hill, and Adam was soon
furtively running in order to keep up with him. CHAPTER IV--THE LADY ARABELLA MARCH
"Now, there is no hurry, but so soon as you are both ready we shall
start," Mr. Salton said when breakfast had begun. "I want to take you
first to see a remarkable relic of Mercia, and then we'll go to Liverpool
through what is called 'The Great Vale of Cheshire.' You may be
disappointed, but take care not to prepare your mind"--this to Adam--"for
anything stupendous or heroic. You would not think the place a vale at
all, unless you were told so beforehand, and had confidence in the
veracity of the teller. We should get to the Landing Stage in time to
meet the _West African_, and catch Mr. Caswall as he comes ashore. We
want to do him honour--and, besides, it will be more pleasant to have the
introductions over before we go to his _fete_ at the Castle." The carriage was ready, the same as had been used the previous day, but
there were different horses--magnificent animals, and keen for work. Breakfast was soon over, and they shortly took their places. The
postillions had their orders, and were quickly on their way at an
exhilarating pace. Presently, in obedience to Mr. Salton's signal, the carriage drew up
opposite a great heap of stones by the wayside. "Here, Adam," he said, "is something that you of all men should not pass
by unnoticed. That heap of stones brings us at once to the dawn of the
Anglian kingdom. It was begun more than a thousand years ago--in the
latter part of the seventh century--in memory of a murder. Wulfere, King
of Mercia, nephew of Penda, here murdered his two sons for embracing
Christianity. As was the custom of the time, each passer-by added a
stone to the memorial heap. Penda represented heathen reaction after St.
Augustine's mission. Sir Nathaniel can tell you as much as you want
about this, and put you, if you wish, on the track of such accurate
knowledge as there is." Whilst they were looking at the heap of stones, they noticed that another
carriage had drawn up beside them, and the passenger--there was only
one--was regarding them curiously. The carriage was an old heavy
travelling one, with arms blazoned on it gorgeously. The men took off
their hats, as the occupant, a lady, addressed them. "How do you do, Sir Nathaniel? How do you do, Mr. Salton? I hope you
have not met with any accident. Look at me!" As she spoke she pointed to where one of the heavy springs was broken
across, the broken metal showing bright. Adam spoke up at once:
"Oh, that can soon be put right." "Soon? There is no one near who can mend a break like that." "I can." "You!" She looked incredulously at the dapper young gentleman who spoke. "You--why, it's a workman's job." "All right, I am a workman--though that is not the only sort of work I
do. I am an Australian, and, as we have to move about fast, we are all
trained to farriery and such mechanics as come into travel--I am quite at
your service." "I hardly know how to thank you for your kindness, of which I gladly
avail myself. I don't know what else I can do, as I wish to meet Mr.
Caswall of Castra Regis, who arrives home from Africa to-day. It is a
notable home-coming; all the countryside want to do him honour." She
looked at the old men and quickly made up her mind as to the identity of
the stranger. "You must be Mr. Adam Salton of Lesser Hill. I am Lady
Arabella March of Diana's Grove." As she spoke she turned slightly to
Mr. Salton, who took the hint and made a formal introduction. So soon as this was done, Adam took some tools from his uncle's carriage,
and at once began work on the broken spring. He was an expert workman,
and the breach was soon made good. Adam was gathering the tools which he
had been using--which, after the manner of all workmen, had been
scattered about--when he noticed that several black snakes had crawled
out from the heap of stones and were gathering round him. This naturally
occupied his mind, and he was not thinking of anything else when he
noticed Lady Arabella, who had opened the door of the carriage, slip from
it with a quick gliding motion. She was already among the snakes when he
called out to warn her. But there seemed to be no need of warning. The
snakes had turned and were wriggling back to the mound as quickly as they
could. He laughed to himself behind his teeth as he whispered, "No need
to fear there. They seem much more afraid of her than she of them." All
the same he began to beat on the ground with a stick which was lying
close to him, with the instinct of one used to such vermin. In an
instant he was alone beside the mound with Lady Arabella, who appeared
quite unconcerned at the incident. Then he took a long look at her, and
her dress alone was sufficient to attract attention. She was clad in
some kind of soft white stuff, which clung close to her form, showing to
the full every movement of her sinuous figure. She wore a close-fitting
cap of some fine fur of dazzling white. Coiled round her white throat
was a large necklace of emeralds, whose profusion of colour dazzled when
the sun shone on them. Her voice was peculiar, very low and sweet, and
so soft that the dominant note was of sibilation. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
Her hands, too, were
peculiar--long, flexible, white, with a strange movement as of waving
gently to and fro. She appeared quite at ease, and, after thanking Adam, said that if any of
his uncle's party were going to Liverpool she would be most happy to join
forces. "Whilst you are staying here, Mr. Salton, you must look on the grounds of
Diana's Grove as your own, so that you may come and go just as you do in
Lesser Hill. There are some fine views, and not a few natural
curiosities which are sure to interest you, if you are a student of
natural history--specially of an earlier kind, when the world was
younger." The heartiness with which she spoke, and the warmth of her words--not of
her manner, which was cold and distant--made him suspicious. In the
meantime both his uncle and Sir Nathaniel had thanked her for the
invitation--of which, however, they said they were unable to avail
themselves. Adam had a suspicion that, though she answered regretfully,
she was in reality relieved. When he had got into the carriage with the
two old men, and they had driven off, he was not surprised when Sir
Nathaniel spoke. "I could not but feel that she was glad to be rid of us. She can play
her game better alone!" "What is her game?" asked Adam unthinkingly. "All the county knows it, my boy. Caswall is a very rich man. Her
husband was rich when she married him--or seemed to be. When he
committed suicide, it was found that he had nothing left, and the estate
was mortgaged up to the hilt. Her only hope is in a rich marriage. I
suppose I need not draw any conclusion; you can do that as well as I
can." Adam remained silent nearly all the time they were travelling through the
alleged Vale of Cheshire. He thought much during that journey and came
to several conclusions, though his lips were unmoved. One of these
conclusions was that he would be very careful about paying any attention
to Lady Arabella. He was himself a rich man, how rich not even his uncle
had the least idea, and would have been surprised had he known. The remainder of the journey was uneventful, and upon arrival at
Liverpool they went aboard the _West African_, which had just come to the
landing-stage. There his uncle introduced himself to Mr. Caswall, and
followed this up by introducing Sir Nathaniel and then Adam. The new-
comer received them graciously, and said what a pleasure it was to be
coming home after so long an absence of his family from their old seat. Adam was pleased at the warmth of the reception; but he could not avoid a
feeling of repugnance at the man's face. He was trying hard to overcome
this when a diversion was caused by the arrival of Lady Arabella. The
diversion was welcome to all; the two Saltons and Sir Nathaniel were
shocked at Caswall's face--so hard, so ruthless, so selfish, so dominant. "God help any," was the common thought, "who is under the domination of
such a man!" Presently his African servant approached him, and at once their thoughts
changed to a larger toleration. Caswall looked indeed a savage--but a
cultured savage. In him were traces of the softening civilisation of
ages--of some of the higher instincts and education of man, no matter how
rudimentary these might be. But the face of Oolanga, as his master
called him, was unreformed, unsoftened savage, and inherent in it were
all the hideous possibilities of a lost, devil-ridden child of the forest
and the swamp--the lowest of all created things that could be regarded as
in some form ostensibly human. Lady Arabella and Oolanga arrived almost
simultaneously, and Adam was surprised to notice what effect their
appearance had on each other. The woman seemed as if she would not--could
not--condescend to exhibit any concern or interest in such a creature. On
the other hand, the negro's bearing was such as in itself to justify her
pride. He treated her not merely as a slave treats his master, but as a
worshipper would treat a deity. He knelt before her with his hands out-
stretched and his forehead in the dust. So long as she remained he did
not move; it was only when she went over to Caswall that he relaxed his
attitude of devotion and stood by respectfully. Adam spoke to his own man, Davenport, who was standing by, having arrived
with the bailiff of Lesser Hill, who had followed Mr. Salton in a pony
trap. As he spoke, he pointed to an attentive ship's steward, and
presently the two men were conversing. "I think we ought to be moving," Mr. Salton said to Adam. "I have some
things to do in Liverpool, and I am sure that both Mr. Caswall and Lady
Arabella would like to get under weigh for Castra Regis." "I too, sir, would like to do something," replied Adam. "I want to find
out where Ross, the animal merchant, lives--I want to take a small animal
home with me, if you don't mind. He is only a little thing, and will be
no trouble." "Of course not, my boy. What kind of animal is it that you want?" "A mongoose." "A mongoose! What on earth do you want it for?" "To kill snakes." "Good!" The old man remembered the mound of stones. No explanation was
needed. When Ross heard what was wanted, he asked:
"Do you want something special, or will an ordinary mongoose do?" "Well, of course I want a good one. But I see no need for anything
special. It is for ordinary use." "I can let you have a choice of ordinary ones. I only asked, because I
have in stock a very special one which I got lately from Nepaul. He has
a record of his own. He killed a king cobra that had been seen in the
Rajah's garden. But I don't suppose we have any snakes of the kind in
this cold climate--I daresay an ordinary one will do." When Adam got back to the carriage, carefully carrying the box with the
mongoose, Sir Nathaniel said: "Hullo! what have you got there?" "A mongoose." "What for?" "To kill snakes!" Sir Nathaniel laughed. "I heard Lady Arabella's invitation to you to come to Diana's Grove." "Well, what on earth has that got to do with it?" "Nothing directly that I know of. But we shall see." Adam waited, and
the old man went on: "Have you by any chance heard the other name which
was given long ago to that place." "No, sir." "It was called--Look here, this subject wants a lot of talking over. Suppose we wait till we are alone and have lots of time before us." "All right, sir." Adam was filled with curiosity, but he thought it
better not to hurry matters. All would come in good time. Then the
three men returned home, leaving Mr. Caswall to spend the night in
Liverpool. The following day the Lesser Hill party set out for Castra Regis, and for
the time Adam thought no more of Diana's Grove or of what mysteries it
had contained--or might still contain. The guests were crowding in, and special places were marked for important
people. Adam, seeing so many persons of varied degree, looked round for
Lady Arabella, but could not locate her. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
It was only when he saw the old-
fashioned travelling carriage approach and heard the sound of cheering
which went with it, that he realised that Edgar Caswall had arrived. Then, on looking more closely, he saw that Lady Arabella, dressed as he
had seen her last, was seated beside him. When the carriage drew up at
the great flight of steps, the host jumped down and gave her his hand. It was evident to all that she was the chief guest at the festivities. It
was not long before the seats on the dais were filled, while the tenants
and guests of lesser importance had occupied all the coigns of vantage
not reserved. The order of the day had been carefully arranged by a
committee. There were some speeches, happily neither many nor long; and
then festivities were suspended till the time for feasting arrived. In
the interval Caswall walked among his guests, speaking to all in a
friendly manner and expressing a general welcome. The other guests came
down from the dais and followed his example, so there was unceremonious
meeting and greeting between gentle and simple. Adam Salton naturally followed with his eyes all that went on within
their scope, taking note of all who seemed to afford any interest. He
was young and a man and a stranger from a far distance; so on all these
accounts he naturally took stock rather of the women than of the men, and
of these, those who were young and attractive. There were lots of pretty
girls among the crowd, and Adam, who was a handsome young man and well
set up, got his full share of admiring glances. These did not concern
him much, and he remained unmoved until there came along a group of
three, by their dress and bearing, of the farmer class. One was a sturdy
old man; the other two were good-looking girls, one of a little over
twenty, the other not quite so old. So soon as Adam's eyes met those of
the younger girl, who stood nearest to him, some sort of electricity
flashed--that divine spark which begins by recognition, and ends in
obedience. Men call it "Love." Both his companions noticed how much Adam was taken by the pretty girl,
and spoke of her to him in a way which made his heart warm to them. "Did you notice that party that passed? The old man is Michael Watford,
one of the tenants of Mr. Caswall. He occupies Mercy Farm, which Sir
Nathaniel pointed out to you to-day. The girls are his grand-daughters,
the elder, Lilla, being the only child of his elder son, who died when
she was less than a year old. His wife died on the same day. She is a
good girl--as good as she is pretty. The other is her first cousin, the
daughter of Watford's second son. He went for a soldier when he was just
over twenty, and was drafted abroad. He was not a good correspondent,
though he was a good enough son. A few letters came, and then his father
heard from the colonel of his regiment that he had been killed by dacoits
in Burmah. He heard from the same source that his boy had been married
to a Burmese, and that there was a daughter only a year old. Watford had
the child brought home, and she grew up beside Lilla. The only thing
that they heard of her birth was that her name was Mimi. The two
children adored each other, and do to this day. Strange how different
they are! Lilla all fair, like the old Saxon stock from which she is
sprung; Mimi showing a trace of her mother's race. Lilla is as gentle as
a dove, but Mimi's black eyes can glow whenever she is upset. The only
thing that upsets her is when anything happens to injure or threaten or
annoy Lilla. Then her eyes glow as do the eyes of a bird when her young
are menaced." CHAPTER V--THE WHITE WORM
Mr. Salton introduced Adam to Mr. Watford and his grand-daughters, and
they all moved on together. Of course neighbours in the position of the
Watfords knew all about Adam Salton, his relationship, circumstances, and
prospects. So it would have been strange indeed if both girls did not
dream of possibilities of the future. In agricultural England, eligible
men of any class are rare. This particular man was specially eligible,
for he did not belong to a class in which barriers of caste were strong. So when it began to be noticed that he walked beside Mimi Watford and
seemed to desire her society, all their friends endeavoured to give the
promising affair a helping hand. When the gongs sounded for the banquet,
he went with her into the tent where her grandfather had seats. Mr.
Salton and Sir Nathaniel noticed that the young man did not come to claim
his appointed place at the dais table; but they understood and made no
remark, or indeed did not seem to notice his absence. Lady Arabella sat as before at Edgar Caswall's right hand. She was
certainly a striking and unusual woman, and to all it seemed fitting from
her rank and personal qualities that she should be the chosen partner of
the heir on his first appearance. Of course nothing was said openly by
those of her own class who were present; but words were not necessary
when so much could be expressed by nods and smiles. It seemed to be an
accepted thing that at last there was to be a mistress of Castra Regis,
and that she was present amongst them. There were not lacking some who,
whilst admitting all her charm and beauty, placed her in the second rank,
Lilla Watford being marked as first. There was sufficient divergence of
type, as well as of individual beauty, to allow of fair comment; Lady
Arabella represented the aristocratic type, and Lilla that of the
commonalty. When the dusk began to thicken, Mr. Salton and Sir Nathaniel walked
home--the trap had been sent away early in the day--leaving Adam to
follow in his own time. He came in earlier than was expected, and seemed
upset about something. Neither of the elders made any comment. They all
lit cigarettes, and, as dinner-time was close at hand, went to their
rooms to get ready. Adam had evidently been thinking in the interval. He joined the others
in the drawing-room, looking ruffled and impatient--a condition of things
seen for the first time. The others, with the patience--or the
experience--of age, trusted to time to unfold and explain things. They
had not long to wait. After sitting down and standing up several times,
Adam suddenly burst out. "That fellow seems to think he owns the earth. Can't he let people
alone! He seems to think that he has only to throw his handkerchief to
any woman, and be her master." This outburst was in itself enlightening. Only thwarted affection in
some guise could produce this feeling in an amiable young man. Sir
Nathaniel, as an old diplomatist, had a way of understanding, as if by
foreknowledge, the true inwardness of things, and asked suddenly, but in
a matter-of-fact, indifferent voice:
"Was he after Lilla?" "Yes, and the fellow didn't lose any time either. Almost as soon as they
met, he began to butter her up, and tell her how beautiful she was. Why,
before he left her side, he had asked himself to tea to-morrow at Mercy
Farm. Stupid ass! | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
He might see that the girl isn't his sort! I never
saw anything like it. It was just like a hawk and a pigeon." As he spoke, Sir Nathaniel turned and looked at Mr. Salton--a keen look
which implied a full understanding. "Tell us all about it, Adam. There are still a few minutes before
dinner, and we shall all have better appetites when we have come to some
conclusion on this matter." "There is nothing to tell, sir; that is the worst of it. I am bound to
say that there was not a word said that a human being could object to. He
was very civil, and all that was proper--just what a landlord might be to
a tenant's daughter . . . Yet--yet--well, I don't know how it was, but it
made my blood boil." "How did the hawk and the pigeon come in?" Sir Nathaniel's voice was
soft and soothing, nothing of contradiction or overdone curiosity in it--a
tone eminently suited to win confidence. "I can hardly explain. I can only say that he looked like a hawk and she
like a dove--and, now that I think of it, that is what they each did look
like; and do look like in their normal condition." "That is so!" came the soft voice of Sir Nathaniel. Adam went on:
"Perhaps that early Roman look of his set me off. But I wanted to
protect her; she seemed in danger." "She seems in danger, in a way, from all you young men. I couldn't help
noticing the way that even you looked--as if you wished to absorb her!" "I hope both you young men will keep your heads cool," put in Mr. Salton. "You know, Adam, it won't do to have any quarrel between you, especially
so soon after his home-coming and your arrival here. We must think of
the feelings and happiness of our neighbours; mustn't we?" "I hope so, sir. I assure you that, whatever may happen, or even
threaten, I shall obey your wishes in this as in all things." "Hush!" whispered Sir Nathaniel, who heard the servants in the passage
bringing dinner. After dinner, over the walnuts and the wine, Sir Nathaniel returned to
the subject of the local legends. "It will perhaps be a less dangerous topic for us to discuss than more
recent ones." "All right, sir," said Adam heartily. "I think you may depend on me now
with regard to any topic. I can even discuss Mr. Caswall. Indeed, I may
meet him to-morrow. He is going, as I said, to call at Mercy Farm at
three o'clock--but I have an appointment at two." "I notice," said Mr. Salton, "that you do not lose any time." The two old men once more looked at each other steadily. Then, lest the
mood of his listener should change with delay, Sir Nathaniel began at
once:
"I don't propose to tell you all the legends of Mercia, or even to make a
selection of them. It will be better, I think, for our purpose if we
consider a few facts--recorded or unrecorded--about this neighbourhood. I
think we might begin with Diana's Grove. It has roots in the different
epochs of our history, and each has its special crop of legend. The
Druid and the Roman are too far off for matters of detail; but it seems
to me the Saxon and the Angles are near enough to yield material for
legendary lore. We find that this particular place had another name
besides Diana's Grove. This was manifestly of Roman origin, or of
Grecian accepted as Roman. The other is more pregnant of adventure and
romance than the Roman name. In Mercian tongue it was 'The Lair of the
White Worm.' This needs a word of explanation at the beginning. "In the dawn of the language, the word 'worm' had a somewhat different
meaning from that in use to-day. It was an adaptation of the Anglo-Saxon
'wyrm,' meaning a dragon or snake; or from the Gothic 'waurms,' a
serpent; or the Icelandic 'ormur,' or the German 'wurm.' We gather that
it conveyed originally an idea of size and power, not as now in the
diminutive of both these meanings. Here legendary history helps us. We
have the well-known legend of the 'Worm Well' of Lambton Castle, and that
of the 'Laidly Worm of Spindleston Heugh' near Bamborough. In both these
legends the 'worm' was a monster of vast size and power--a veritable
dragon or serpent, such as legend attributes to vast fens or quags where
there was illimitable room for expansion. A glance at a geological map
will show that whatever truth there may have been of the actuality of
such monsters in the early geologic periods, at least there was plenty of
possibility. In England there were originally vast plains where the
plentiful supply of water could gather. The streams were deep and slow,
and there were holes of abysmal depth, where any kind and size of
antediluvian monster could find a habitat. In places, which now we can
see from our windows, were mud-holes a hundred or more feet deep. Who
can tell us when the age of the monsters which flourished in slime came
to an end? There must have been places and conditions which made for
greater longevity, greater size, greater strength than was usual. Such
over-lappings may have come down even to our earlier centuries. Nay, are
there not now creatures of a vastness of bulk regarded by the generality
of men as impossible? Even in our own day there are seen the traces of
animals, if not the animals themselves, of stupendous size--veritable
survivals from earlier ages, preserved by some special qualities in their
habitats. I remember meeting a distinguished man in India, who had the
reputation of being a great shikaree, who told me that the greatest
temptation he had ever had in his life was to shoot a giant snake which
he had come across in the Terai of Upper India. He was on a
tiger-shooting expedition, and as his elephant was crossing a nullah, it
squealed. He looked down from his howdah and saw that the elephant had
stepped across the body of a snake which was dragging itself through the
jungle. 'So far as I could see,' he said, 'it must have been eighty or
one hundred feet in length. Fully forty or fifty feet was on each side
of the track, and though the weight which it dragged had thinned it, it
was as thick round as a man's body. I suppose you know that when you are
after tiger, it is a point of honour not to shoot at anything else, as
life may depend on it. I could easily have spined this monster, but I
felt that I must not--so, with regret, I had to let it go.' "Just imagine such a monster anywhere in this country, and at once we
could get a sort of idea of the 'worms,' which possibly did frequent the
great morasses which spread round the mouths of many of the great
European rivers." "I haven't the least doubt, sir, that there may have been such monsters
as you have spoken of still existing at a much later period than is
generally accepted," replied Adam. "Also, if there were such things,
that this was the very place for them. I have tried to think over the
matter since you pointed out the configuration of the ground. But it
seems to me that there is a hiatus somewhere. Are there not mechanical
difficulties?" "In what way?" | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
"Well, our antique monster must have been mighty heavy, and the distances
he had to travel were long and the ways difficult. From where we are now
sitting down to the level of the mud-holes is a distance of several
hundred feet--I am leaving out of consideration altogether any lateral
distance. Is it possible that there was a way by which a monster could
travel up and down, and yet no chance recorder have ever seen him? Of
course we have the legends; but is not some more exact evidence necessary
in a scientific investigation?" "My dear Adam, all you say is perfectly right, and, were we starting on
such an investigation, we could not do better than follow your reasoning. But, my dear boy, you must remember that all this took place thousands of
years ago. You must remember, too, that all records of the kind that
would help us are lacking. Also, that the places to be considered were
desert, so far as human habitation or population are considered. In the
vast desolation of such a place as complied with the necessary
conditions, there must have been such profusion of natural growth as
would bar the progress of men formed as we are. The lair of such a
monster would not have been disturbed for hundreds--or thousands--of
years. Moreover, these creatures must have occupied places quite
inaccessible to man. A snake who could make himself comfortable in a
quagmire, a hundred feet deep, would be protected on the outskirts by
such stupendous morasses as now no longer exist, or which, if they exist
anywhere at all, can be on very few places on the earth's surface. Far
be it from me to say that in more elemental times such things could not
have been. The condition belongs to the geologic age--the great birth
and growth of the world, when natural forces ran riot, when the struggle
for existence was so savage that no vitality which was not founded in a
gigantic form could have even a possibility of survival. That such a
time existed, we have evidences in geology, but there only; we can never
expect proofs such as this age demands. We can only imagine or surmise
such things--or such conditions and such forces as overcame them." CHAPTER VI--HAWK AND PIGEON
At breakfast-time next morning Sir Nathaniel and Mr. Salton were seated
when Adam came hurriedly into the room. "Any news?" asked his uncle mechanically. "Four." "Four what?" asked Sir Nathaniel. "Snakes," said Adam, helping himself to a grilled kidney. "Four snakes. I don't understand." "Mongoose," said Adam, and then added explanatorily: "I was out with the
mongoose just after three." "Four snakes in one morning! Why, I didn't know there were so many on
the Brow"--the local name for the western cliff. "I hope that wasn't the
consequence of our talk of last night?" "It was, sir. But not directly." "But, God bless my soul, you didn't expect to get a snake like the
Lambton worm, did you? Why, a mongoose, to tackle a monster like that--if
there were one--would have to be bigger than a haystack." "These were ordinary snakes, about as big as a walking-stick." "Well, it's pleasant to be rid of them, big or little. That is a good
mongoose, I am sure; he'll clear out all such vermin round here," said
Mr. Salton. Adam went quietly on with his breakfast. Killing a few snakes in a
morning was no new experience to him. He left the room the moment
breakfast was finished and went to the study that his uncle had arranged
for him. Both Sir Nathaniel and Mr. Salton took it that he wanted to be
by himself, so as to avoid any questioning or talk of the visit that he
was to make that afternoon. They saw nothing further of him till about
half-an-hour before dinner-time. Then he came quietly into the smoking-
room, where Mr. Salton and Sir Nathaniel were sitting together, ready
dressed. "I suppose there is no use waiting. We had better get it over at once,"
remarked Adam. His uncle, thinking to make things easier for him, said: "Get what over?" There was a sign of shyness about him at this. He stammered a little at
first, but his voice became more even as he went on. "My visit to Mercy Farm." Mr. Salton waited eagerly. The old diplomatist simply smiled. "I suppose you both know that I was much interested yesterday in the
Watfords?" There was no denial or fending off the question. Both the
old men smiled acquiescence. Adam went on: "I meant you to see it--both
of you. You, uncle, because you are my uncle and the nearest of my own
kin, and, moreover, you couldn't have been more kind to me or made me
more welcome if you had been my own father." Mr. Salton said nothing. He
simply held out his hand, and the other took it and held it for a few
seconds. "And you, sir, because you have shown me something of the same
affection which in my wildest dreams of home I had no right to expect." He stopped for an instant, much moved. Sir Nathaniel answered softly, laying his hand on the youth's shoulder. "You are right, my boy; quite right. That is the proper way to look at
it. And I may tell you that we old men, who have no children of our own,
feel our hearts growing warm when we hear words like those." Then Adam hurried on, speaking with a rush, as if he wanted to come to
the crucial point. "Mr. Watford had not come in, but Lilla and Mimi were at home, and they
made me feel very welcome. They have all a great regard for my uncle. I
am glad of that any way, for I like them all--much. We were having tea,
when Mr. Caswall came to the door, attended by the negro. Lilla opened
the door herself. The window of the living-room at the farm is a large
one, and from within you cannot help seeing anyone coming. Mr. Caswall
said he had ventured to call, as he wished to make the acquaintance of
all his tenants, in a less formal way, and more individually, than had
been possible to him on the previous day. The girls made him
welcome--they are very sweet girls those, sir; someone will be very happy
some day there--with either of them." "And that man may be you, Adam," said Mr. Salton heartily. A sad look came over the young man's eyes, and the fire his uncle had
seen there died out. Likewise the timbre left his voice, making it sound
lonely. "Such might crown my life. But that happiness, I fear, is not for me--or
not without pain and loss and woe." "Well, it's early days yet!" cried Sir Nathaniel heartily. The young man turned on him his eyes, which had now grown excessively
sad. "Yesterday--a few hours ago--that remark would have given me new hope--new
courage; but since then I have learned too much." The old man, skilled in the human heart, did not attempt to argue in such
a matter. "Too early to give in, my boy." "I am not of a giving-in kind," replied the young man earnestly. "But,
after all, it is wise to realise a truth. And when a man, though he is
young, feels as I do--as I have felt ever since yesterday, when I first
saw Mimi's eyes--his heart jumps. He does not need to learn things. He
knows." There was silence in the room, during which the twilight stole on
imperceptibly. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
It was Adam who again broke the silence. "Do you know, uncle, if we have any second sight in our family?" "No, not that I ever heard about. Why?" "Because," he answered slowly, "I have a conviction which seems to answer
all the conditions of second sight." "And then?" asked the old man, much perturbed. "And then the usual inevitable. What in the Hebrides and other places,
where the Sight is a cult--a belief--is called 'the doom'--the court from
which there is no appeal. I have often heard of second sight--we have
many western Scots in Australia; but I have realised more of its true
inwardness in an instant of this afternoon than I did in the whole of my
life previously--a granite wall stretching up to the very heavens, so
high and so dark that the eye of God Himself cannot see beyond. Well, if
the Doom must come, it must. That is all." The voice of Sir Nathaniel broke in, smooth and sweet and grave. "Can there not be a fight for it? There can for most things." "For most things, yes, but for the Doom, no. What a man can do I shall
do. There will be--must be--a fight. When and where and how I know not,
but a fight there will be. But, after all, what is a man in such a
case?" "Adam, there are three of us." Salton looked at his old friend as he
spoke, and that old friend's eyes blazed. "Ay, three of us," he said, and his voice rang. There was again a pause, and Sir Nathaniel endeavoured to get back to
less emotional and more neutral ground. "Tell us of the rest of the meeting. Remember we are all pledged to
this. It is a fight _a l'outrance_, and we can afford to throw away or
forgo no chance." "We shall throw away or lose nothing that we can help. We fight to win,
and the stake is a life--perhaps more than one--we shall see." Then he
went on in a conversational tone, such as he had used when he spoke of
the coming to the farm of Edgar Caswall: "When Mr. Caswall came in, the
negro went a short distance away and there remained. It gave me the idea
that he expected to be called, and intended to remain in sight, or within
hail. Then Mimi got another cup and made fresh tea, and we all went on
together." "Was there anything uncommon--were you all quite friendly?" asked Sir
Nathaniel quietly. "Quite friendly. There was nothing that I could notice out of the
common--except," he went on, with a slight hardening of the voice,
"except that he kept his eyes fixed on Lilla, in a way which was quite
intolerable to any man who might hold her dear." "Now, in what way did he look?" asked Sir Nathaniel. "There was nothing in itself offensive; but no one could help noticing
it." "You did. Miss Watford herself, who was the victim, and Mr. Caswall, who
was the offender, are out of range as witnesses. Was there anyone else
who noticed?" "Mimi did. Her face flamed with anger as she saw the look." "What kind of look was it? Over-ardent or too admiring, or what? Was it
the look of a lover, or one who fain would be? You understand?" "Yes, sir, I quite understand. Anything of that sort I should of course
notice. It would be part of my preparation for keeping my
self-control--to which I am pledged." "If it were not amatory, was it threatening? Where was the offence?" Adam smiled kindly at the old man. "It was not amatory. Even if it was, such was to be expected. I should
be the last man in the world to object, since I am myself an offender in
that respect. Moreover, not only have I been taught to fight fair, but
by nature I believe I am just. I would be as tolerant of and as liberal
to a rival as I should expect him to be to me. No, the look I mean was
nothing of that kind. And so long as it did not lack proper respect, I
should not of my own part condescend to notice it. Did you ever study
the eyes of a hound?" "At rest?" "No, when he is following his instincts! Or, better still," Adam went
on, "the eyes of a bird of prey when he is following his instincts. Not
when he is swooping, but merely when he is watching his quarry?" "No," said Sir Nathaniel, "I don't know that I ever did. Why, may I
ask?" "That was the look. Certainly not amatory or anything of that kind--yet
it was, it struck me, more dangerous, if not so deadly as an actual
threatening." Again there was a silence, which Sir Nathaniel broke as he stood up:
"I think it would be well if we all thought over this by ourselves. Then
we can renew the subject." CHAPTER VII--OOLANGA
Mr. Salton had an appointment for six o'clock at Liverpool. When he had
driven off, Sir Nathaniel took Adam by the arm. "May I come with you for a while to your study? I want to speak to you
privately without your uncle knowing about it, or even what the subject
is. You don't mind, do you? It is not idle curiosity. No, no. It is
on the subject to which we are all committed." "Is it necessary to keep my uncle in the dark about it? He might be
offended." "It is not necessary; but it is advisable. It is for his sake that I
asked. My friend is an old man, and it might concern him unduly--even
alarm him. I promise you there shall be nothing that could cause him
anxiety in our silence, or at which he could take umbrage." "Go on, sir!" said Adam simply. "You see, your uncle is now an old man. I know it, for we were boys
together. He has led an uneventful and somewhat self-contained life, so
that any such condition of things as has now arisen is apt to perplex him
from its very strangeness. In fact, any new matter is trying to old
people. It has its own disturbances and its own anxieties, and neither
of these things are good for lives that should be restful. Your uncle is
a strong man, with a very happy and placid nature. Given health and
ordinary conditions of life, there is no reason why he should not live to
be a hundred. You and I, therefore, who both love him, though in
different ways, should make it our business to protect him from all
disturbing influences. I am sure you will agree with me that any labour
to this end would be well spent. All right, my boy! I see your answer
in your eyes; so we need say no more of that. And now," here his voice
changed, "tell me all that took place at that interview. There are
strange things in front of us--how strange we cannot at present even
guess. Doubtless some of the difficult things to understand which lie
behind the veil will in time be shown to us to see and to understand. In
the meantime, all we can do is to work patiently, fearlessly, and
unselfishly, to an end that we think is right. You had got so far as
where Lilla opened the door to Mr. Caswall and the negro. You also
observed that Mimi was disturbed in her mind at the way Mr. Caswall
looked at her cousin." "Certainly--though 'disturbed' is a poor way of expressing her
objection." "Can you remember well enough to describe Caswall's eyes, and how Lilla
looked, and what Mimi said and did? Also Oolanga, Caswall's West African
servant." "I'll do what I can, sir. All the time Mr. Caswall was staring, he kept
his eyes fixed and motionless--but not as if he was in a trance. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
His
forehead was wrinkled up, as it is when one is trying to see through or
into something. At the best of times his face has not a gentle
expression; but when it was screwed up like that it was almost
diabolical. It frightened poor Lilla so that she trembled, and after a
bit got so pale that I thought she had fainted. However, she held up and
tried to stare back, but in a feeble kind of way. Then Mimi came close
and held her hand. That braced her up, and--still, never ceasing her
return stare--she got colour again and seemed more like herself." "Did he stare too?" "More than ever. The weaker Lilla seemed, the stronger he became, just
as if he were feeding on her strength. All at once she turned round,
threw up her hands, and fell down in a faint. I could not see what else
happened just then, for Mimi had thrown herself on her knees beside her
and hid her from me. Then there was something like a black shadow
between us, and there was the nigger, looking more like a malignant devil
than ever. I am not usually a patient man, and the sight of that ugly
devil is enough to make one's blood boil. When he saw my face, he seemed
to realise danger--immediate danger--and slunk out of the room as
noiselessly as if he had been blown out. I learned one thing, however--he
is an enemy, if ever a man had one." "That still leaves us three to two!" put in Sir Nathaniel. "Then Caswall slunk out, much as the nigger had done. When he had gone,
Lilla recovered at once." "Now," said Sir Nathaniel, anxious to restore peace, "have you found out
anything yet regarding the negro? I am anxious to be posted regarding
him. I fear there will be, or may be, grave trouble with him." "Yes, sir, I've heard a good deal about him--of course it is not
official; but hearsay must guide us at first. You know my man
Davenport--private secretary, confidential man of business, and general
factotum. He is devoted to me, and has my full confidence. I asked him
to stay on board the _West African_ and have a good look round, and find
out what he could about Mr. Caswall. Naturally, he was struck with the
aboriginal savage. He found one of the ship's stewards, who had been on
the regular voyages to South Africa. He knew Oolanga and had made a
study of him. He is a man who gets on well with niggers, and they open
their hearts to him. It seems that this Oolanga is quite a great person
in the nigger world of the African West Coast. He has the two things
which men of his own colour respect: he can make them afraid, and he is
lavish with money. I don't know whose money--but that does not matter. They are always ready to trumpet his greatness. Evil greatness it is--but
neither does that matter. Briefly, this is his history. He was
originally a witch-finder--about as low an occupation as exists amongst
aboriginal savages. Then he got up in the world and became an Obi-man,
which gives an opportunity to wealth _via_ blackmail. Finally, he
reached the highest honour in hellish service. He became a user of
Voodoo, which seems to be a service of the utmost baseness and cruelty. I
was told some of his deeds of cruelty, which are simply sickening. They
made me long for an opportunity of helping to drive him back to hell. You
might think to look at him that you could measure in some way the extent
of his vileness; but it would be a vain hope. Monsters such as he is
belong to an earlier and more rudimentary stage of barbarism. He is in
his way a clever fellow--for a nigger; but is none the less dangerous or
the less hateful for that. The men in the ship told me that he was a
collector: some of them had seen his collections. Such collections! All
that was potent for evil in bird or beast, or even in fish. Beaks that
could break and rend and tear--all the birds represented were of a
predatory kind. Even the fishes are those which are born to destroy, to
wound, to torture. The collection, I assure you, was an object lesson in
human malignity. This being has enough evil in his face to frighten even
a strong man. It is little wonder that the sight of it put that poor
girl into a dead faint!" Nothing more could be done at the moment, so they separated. Adam was up in the early morning and took a smart walk round the Brow. As
he was passing Diana's Grove, he looked in on the short avenue of trees,
and noticed the snakes killed on the previous morning by the mongoose. They all lay in a row, straight and rigid, as if they had been placed by
hands. Their skins seemed damp and sticky, and they were covered all
over with ants and other insects. They looked loathsome, so after a
glance, he passed on. A little later, when his steps took him, naturally enough, past the
entrance to Mercy Farm, he was passed by the negro, moving quickly under
the trees wherever there was shadow. Laid across one extended arm,
looking like dirty towels across a rail, he had the horrid-looking
snakes. He did not seem to see Adam. No one was to be seen at Mercy
except a few workmen in the farmyard, so, after waiting on the chance of
seeing Mimi, Adam began to go slowly home. Once more he was passed on the way. This time it was by Lady Arabella,
walking hurriedly and so furiously angry that she did not recognise him,
even to the extent of acknowledging his bow. When Adam got back to Lesser Hill, he went to the coach-house where the
box with the mongoose was kept, and took it with him, intending to finish
at the Mound of Stone what he had begun the previous morning with regard
to the extermination. He found that the snakes were even more easily
attacked than on the previous day; no less than six were killed in the
first half-hour. As no more appeared, he took it for granted that the
morning's work was over, and went towards home. The mongoose had by this
time become accustomed to him, and was willing to let himself be handled
freely. Adam lifted him up and put him on his shoulder and walked on. Presently he saw a lady advancing towards him, and recognised Lady
Arabella. Hitherto the mongoose had been quiet, like a playful affectionate kitten;
but when the two got close, Adam was horrified to see the mongoose, in a
state of the wildest fury, with every hair standing on end, jump from his
shoulder and run towards Lady Arabella. It looked so furious and so
intent on attack that he called a warning. "Look out--look out! The animal is furious and means to attack." Lady Arabella looked more than ever disdainful and was passing on; the
mongoose jumped at her in a furious attack. Adam rushed forward with his
stick, the only weapon he had. But just as he got within striking
distance, the lady drew out a revolver and shot the animal, breaking his
backbone. Not satisfied with this, she poured shot after shot into him
till the magazine was exhausted. There was no coolness or hauteur about
her now; she seemed more furious even than the animal, her face
transformed with hate, and as determined to kill as he had appeared to
be. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
Adam, not knowing exactly what to do, lifted his hat in apology and
hurried on to Lesser Hill. CHAPTER VIII--SURVIVALS
At breakfast Sir Nathaniel noticed that Adam was put out about something,
but he said nothing. The lesson of silence is better remembered in age
than in youth. When they were both in the study, where Sir Nathaniel
followed him, Adam at once began to tell his companion of what had
happened. Sir Nathaniel looked graver and graver as the narration
proceeded, and when Adam had stopped he remained silent for several
minutes, before speaking. "This is very grave. I have not formed any opinion yet; but it seems to
me at first impression that this is worse than anything I had expected." "Why, sir?" said Adam. "Is the killing of a mongoose--no matter by
whom--so serious a thing as all that?" His companion smoked on quietly for quite another few minutes before he
spoke. "When I have properly thought it over I may moderate my opinion, but in
the meantime it seems to me that there is something dreadful behind all
this--something that may affect all our lives--that may mean the issue of
life or death to any of us." Adam sat up quickly. "Do tell me, sir, what is in your mind--if, of course, you have no
objection, or do not think it better to withhold it." "I have no objection, Adam--in fact, if I had, I should have to overcome
it. I fear there can be no more reserved thoughts between us." "Indeed, sir, that sounds serious, worse than serious!" "Adam, I greatly fear that the time has come for us--for you and me, at
all events--to speak out plainly to one another. Does not there seem
something very mysterious about this?" "I have thought so, sir, all along. The only difficulty one has is what
one is to think and where to begin." "Let us begin with what you have told me. First take the conduct of the
mongoose. He was quiet, even friendly and affectionate with you. He
only attacked the snakes, which is, after all, his business in life." "That is so!" "Then we must try to find some reason why he attacked Lady Arabella." "May it not be that a mongoose may have merely the instinct to attack,
that nature does not allow or provide him with the fine reasoning powers
to discriminate who he is to attack?" "Of course that may be so. But, on the other hand, should we not satisfy
ourselves why he does wish to attack anything? If for centuries, this
particular animal is known to attack only one kind of other animal, are
we not justified in assuming that when one of them attacks a hitherto
unclassed animal, he recognises in that animal some quality which it has
in common with the hereditary enemy?" "That is a good argument, sir," Adam went on, "but a dangerous one. If
we followed it out, it would lead us to believe that Lady Arabella is a
snake." "We must be sure, before going to such an end, that there is no point as
yet unconsidered which would account for the unknown thing which puzzles
us." "In what way?" "Well, suppose the instinct works on some physical basis--for instance,
smell. If there were anything in recent juxtaposition to the attacked
which would carry the scent, surely that would supply the missing cause." "Of course!" Adam spoke with conviction. "Now, from what you tell me, the negro had just come from the direction
of Diana's Grove, carrying the dead snakes which the mongoose had killed
the previous morning. Might not the scent have been carried that way?" "Of course it might, and probably was. I never thought of that. Is
there any possible way of guessing approximately how long a scent will
remain? You see, this is a natural scent, and may derive from a place
where it has been effective for thousands of years. Then, does a scent
of any kind carry with it any form or quality of another kind, either
good or evil? I ask you because one ancient name of the house lived in
by the lady who was attacked by the mongoose was 'The Lair of the White
Worm.' If any of these things be so, our difficulties have multiplied
indefinitely. They may even change in kind. We may get into moral
entanglements; before we know it, we may be in the midst of a struggle
between good and evil." Sir Nathaniel smiled gravely. "With regard to the first question--so far as I know, there are no fixed
periods for which a scent may be active--I think we may take it that that
period does not run into thousands of years. As to whether any moral
change accompanies a physical one, I can only say that I have met no
proof of the fact. At the same time, we must remember that 'good' and
'evil' are terms so wide as to take in the whole scheme of creation, and
all that is implied by them and by their mutual action and reaction. Generally, I would say that in the scheme of a First Cause anything is
possible. So long as the inherent forces or tendencies of any one thing
are veiled from us we must expect mystery." "There is one other question on which I should like to ask your opinion. Suppose that there are any permanent forces appertaining to the past,
what we may call 'survivals,' do these belong to good as well as to evil? For instance, if the scent of the primaeval monster can so remain in
proportion to the original strength, can the same be true of things of
good import?" Sir Nathaniel thought for a while before he answered. "We must be careful not to confuse the physical and the moral. I can see
that already you have switched on the moral entirely, so perhaps we had
better follow it up first. On the side of the moral, we have certain
justification for belief in the utterances of revealed religion. For
instance, 'the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much'
is altogether for good. We have nothing of a similar kind on the side of
evil. But if we accept this dictum we need have no more fear of
'mysteries': these become thenceforth merely obstacles." Adam suddenly changed to another phase of the subject. "And now, sir, may I turn for a few minutes to purely practical things,
or rather to matters of historical fact?" Sir Nathaniel bowed acquiescence. "We have already spoken of the history, so far as it is known, of some of
the places round us--'Castra Regis,' 'Diana's Grove,' and 'The Lair of
the White Worm.' I would like to ask if there is anything not
necessarily of evil import about any of the places?" "Which?" asked Sir Nathaniel shrewdly. "Well, for instance, this house and Mercy Farm?" "Here we turn," said Sir Nathaniel, "to the other side, the light side of
things. Let us take Mercy Farm first. When Augustine was sent by Pope
Gregory to Christianise England, in the time of the Romans, he was
received and protected by Ethelbert, King of Kent, whose wife, daughter
of Charibert, King of Paris, was a Christian, and did much for Augustine. She founded a nunnery in memory of Columba, which was named _Sedes
misericordioe_, the House of Mercy, and, as the region was Mercian, the
two names became involved. As Columba is the Latin for dove, the dove
became a sort of signification of the nunnery. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
She seized on the idea
and made the newly-founded nunnery a house of doves. Someone sent her a
freshly-discovered dove, a sort of carrier, but which had in the white
feathers of its head and neck the form of a religious cowl. The nunnery
flourished for more than a century, when, in the time of Penda, who was
the reactionary of heathendom, it fell into decay. In the meantime the
doves, protected by religious feeling, had increased mightily, and were
known in all Catholic communities. When King Offa ruled in Mercia, about
a hundred and fifty years later, he restored Christianity, and under its
protection the nunnery of St. Columba was restored and its doves
flourished again. In process of time this religious house again fell
into desuetude; but before it disappeared it had achieved a great name
for good works, and in especial for the piety of its members. If deeds
and prayers and hopes and earnest thinking leave anywhere any moral
effect, Mercy Farm and all around it have almost the right to be
considered holy ground." "Thank you, sir," said Adam earnestly, and was silent. Sir Nathaniel
understood. After lunch that day, Adam casually asked Sir Nathaniel to come for a
walk with him. The keen-witted old diplomatist guessed that there must
be some motive behind the suggestion, and he at once agreed. As soon as they were free from observation, Adam began. "I am afraid, sir, that there is more going on in this neighbourhood than
most people imagine. I was out this morning, and on the edge of the
small wood, I came upon the body of a child by the roadside. At first, I
thought she was dead, and while examining her, I noticed on her neck some
marks that looked like those of teeth." "Some wild dog, perhaps?" put in Sir Nathaniel. "Possibly, sir, though I think not--but listen to the rest of my news. I
glanced around, and to my surprise, I noticed something white moving
among the trees. I placed the child down carefully, and followed, but I
could not find any further traces. So I returned to the child and
resumed my examination, and, to my delight, I discovered that she was
still alive. I chafed her hands and gradually she revived, but to my
disappointment she remembered nothing--except that something had crept up
quietly from behind, and had gripped her round the throat. Then,
apparently, she fainted." "Gripped her round the throat! Then it cannot have been a dog." "No, sir, that is my difficulty, and explains why I brought you out here,
where we cannot possibly be overheard. You have noticed, of course, the
peculiar sinuous way in which Lady Arabella moves--well, I feel certain
that the white thing that I saw in the wood was the mistress of Diana's
Grove!" "Good God, boy, be careful what you say." "Yes, sir, I fully realise the gravity of my accusation, but I feel
convinced that the marks on the child's throat were human--and made by a
woman." Adam's companion remained silent for some time, deep in thought. "Adam, my boy," he said at last, "this matter appears to me to be far
more serious even than you think. It forces me to break confidence with
my old friend, your uncle--but, in order to spare him, I must do so. For
some time now, things have been happening in this district that have been
worrying him dreadfully--several people have disappeared, without leaving
the slightest trace; a dead child was found by the roadside, with no
visible or ascertainable cause of death--sheep and other animals have
been found in the fields, bleeding from open wounds. There have been
other matters--many of them apparently trivial in themselves. Some
sinister influence has been at work, and I admit that I have suspected
Lady Arabella--that is why I questioned you so closely about the mongoose
and its strange attack upon Lady Arabella. You will think it strange
that I should suspect the mistress of Diana's Grove, a beautiful woman of
aristocratic birth. Let me explain--the family seat is near my own
place, Doom Tower, and at one time I knew the family well. When still a
young girl, Lady Arabella wandered into a small wood near her home, and
did not return. She was found unconscious and in a high fever--the
doctor said that she had received a poisonous bite, and the girl being at
a delicate and critical age, the result was serious--so much so that she
was not expected to recover. A great London physician came down but
could do nothing--indeed, he said that the girl would not survive the
night. All hope had been abandoned, when, to everyone's surprise, Lady
Arabella made a sudden and startling recovery. Within a couple of days
she was going about as usual! But to the horror of her people, she
developed a terrible craving for cruelty, maiming and injuring birds and
small animals--even killing them. This was put down to a nervous
disturbance due to her age, and it was hoped that her marriage to Captain
March would put this right. However, it was not a happy marriage, and
eventually her husband was found shot through the head. I have always
suspected suicide, though no pistol was found near the body. He may have
discovered something--God knows what!--so possibly Lady Arabella may
herself have killed him. Putting together many small matters that have
come to my knowledge, I have come to the conclusion that the foul White
Worm obtained control of her body, just as her soul was leaving its
earthly tenement--that would explain the sudden revival of energy, the
strange and inexplicable craving for maiming and killing, as well as many
other matters with which I need not trouble you now, Adam. As I said
just now, God alone knows what poor Captain March discovered--it must
have been something too ghastly for human endurance, if my theory is
correct that the once beautiful human body of Lady Arabella is under the
control of this ghastly White Worm." Adam nodded. "But what can we do, sir--it seems a most difficult problem." "We can do nothing, my boy--that is the important part of it. It would
be impossible to take action--all we can do is to keep careful watch,
especially as regards Lady Arabella, and be ready to act, promptly and
decisively, if the opportunity occurs." Adam agreed, and the two men returned to Lesser Hill. CHAPTER IX--SMELLING DEATH
Adam Salton, though he talked little, did not let the grass grow under
his feet in any matter which he had undertaken, or in which he was
interested. He had agreed with Sir Nathaniel that they should not do
anything with regard to the mystery of Lady Arabella's fear of the
mongoose, but he steadily pursued his course in being _prepared_ to act
whenever the opportunity might come. He was in his own mind perpetually
casting about for information or clues which might lead to possible lines
of action. Baffled by the killing of the mongoose, he looked around for
another line to follow. He was fascinated by the idea of there being a
mysterious link between the woman and the animal, but he was already
preparing a second string to his bow. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
His new idea was to use the
faculties of Oolanga, so far as he could, in the service of discovery. His first move was to send Davenport to Liverpool to try to find the
steward of the _West African_, who had told him about Oolanga, and if
possible secure any further information, and then try to induce (by
bribery or other means) the nigger to come to the Brow. So soon as he
himself could have speech of the Voodoo-man he would be able to learn
from him something useful. Davenport was successful in his missions, for
he had to get another mongoose, and he was able to tell Adam that he had
seen the steward, who told him much that he wanted to know, and had also
arranged for Oolanga to come to Lesser Hill the following day. At this
point Adam saw his way sufficiently clear to admit Davenport to some
extent into his confidence. He had come to the conclusion that it would
be better--certainly at first--not himself to appear in the matter, with
which Davenport was fully competent to deal. It would be time for
himself to take a personal part when matters had advanced a little
further. If what the nigger said was in any wise true, the man had a rare gift
which might be useful in the quest they were after. He could, as it
were, "smell death." If any one was dead, if any one had died, or if a
place had been used in connection with death, he seemed to know the broad
fact by intuition. Adam made up his mind that to test this faculty with
regard to several places would be his first task. Naturally he was
anxious, and the time passed slowly. The only comfort was the arrival
the next morning of a strong packing case, locked, from Ross, the key
being in the custody of Davenport. In the case were two smaller boxes,
both locked. One of them contained a mongoose to replace that killed by
Lady Arabella; the other was the special mongoose which had already
killed the king-cobra in Nepaul. When both the animals had been safely
put under lock and key, he felt that he might breathe more freely. No
one was allowed to know the secret of their existence in the house,
except himself and Davenport. He arranged that Davenport should take
Oolanga round the neighbourhood for a walk, stopping at each of the
places which he designated. Having gone all along the Brow, he was to
return the same way and induce him to touch on the same subjects in
talking with Adam, who was to meet them as if by chance at the farthest
part--that beyond Mercy Farm. The incidents of the day proved much as Adam expected. At Mercy Farm, at
Diana's Grove, at Castra Regis, and a few other spots, the negro stopped
and, opening his wide nostrils as if to sniff boldly, said that he
smelled death. It was not always in the same form. At Mercy Farm he
said there were many small deaths. At Diana's Grove his bearing was
different. There was a distinct sense of enjoyment about him, especially
when he spoke of many great deaths. Here, too, he sniffed in a strange
way, like a bloodhound at check, and looked puzzled. He said no word in
either praise or disparagement, but in the centre of the Grove, where,
hidden amongst ancient oak stumps, was a block of granite slightly
hollowed on the top, he bent low and placed his forehead on the ground. This was the only place where he showed distinct reverence. At the
Castle, though he spoke of much death, he showed no sign of respect. There was evidently something about Diana's Grove which both interested
and baffled him. Before leaving, he moved all over the place
unsatisfied, and in one spot, close to the edge of the Brow, where there
was a deep hollow, he appeared to be afraid. After returning several
times to this place, he suddenly turned and ran in a panic of fear to the
higher ground, crossing as he did so the outcropping rock. Then he
seemed to breathe more freely, and recovered some of his jaunty
impudence. All this seemed to satisfy Adam's expectations. He went back to Lesser
Hill with a serene and settled calm upon him. Sir Nathaniel followed him
into his study. "By the way, I forgot to ask you details about one thing. When that
extraordinary staring episode of Mr. Caswall went on, how did Lilla take
it--how did she bear herself?" "She looked frightened, and trembled just as I have seen a pigeon with a
hawk, or a bird with a serpent." "Thanks. It is just as I expected. There have been circumstances in the
Caswall family which lead one to believe that they have had from the
earliest times some extraordinary mesmeric or hypnotic faculty. Indeed,
a skilled eye could read so much in their physiognomy. That shot of
yours, whether by instinct or intention, of the hawk and the pigeon was
peculiarly apposite. I think we may settle on that as a fixed trait to
be accepted throughout our investigation." When dusk had fallen, Adam took the new mongoose--not the one from
Nepaul--and, carrying the box slung over his shoulder, strolled towards
Diana's Grove. Close to the gateway he met Lady Arabella, clad as usual
in tightly fitting white, which showed off her slim figure. To his intense astonishment the mongoose allowed her to pet him, take him
up in her arms and fondle him. As she was going in his direction, they
walked on together. Round the roadway between the entrances of Diana's Grove and Lesser Hill
were many trees, with not much foliage except at the top. In the dusk
this place was shadowy, and the view was hampered by the clustering
trunks. In the uncertain, tremulous light which fell through the tree-
tops, it was hard to distinguish anything clearly, and at last, somehow,
he lost sight of her altogether, and turned back on his track to find
her. Presently he came across her close to her own gate. She was
leaning over the paling of split oak branches which formed the paling of
the avenue. He could not see the mongoose, so he asked her where it had
gone. "He slipt out of my arms while I was petting him," she answered, "and
disappeared under the hedges." They found him at a place where the avenue widened so as to let carriages
pass each other. The little creature seemed quite changed. He had been
ebulliently active; now he was dull and spiritless--seemed to be dazed. He allowed himself to be lifted by either of the pair; but when he was
alone with Lady Arabella he kept looking round him in a strange way, as
though trying to escape. When they had come out on the roadway Adam held
the mongoose tight to him, and, lifting his hat to his companion, moved
quickly towards Lesser Hill; he and Lady Arabella lost sight of each
other in the thickening gloom. When Adam got home, he put the mongoose in his box, and locked the door
of the room. The other mongoose--the one from Nepaul--was safely locked
in his own box, but he lay quiet and did not stir. When he got to his
study Sir Nathaniel came in, shutting the door behind him. "I have come," he said, "while we have an opportunity of being alone, to
tell you something of the Caswall family which I think will interest you. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
There is, or used to be, a belief in this part of the world that the
Caswall family had some strange power of making the wills of other
persons subservient to their own. There are many allusions to the
subject in memoirs and other unimportant works, but I only know of one
where the subject is spoken of definitely. It is _Mercia and its
Worthies_, written by Ezra Toms more than a hundred years ago. The
author goes into the question of the close association of the then Edgar
Caswall with Mesmer in Paris. He speaks of Caswall being a pupil and the
fellow worker of Mesmer, and states that though, when the latter left
France, he took away with him a vast quantity of philosophical and
electric instruments, he was never known to use them again. He once made
it known to a friend that he had given them to his old pupil. The term
he used was odd, for it was 'bequeathed,' but no such bequest of Mesmer
was ever made known. At any rate the instruments were missing, and never
turned up." A servant came into the room to tell Adam that there was some strange
noise coming from the locked room into which he had gone when he came in. He hurried off to the place at once, Sir Nathaniel going with him. Having
locked the door behind them, Adam opened the packing-case where the boxes
of the two mongooses were locked up. There was no sound from one of
them, but from the other a queer restless struggling. Having opened both
boxes, he found that the noise was from the Nepaul animal, which,
however, became quiet at once. In the other box the new mongoose lay
dead, with every appearance of having been strangled! CHAPTER X--THE KITE
On the following day, a little after four o'clock, Adam set out for
Mercy. He was home just as the clocks were striking six. He was pale and upset,
but otherwise looked strong and alert. The old man summed up his
appearance and manner thus: "Braced up for battle." "Now!" said Sir Nathaniel, and settled down to listen, looking at Adam
steadily and listening attentively that he might miss nothing--even the
inflection of a word. "I found Lilla and Mimi at home. Watford had been detained by business
on the farm. Miss Watford received me as kindly as before; Mimi, too,
seemed glad to see me. Mr. Caswall came so soon after I arrived, that
he, or someone on his behalf, must have been watching for me. He was
followed closely by the negro, who was puffing hard as if he had been
running--so it was probably he who watched. Mr. Caswall was very cool
and collected, but there was a more than usually iron look about his face
that I did not like. However, we got on very well. He talked pleasantly
on all sorts of questions. The nigger waited a while and then
disappeared as on the other occasion. Mr. Caswall's eyes were as usual
fixed on Lilla. True, they seemed to be very deep and earnest, but there
was no offence in them. Had it not been for the drawing down of the
brows and the stern set of the jaws, I should not at first have noticed
anything. But the stare, when presently it began, increased in
intensity. I could see that Lilla began to suffer from nervousness, as
on the first occasion; but she carried herself bravely. However, the
more nervous she grew, the harder Mr. Caswall stared. It was evident to
me that he had come prepared for some sort of mesmeric or hypnotic
battle. After a while he began to throw glances round him and then
raised his hand, without letting either Lilla or Mimi see the action. It
was evidently intended to give some sign to the negro, for he came, in
his usual stealthy way, quietly in by the hall door, which was open. Then
Mr. Caswall's efforts at staring became intensified, and poor Lilla's
nervousness grew greater. Mimi, seeing that her cousin was distressed,
came close to her, as if to comfort or strengthen her with the
consciousness of her presence. This evidently made a difficulty for Mr.
Caswall, for his efforts, without appearing to get feebler, seemed less
effective. This continued for a little while, to the gain of both Lilla
and Mimi. Then there was a diversion. Without word or apology the door
opened, and Lady Arabella March entered the room. I had seen her coming
through the great window. Without a word she crossed the room and stood
beside Mr. Caswall. It really was very like a fight of a peculiar kind;
and the longer it was sustained the more earnest--the fiercer--it grew. That combination of forces--the over-lord, the white woman, and the black
man--would have cost some--probably all of them--their lives in the
Southern States of America. To us it was simply horrible. But all that
you can understand. This time, to go on in sporting phrase, it was
understood by all to be a 'fight to a finish,' and the mixed group did
not slacken a moment or relax their efforts. On Lilla the strain began
to tell disastrously. She grew pale--a patchy pallor, which meant that
her nerves were out of order. She trembled like an aspen, and though she
struggled bravely, I noticed that her legs would hardly support her. A
dozen times she seemed about to collapse in a faint, but each time, on
catching sight of Mimi's eyes, she made a fresh struggle and pulled
through. "By now Mr. Caswall's face had lost its appearance of passivity. His
eyes glowed with a fiery light. He was still the old Roman in
inflexibility of purpose; but grafted on to the Roman was a new Berserker
fury. His companions in the baleful work seemed to have taken on
something of his feeling. Lady Arabella looked like a soulless, pitiless
being, not human, unless it revived old legends of transformed human
beings who had lost their humanity in some transformation or in the sweep
of natural savagery. As for the negro--well, I can only say that it was
solely due to the self-restraint which you impressed on me that I did not
wipe him out as he stood--without warning, without fair play--without a
single one of the graces of life and death. Lilla was silent in the
helpless concentration of deadly fear; Mimi was all resolve and
self-forgetfulness, so intent on the soul-struggle in which she was
engaged that there was no possibility of any other thought. As for
myself, the bonds of will which held me inactive seemed like bands of
steel which numbed all my faculties, except sight and hearing. We seemed
fixed in an _impasse_. Something must happen, though the power of
guessing was inactive. As in a dream, I saw Mimi's hand move restlessly,
as if groping for something. Mechanically it touched that of Lilla, and
in that instant she was transformed. It was as if youth and strength
entered afresh into something already dead to sensibility and intention. As if by inspiration, she grasped the other's band with a force which
blenched the knuckles. Her face suddenly flamed, as if some divine light
shone through it. Her form expanded till it stood out majestically. Lifting her right hand, she stepped forward towards Caswall, and with a
bold sweep of her arm seemed to drive some strange force towards him. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
Again and again was the gesture repeated, the man falling back from her
at each movement. Towards the door he retreated, she following. There
was a sound as of the cooing sob of doves, which seemed to multiply and
intensify with each second. The sound from the unseen source rose and
rose as he retreated, till finally it swelled out in a triumphant peal,
as she with a fierce sweep of her arm, seemed to hurl something at her
foe, and he, moving his hands blindly before his face, appeared to be
swept through the doorway and out into the open sunlight. "All at once my own faculties were fully restored; I could see and hear
everything, and be fully conscious of what was going on. Even the
figures of the baleful group were there, though dimly seen as through a
veil--a shadowy veil. I saw Lilla sink down in a swoon, and Mimi throw
up her arms in a gesture of triumph. As I saw her through the great
window, the sunshine flooded the landscape, which, however, was
momentarily becoming eclipsed by an onrush of a myriad birds." By the next morning, daylight showed the actual danger which threatened. From every part of the eastern counties reports were received concerning
the enormous immigration of birds. Experts were sending--on their own
account, on behalf of learned societies, and through local and imperial
governing bodies--reports dealing with the matter, and suggesting
remedies. The reports closer to home were even more disturbing. All day long it
would seem that the birds were coming thicker from all quarters. Doubtless many were going as well as coming, but the mass seemed never to
get less. Each bird seemed to sound some note of fear or anger or
seeking, and the whirring of wings never ceased nor lessened. The air
was full of a muttered throb. No window or barrier could shut out the
sound, till the ears of any listener became dulled by the ceaseless
murmur. So monotonous it was, so cheerless, so disheartening, so
melancholy, that all longed, but in vain, for any variety, no matter how
terrible it might be. The second morning the reports from all the districts round were more
alarming than ever. Farmers began to dread the coming of winter as they
saw the dwindling of the timely fruitfulness of the earth. And as yet it
was only a warning of evil, not the evil accomplished; the ground began
to look bare whenever some passing sound temporarily frightened the
birds. Edgar Caswall tortured his brain for a long time unavailingly, to think
of some means of getting rid of what he, as well as his neighbours, had
come to regard as a plague of birds. At last he recalled a circumstance
which promised a solution of the difficulty. The experience was of some
years ago in China, far up-country, towards the head-waters of the Yang-
tze-kiang, where the smaller tributaries spread out in a sort of natural
irrigation scheme to supply the wilderness of paddy-fields. It was at
the time of the ripening rice, and the myriads of birds which came to
feed on the coming crop was a serious menace, not only to the district,
but to the country at large. The farmers, who were more or less
afflicted with the same trouble every season, knew how to deal with it. They made a vast kite, which they caused to be flown over the centre spot
of the incursion. The kite was shaped like a great hawk; and the moment
it rose into the air the birds began to cower and seek protection--and
then to disappear. So long as that kite was flying overhead the birds
lay low and the crop was saved. Accordingly Caswall ordered his men to
construct an immense kite, adhering as well as they could to the lines of
a hawk. Then he and his men, with a sufficiency of cord, began to fly it
high overhead. The experience of China was repeated. The moment the
kite rose, the birds hid or sought shelter. The following morning, the
kite was still flying high, no bird was to be seen as far as the eye
could reach from Castra Regis. But there followed in turn what proved
even a worse evil. All the birds were cowed; their sounds stopped. Neither song nor chirp was heard--silence seemed to have taken the place
of the normal voices of bird life. But that was not all. The silence
spread to all animals. The fear and restraint which brooded amongst the denizens of the air
began to affect all life. Not only did the birds cease song or chirp,
but the lowing of the cattle ceased in the fields and the varied sounds
of life died away. In place of these things was only a soundless gloom,
more dreadful, more disheartening, more soul-killing than any concourse
of sounds, no matter how full of fear and dread. Pious individuals put
up constant prayers for relief from the intolerable solitude. After a
little there were signs of universal depression which those who ran might
read. One and all, the faces of men and women seemed bereft of vitality,
of interest, of thought, and, most of all, of hope. Men seemed to have
lost the power of expression of their thoughts. The soundless air seemed
to have the same effect as the universal darkness when men gnawed their
tongues with pain. From this infliction of silence there was no relief. Everything was
affected; gloom was the predominant note. Joy appeared to have passed
away as a factor of life, and this creative impulse had nothing to take
its place. That giant spot in high air was a plague of evil influence. It seemed like a new misanthropic belief which had fallen on human
beings, carrying with it the negation of all hope. After a few days, men began to grow desperate; their very words as well
as their senses seemed to be in chains. Edgar Caswall again tortured his
brain to find any antidote or palliative of this greater evil than
before. He would gladly have destroyed the kite, or caused its flying to
cease; but the instant it was pulled down, the birds rose up in even
greater numbers; all those who depended in any way on agriculture sent
pitiful protests to Castra Regis. It was strange indeed what influence that weird kite seemed to exercise. Even human beings were affected by it, as if both it and they were
realities. As for the people at Mercy Farm, it was like a taste of
actual death. Lilla felt it most. If she had been indeed a real dove,
with a real kite hanging over her in the air, she could not have been
more frightened or more affected by the terror this created. Of course, some of those already drawn into the vortex noticed the effect
on individuals. Those who were interested took care to compare their
information. Strangely enough, as it seemed to the others, the person
who took the ghastly silence least to heart was the negro. By nature he
was not sensitive to, or afflicted by, nerves. This alone would not have
produced the seeming indifference, so they set their minds to discover
the real cause. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
Adam came quickly to the conclusion that there was for
him some compensation that the others did not share; and he soon believed
that that compensation was in one form or another the enjoyment of the
sufferings of others. Thus the black had a never-failing source of
amusement. Lady Arabella's cold nature rendered her immune to anything in the way of
pain or trouble concerning others. Edgar Caswall was far too haughty a
person, and too stern of nature, to concern himself about poor or
helpless people, much less the lower order of mere animals. Mr. Watford,
Mr. Salton, and Sir Nathaniel were all concerned in the issue, partly
from kindness of heart--for none of them could see suffering, even of
wild birds, unmoved--and partly on account of their property, which had
to be protected, or ruin would stare them in the face before long. Lilla suffered acutely. As time went on, her face became pinched, and
her eyes dull with watching and crying. Mimi suffered too on account of
her cousin's suffering. But as she could do nothing, she resolutely made
up her mind to self-restraint and patience. Adam's frequent visits
comforted her. CHAPTER XI--MESMER'S CHEST
After a couple of weeks had passed, the kite seemed to give Edgar Caswall
a new zest for life. He was never tired of looking at its movements. He
had a comfortable armchair put out on the tower, wherein he sat sometimes
all day long, watching as though the kite was a new toy and he a child
lately come into possession of it. He did not seem to have lost interest
in Lilla, for he still paid an occasional visit at Mercy Farm. Indeed, his feeling towards her, whatever it had been at first, had now
so far changed that it had become a distinct affection of a purely animal
kind. Indeed, it seemed as though the man's nature had become corrupted,
and that all the baser and more selfish and more reckless qualities had
become more conspicuous. There was not so much sternness apparent in his
nature, because there was less self-restraint. Determination had become
indifference. The visible change in Edgar was that he grew morbid, sad, silent; the
neighbours thought he was going mad. He became absorbed in the kite, and
watched it not only by day, but often all night long. It became an
obsession to him. Caswall took a personal interest in the keeping of the great kite flying. He had a vast coil of cord efficient for the purpose, which worked on a
roller fixed on the parapet of the tower. There was a winch for the
pulling in of the slack; the outgoing line being controlled by a racket. There was invariably one man at least, day and night, on the tower to
attend to it. At such an elevation there was always a strong wind, and
at times the kite rose to an enormous height, as well as travelling for
great distances laterally. In fact, the kite became, in a short time,
one of the curiosities of Castra Regis and all around it. Edgar began to
attribute to it, in his own mind, almost human qualities. It became to
him a separate entity, with a mind and a soul of its own. Being idle-
handed all day, he began to apply to what he considered the service of
the kite some of his spare time, and found a new pleasure--a new object
in life--in the old schoolboy game of sending up "runners" to the kite. The way this is done is to get round pieces of paper so cut that there is
a hole in the centre, through which the string of the kite passes. The
natural action of the wind-pressure takes the paper along the string, and
so up to the kite itself, no matter how high or how far it may have gone. In the early days of this amusement Edgar Caswall spent hours. Hundreds
of such messengers flew along the string, until soon he bethought him of
writing messages on these papers so that he could make known his ideas to
the kite. It may be that his brain gave way under the opportunities
given by his illusion of the entity of the toy and its power of separate
thought. From sending messages he came to making direct speech to the
kite--without, however, ceasing to send the runners. Doubtless, the
height of the tower, seated as it was on the hill-top, the rushing of the
ceaseless wind, the hypnotic effect of the lofty altitude of the speck in
the sky at which he gazed, and the rushing of the paper messengers up the
string till sight of them was lost in distance, all helped to further
affect his brain, undoubtedly giving way under the strain of beliefs and
circumstances which were at once stimulating to the imagination,
occupative of his mind, and absorbing. The next step of intellectual decline was to bring to bear on the main
idea of the conscious identity of the kite all sorts of subjects which
had imaginative force or tendency of their own. He had, in Castra Regis,
a large collection of curious and interesting things formed in the past
by his forebears, of similar tastes to his own. There were all sorts of
strange anthropological specimens, both old and new, which had been
collected through various travels in strange places: ancient Egyptian
relics from tombs and mummies; curios from Australia, New Zealand, and
the South Seas; idols and images--from Tartar ikons to ancient Egyptian,
Persian, and Indian objects of worship; objects of death and torture of
American Indians; and, above all, a vast collection of lethal weapons of
every kind and from every place--Chinese "high pinders," double knives,
Afghan double-edged scimitars made to cut a body in two, heavy knives
from all the Eastern countries, ghost daggers from Thibet, the terrible
kukri of the Ghourka and other hill tribes of India, assassins' weapons
from Italy and Spain, even the knife which was formerly carried by the
slave-drivers of the Mississippi region. Death and pain of every kind
were fully represented in that gruesome collection. That it had a fascination for Oolanga goes without saying. He was never
tired of visiting the museum in the tower, and spent endless hours in
inspecting the exhibits, till he was thoroughly familiar with every
detail of all of them. He asked permission to clean and polish and
sharpen them--a favour which was readily granted. In addition to the
above objects, there were many things of a kind to awaken human fear. Stuffed serpents of the most objectionable and horrid kind; giant insects
from the tropics, fearsome in every detail; fishes and crustaceans
covered with weird spikes; dried octopuses of great size. Other things,
too, there were, not less deadly though seemingly innocuous--dried fungi,
traps intended for birds, beasts, fishes, reptiles, and insects; machines
which could produce pain of any kind and degree, and the only mercy of
which was the power of producing speedy death. Caswall, who had never before seen any of these things, except those
which he had collected himself, found a constant amusement and interest
in them. He studied them, their uses, their mechanism--where there was
such--and their places of origin, until he had an ample and real
knowledge of all concerning them. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
Many were secret and intricate, but he
never rested till he found out all the secrets. When once he had become
interested in strange objects, and the way to use them, he began to
explore various likely places for similar finds. He began to inquire of
his household where strange lumber was kept. Several of the men spoke of
old Simon Chester as one who knew everything in and about the house. Accordingly, he sent for the old man, who came at once. He was very old,
nearly ninety years of age, and very infirm. He had been born in the
Castle, and had served its succession of masters--present or absent--ever
since. When Edgar began to question him on the subject regarding which
he had sent for him, old Simon exhibited much perturbation. In fact, he
became so frightened that his master, fully believing that he was
concealing something, ordered him to tell at once what remained unseen,
and where it was hidden away. Face to face with discovery of his secret,
the old man, in a pitiable state of concern, spoke out even more fully
than Mr. Caswall had expected. "Indeed, indeed, sir, everything is here in the tower that has ever been
put away in my time except--except--" here he began to shake and tremble
it--"except the chest which Mr. Edgar--he who was Mr. Edgar when I first
took service--brought back from France, after he had been with Dr.
Mesmer. The trunk has been kept in my room for safety; but I shall send
it down here now." "What is in it?" asked Edgar sharply. "That I do not know. Moreover, it is a peculiar trunk, without any
visible means of opening." "Is there no lock?" "I suppose so, sir; but I do not know. There is no keyhole." "Send it here; and then come to me yourself." The trunk, a heavy one with steel bands round it, but no lock or keyhole,
was carried in by two men. Shortly afterwards old Simon attended his
master. When he came into the room, Mr. Caswall himself went and closed
the door; then he asked:
"How do you open it?" "I do not know, sir." "Do you mean to say that you never opened it?" "Most certainly I say so, your honour. How could I? It was entrusted to
me with the other things by my master. To open it would have been a
breach of trust." Caswall sneered. "Quite remarkable! Leave it with me. Close the door behind you. Stay--did no one ever tell you about it--say anything regarding it--make
any remark?" Old Simon turned pale, and put his trembling hands together. "Oh, sir, I entreat you not to touch it. That trunk probably contains
secrets which Dr. Mesmer told my master. Told them to his ruin!" "How do you mean? What ruin?" "Sir, he it was who, men said, sold his soul to the Evil One; I had
thought that that time and the evil of it had all passed away." "That will do. Go away; but remain in your own room, or within call. I
may want you." The old man bowed deeply and went out trembling, but without speaking a
word. CHAPTER XII--THE CHEST OPENED
Left alone in the turret-room, Edgar Caswall carefully locked the door
and hung a handkerchief over the keyhole. Next, he inspected the
windows, and saw that they were not overlooked from any angle of the main
building. Then he carefully examined the trunk, going over it with a
magnifying glass. He found it intact: the steel bands were flawless; the
whole trunk was compact. After sitting opposite to it for some time, and
the shades of evening beginning to melt into darkness, he gave up the
task and went to his bedroom, after locking the door of the turret-room
behind him and taking away the key. He woke in the morning at daylight, and resumed his patient but
unavailing study of the metal trunk. This he continued during the whole
day with the same result--humiliating disappointment, which overwrought
his nerves and made his head ache. The result of the long strain was
seen later in the afternoon, when he sat locked within the turret-room
before the still baffling trunk, distrait, listless and yet agitated,
sunk in a settled gloom. As the dusk was falling he told the steward to
send him two men, strong ones. These he ordered to take the trunk to his
bedroom. In that room he then sat on into the night, without pausing
even to take any food. His mind was in a whirl, a fever of excitement. The result was that when, late in the night, he locked himself in his
room his brain was full of odd fancies; he was on the high road to mental
disturbance. He lay down on his bed in the dark, still brooding over the
mystery of the closed trunk. Gradually he yielded to the influences of silence and darkness. After
lying there quietly for some time, his mind became active again. But
this time there were round him no disturbing influences; his brain was
active and able to work freely and to deal with memory. A thousand
forgotten--or only half-known--incidents, fragments of conversations or
theories long ago guessed at and long forgotten, crowded on his mind. He
seemed to hear again around him the legions of whirring wings to which he
had been so lately accustomed. Even to himself he knew that that was an
effort of imagination founded on imperfect memory. But he was content
that imagination should work, for out of it might come some solution of
the mystery which surrounded him. And in this frame of mind, sleep made
another and more successful essay. This time he enjoyed peaceful
slumber, restful alike to his wearied body and his overwrought brain. In his sleep he arose, and, as if in obedience to some influence beyond
and greater than himself, lifted the great trunk and set it on a strong
table at one side of the room, from which he had previously removed a
quantity of books. To do this, he had to use an amount of strength which
was, he knew, far beyond him in his normal state. As it was, it seemed
easy enough; everything yielded before his touch. Then he became
conscious that somehow--how, he never could remember--the chest was open. He unlocked his door, and, taking the chest on his shoulder, carried it
up to the turret-room, the door of which also he unlocked. Even at the
time he was amazed at his own strength, and wondered whence it had come. His mind, lost in conjecture, was too far off to realise more immediate
things. He knew that the chest was enormously heavy. He seemed, in a
sort of vision which lit up the absolute blackness around, to see the two
sturdy servant men staggering under its great weight. He locked himself
again in the turret-room, and laid the opened chest on a table, and in
the darkness began to unpack it, laying out the contents, which were
mainly of metal and glass--great pieces in strange forms--on another
table. He was conscious of being still asleep, and of acting rather in
obedience to some unseen and unknown command than in accordance with any
reasonable plan, to be followed by results which he understood. This
phase completed, he proceeded to arrange in order the component parts of
some large instruments, formed mostly of glass. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
His fingers seemed to
have acquired a new and exquisite subtlety and even a volition of their
own. Then weariness of brain came upon him; his head sank down on his
breast, and little by little everything became wrapped in gloom. He awoke in the early morning in his bedroom, and looked around him, now
clear-headed, in amazement. In its usual place on the strong table stood
the great steel-hooped chest without lock or key. But it was now locked. He arose quietly and stole to the turret-room. There everything was as
it had been on the previous evening. He looked out of the window where
high in air flew, as usual, the giant kite. He unlocked the wicket gate
of the turret stair and went out on the roof. Close to him was the great
coil of cord on its reel. It was humming in the morning breeze, and when
he touched the string it sent a quick thrill through hand and arm. There
was no sign anywhere that there had been any disturbance or displacement
of anything during the night. Utterly bewildered, he sat down in his room to think. Now for the first
time he _felt_ that he was asleep and dreaming. Presently he fell asleep
again, and slept for a long time. He awoke hungry and made a hearty
meal. Then towards evening, having locked himself in, he fell asleep
again. When he woke he was in darkness, and was quite at sea as to his
whereabouts. He began feeling about the dark room, and was recalled to
the consequences of his position by the breaking of a large piece of
glass. Having obtained a light, he discovered this to be a glass wheel,
part of an elaborate piece of mechanism which he must in his sleep have
taken from the chest, which was now opened. He had once again opened it
whilst asleep, but he had no recollection of the circumstances. Caswall came to the conclusion that there had been some sort of dual
action of his mind, which might lead to some catastrophe or some
discovery of his secret plans; so he resolved to forgo for a while the
pleasure of making discoveries regarding the chest. To this end, he
applied himself to quite another matter--an investigation of the other
treasures and rare objects in his collections. He went amongst them in
simple, idle curiosity, his main object being to discover some strange
item which he might use for experiment with the kite. He had already
resolved to try some runners other than those made of paper. He had a
vague idea that with such a force as the great kite straining at its
leash, this might be used to lift to the altitude of the kite itself
heavier articles. His first experiment with articles of little but
increasing weight was eminently successful. So he added by degrees more
and more weight, until he found out that the lifting power of the kite
was considerable. He then determined to take a step further, and send to
the kite some of the articles which lay in the steel-hooped chest. The
last time he had opened it in sleep, it had not been shut again, and he
had inserted a wedge so that he could open it at will. He made
examination of the contents, but came to the conclusion that the glass
objects were unsuitable. They were too light for testing weight, and
they were so frail as to be dangerous to send to such a height. So he looked around for something more solid with which to experiment. His eye caught sight of an object which at once attracted him. This was
a small copy of one of the ancient Egyptian gods--that of Bes, who
represented the destructive power of nature. It was so bizarre and
mysterious as to commend itself to his mad humour. In lifting it from
the cabinet, he was struck by its great weight in proportion to its size. He made accurate examination of it by the aid of some instruments, and
came to the conclusion that it was carved from a lump of lodestone. He
remembered that he had read somewhere of an ancient Egyptian god cut from
a similar substance, and, thinking it over, he came to the conclusion
that he must have read it in Sir Thomas Brown's _Popular Errors_, a book
of the seventeenth century. He got the book from the library, and looked
out the passage:
"A great example we have from the observation of our learned friend Mr.
Graves, in an AEgyptian idol cut out of Loadstone and found among the
Mummies; which still retains its attraction, though probably taken out of
the mine about two thousand years ago." The strangeness of the figure, and its being so close akin to his own
nature, attracted him. He made from thin wood a large circular runner,
and in front of it placed the weighty god, sending it up to the flying
kite along the throbbing cord. CHAPTER XIII--OOLANGA'S HALLUCINATIONS
During the last few days Lady Arabella had been getting exceedingly
impatient. Her debts, always pressing, were growing to an embarrassing
amount. The only hope she had of comfort in life was a good marriage;
but the good marriage on which she had fixed her eye did not seem to move
quickly enough--indeed, it did not seem to move at all--in the right
direction. Edgar Caswall was not an ardent wooer. From the very first
he seemed _difficile_, but he had been keeping to his own room ever since
his struggle with Mimi Watford. On that occasion Lady Arabella had shown
him in an unmistakable way what her feelings were; indeed, she had made
it known to him, in a more overt way than pride should allow, that she
wished to help and support him. The moment when she had gone across the
room to stand beside him in his mesmeric struggle, had been the very
limit of her voluntary action. It was quite bitter enough, she felt,
that he did not come to her, but now that she had made that advance, she
felt that any withdrawal on his part would, to a woman of her class, be
nothing less than a flaming insult. Had she not classed herself with his
nigger servant, an unreformed savage? Had she not shown her preference
for him at the festival of his home-coming? Had she not . . . Lady
Arabella was cold-blooded, and she was prepared to go through all that
might be necessary of indifference, and even insult, to become chatelaine
of Castra Regis. In the meantime, she would show no hurry--she must
wait. She might, in an unostentatious way, come to him again. She knew
him now, and could make a keen guess at his desires with regard to Lilla
Watford. With that secret in her possession, she could bring pressure to
bear on Caswall which would make it no easy matter for him to evade her. The great difficulty was how to get near him. He was shut up within his
Castle, and guarded by a defence of convention which she could not pass
without danger of ill repute to herself. Over this question she thought
and thought for days and nights. At last she decided that the only way
would be to go to him openly at Castra Regis. Her rank and position
would make such a thing possible, if carefully done. She could explain
matters afterwards if necessary. Then when they were alone, she would
use her arts and her experience to make him commit himself. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
After all,
he was only a man, with a man's dislike of difficult or awkward
situations. She felt quite sufficient confidence in her own womanhood to
carry her through any difficulty which might arise. From Diana's Grove she heard each day the luncheon-gong from Castra Regis
sound, and knew the hour when the servants would be in the back of the
house. She would enter the house at that hour, and, pretending that she
could not make anyone hear her, would seek him in his own rooms. The
tower was, she knew, away from all the usual sounds of the house, and
moreover she knew that the servants had strict orders not to interrupt
him when he was in the turret chamber. She had found out, partly by the
aid of an opera-glass and partly by judicious questioning, that several
times lately a heavy chest had been carried to and from his room, and
that it rested in the room each night. She was, therefore, confident
that he had some important work on hand which would keep him busy for
long spells. Meanwhile, another member of the household at Castra Regis had schemes
which he thought were working to fruition. A man in the position of a
servant has plenty of opportunity of watching his betters and forming
opinions regarding them. Oolanga was in his way a clever, unscrupulous
rogue, and he felt that with things moving round him in this great
household there should be opportunities of self-advancement. Being
unscrupulous and stealthy--and a savage--he looked to dishonest means. He
saw plainly enough that Lady Arabella was making a dead set at his
master, and he was watchful of the slightest sign of anything which might
enhance this knowledge. Like the other men in the house, he knew of the
carrying to and fro of the great chest, and had got it into his head that
the care exercised in its porterage indicated that it was full of
treasure. He was for ever lurking around the turret-rooms on the chance
of making some useful discovery. But he was as cautious as he was
stealthy, and took care that no one else watched him. It was thus that the negro became aware of Lady Arabella's venture into
the house, as she thought, unseen. He took more care than ever, since he
was watching another, that the positions were not reversed. More than
ever he kept his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut. Seeing Lady
Arabella gliding up the stairs towards his master's room, he took it for
granted that she was there for no good, and doubled his watching
intentness and caution. Oolanga was disappointed, but he dared not exhibit any feeling lest it
should betray that he was hiding. Therefore he slunk downstairs again
noiselessly, and waited for a more favourable opportunity of furthering
his plans. It must be borne in mind that he thought that the heavy trunk
was full of valuables, and that he believed that Lady Arabella had come
to try to steal it. His purpose of using for his own advantage the
combination of these two ideas was seen later in the day. Oolanga
secretly followed her home. He was an expert at this game, and succeeded
admirably on this occasion. He watched her enter the private gate of
Diana's Grove, and then, taking a roundabout course and keeping out of
her sight, he at last overtook her in a thick part of the Grove where no
one could see the meeting. Lady Arabella was much surprised. She had not seen the negro for several
days, and had almost forgotten his existence. Oolanga would have been
startled had he known and been capable of understanding the real value
placed on him, his beauty, his worthiness, by other persons, and compared
it with the value in these matters in which he held himself. Doubtless
Oolanga had his dreams like other men. In such cases he saw himself as a
young sun-god, as beautiful as the eye of dusky or even white womanhood
had ever dwelt upon. He would have been filled with all noble and
captivating qualities--or those regarded as such in West Africa. Women
would have loved him, and would have told him so in the overt and fervid
manner usual in affairs of the heart in the shadowy depths of the forest
of the Gold Coast. Oolanga came close behind Lady Arabella, and in a hushed voice, suitable
to the importance of his task, and in deference to the respect he had for
her and the place, began to unfold the story of his love. Lady Arabella
was not usually a humorous person, but no man or woman of the white race
could have checked the laughter which rose spontaneously to her lips. The
circumstances were too grotesque, the contrast too violent, for subdued
mirth. The man a debased specimen of one of the most primitive races of
the earth, and of an ugliness which was simply devilish; the woman of
high degree, beautiful, accomplished. She thought that her first
moment's consideration of the outrage--it was nothing less in her
eyes--had given her the full material for thought. But every instant
after threw new and varied lights on the affront. Her indignation was
too great for passion; only irony or satire would meet the situation. Her
cold, cruel nature helped, and she did not shrink to subject this
ignorant savage to the merciless fire-lash of her scorn. Oolanga was dimly conscious that he was being flouted; but his anger was
no less keen because of the measure of his ignorance. So he gave way to
it, as does a tortured beast. He ground his great teeth together, raved,
stamped, and swore in barbarous tongues and with barbarous imagery. Even
Lady Arabella felt that it was well she was within reach of help, or he
might have offered her brutal violence--even have killed her. "Am I to understand," she said with cold disdain, so much more effective
to wound than hot passion, "that you are offering me your love? Your--love?" For reply he nodded his head. The scorn of her voice, in a sort of
baleful hiss, sounded--and felt--like the lash of a whip. "And you dared! you--a savage--a slave--the basest thing in the world of
vermin! Take care! I don't value your worthless life more than I do
that of a rat or a spider. Don't let me ever see your hideous face here
again, or I shall rid the earth of you." As she was speaking, she had taken out her revolver and was pointing it
at him. In the immediate presence of death his impudence forsook him,
and he made a weak effort to justify himself. His speech was short,
consisting of single words. To Lady Arabella it sounded mere gibberish,
but it was in his own dialect, and meant love, marriage, wife. From the
intonation of the words, she guessed, with her woman's quick intuition,
at their meaning; but she quite failed to follow, when, becoming more
pressing, he continued to urge his suit in a mixture of the grossest
animal passion and ridiculous threats. He warned her that he knew she
had tried to steal his master's treasure, and that he had caught her in
the act. But if she would be his, he would share the treasure with her,
and they could live in luxury in the African forests. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
But if she
refused, he would tell his master, who would flog and torture her and
then give her to the police, who would kill her. CHAPTER XIV--BATTLE RENEWED
The consequences of that meeting in the dusk of Diana's Grove were acute
and far-reaching, and not only to the two engaged in it. From Oolanga,
this might have been expected by anyone who knew the character of the
tropical African savage. To such, there are two passions that are
inexhaustible and insatiable--vanity and that which they are pleased to
call love. Oolanga left the Grove with an absorbing hatred in his heart. His lust and greed were afire, while his vanity had been wounded to the
core. Lady Arabella's icy nature was not so deeply stirred, though she
was in a seething passion. More than ever she was set upon bringing
Edgar Caswall to her feet. The obstacles she had encountered, the
insults she had endured, were only as fuel to the purpose of revenge
which consumed her. As she sought her own rooms in Diana's Grove, she went over the whole
subject again and again, always finding in the face of Lilla Watford a
key to a problem which puzzled her--the problem of a way to turn
Caswall's powers--his very existence--to aid her purpose. When in her boudoir, she wrote a note, taking so much trouble over it
that she destroyed, and rewrote, till her dainty waste-basket was half-
full of torn sheets of notepaper. When quite satisfied, she copied out
the last sheet afresh, and then carefully burned all the spoiled
fragments. She put the copied note in an emblazoned envelope, and
directed it to Edgar Caswall at Castra Regis. This she sent off by one
of her grooms. The letter ran:
"DEAR MR. CASWALL,
"I want to have a chat with you on a subject in which I believe you
are interested. Will you kindly call for me one day after lunch--say
at three or four o'clock, and we can walk a little way together. Only
as far as Mercy Farm, where I want to see Lilla and Mimi Watford. We
can take a cup of tea at the Farm. Do not bring your African servant
with you, as I am afraid his face frightens the girls. After all, he
is not pretty, is he? I have an idea you will be pleased with your
visit this time. "Yours sincerely,
"ARABELLA MARCH." At half-past three next day, Edgar Caswall called at Diana's Grove. Lady
Arabella met him on the roadway outside the gate. She wished to take the
servants into her confidence as little as possible. She turned when she
saw him coming, and walked beside him towards Mercy Farm, keeping step
with him as they walked. When they got near Mercy, she turned and looked
around her, expecting to see Oolanga or some sign of him. He was,
however, not visible. He had received from his master peremptory orders
to keep out of sight--an order for which the African scored a new offence
up against her. They found Lilla and Mimi at home and seemingly glad to
see them, though both the girls were surprised at the visit coming so
soon after the other. The proceedings were a repetition of the battle of souls of the former
visit. On this occasion, however, Edgar Caswall had only the presence of
Lady Arabella to support him--Oolanga being absent; but Mimi lacked the
support of Adam Salton, which had been of such effective service before. This time the struggle for supremacy of will was longer and more
determined. Caswall felt that if he could not achieve supremacy he had
better give up the idea, so all his pride was enlisted against Mimi. When
they had been waiting for the door to be opened, Lady Arabella, believing
in a sudden attack, had said to him in a low voice, which somehow carried
conviction:
"This time you should win. Mimi is, after all, only a woman. Show her
no mercy. That is weakness. Fight her, beat her, trample on her--kill
her if need be. She stands in your way, and I hate her. Never take your
eyes off her. Never mind Lilla--she is afraid of you. You are already
her master. Mimi will try to make you look at her cousin. There lies
defeat. Let nothing take your attention from Mimi, and you will win. If
she is overcoming you, take my hand and hold it hard whilst you are
looking into her eyes. If she is too strong for you, I shall interfere. I'll make a diversion, and under cover of it you must retire unbeaten,
even if not victorious. Hush! they are coming." The two girls came to the door together. Strange sounds were coming up
over the Brow from the west. It was the rustling and crackling of the
dry reeds and rushes from the low lands. The season had been an
unusually dry one. Also the strong east wind was helping forward
enormous flocks of birds, most of them pigeons with white cowls. Not
only were their wings whirring, but their cooing was plainly audible. From such a multitude of birds the mass of sound, individually small,
assumed the volume of a storm. Surprised at the influx of birds, to
which they had been strangers so long, they all looked towards Castra
Regis, from whose high tower the great kite had been flying as usual. But
even as they looked, the cord broke, and the great kite fell headlong in
a series of sweeping dives. Its own weight, and the aerial force opposed
to it, which caused it to rise, combined with the strong easterly breeze,
had been too much for the great length of cord holding it. Somehow, the mishap to the kite gave new hope to Mimi. It was as though
the side issues had been shorn away, so that the main struggle was
thenceforth on simpler lines. She had a feeling in her heart, as though
some religious chord had been newly touched. It may, of course, have
been that with the renewal of the bird voices a fresh courage, a fresh
belief in the good issue of the struggle came too. In the misery of
silence, from which they had all suffered for so long, any new train of
thought was almost bound to be a boon. As the inrush of birds continued,
their wings beating against the crackling rushes, Lady Arabella grew
pale, and almost fainted. "What is that?" she asked suddenly. To Mimi, born and bred in Siam, the sound was strangely like an
exaggeration of the sound produced by a snake-charmer. Edgar Caswall was the first to recover from the interruption of the
falling kite. After a few minutes he seemed to have quite recovered his
_sang froid_, and was able to use his brains to the end which he had in
view. Mimi too quickly recovered herself, but from a different cause. With her it was a deep religious conviction that the struggle round her
was of the powers of Good and Evil, and that Good was triumphing. The
very appearance of the snowy birds, with the cowls of Saint Columba,
heightened the impression. With this conviction strong upon her, she
continued the strange battle with fresh vigour. She seemed to tower over
Caswall, and he to give back before her oncoming. Once again her
vigorous passes drove him to the door. He was just going out backward
when Lady Arabella, who had been gazing at him with fixed eyes, caught
his hand and tried to stop his movement. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
She was, however, unable to do
any good, and so, holding hands, they passed out together. As they did
so, the strange music which had so alarmed Lady Arabella suddenly
stopped. Instinctively they all looked towards the tower of Castra
Regis, and saw that the workmen had refixed the kite, which had risen
again and was beginning to float out to its former station. As they were looking, the door opened and Michael Watford came into the
room. By that time all had recovered their self-possession, and there
was nothing out of the common to attract his attention. As he came in,
seeing inquiring looks all around him, he said:
"The new influx of birds is only the annual migration of pigeons from
Africa. I am told that it will soon be over." The second victory of Mimi Watford made Edgar Caswall more moody than
ever. He felt thrown back on himself, and this, added to his absorbing
interest in the hope of a victory of his mesmeric powers, became a deep
and settled purpose of revenge. The chief object of his animosity was,
of course, Mimi, whose will had overcome his, but it was obscured in
greater or lesser degree by all who had opposed him. Lilla was next to
Mimi in his hate--Lilla, the harmless, tender-hearted, sweet-natured
girl, whose heart was so full of love for all things that in it was no
room for the passions of ordinary life--whose nature resembled those
doves of St. Columba, whose colour she wore, whose appearance she
reflected. Adam Salton came next--after a gap; for against him Caswall
had no direct animosity. He regarded him as an interference, a
difficulty to be got rid of or destroyed. The young Australian had been
so discreet that the most he had against him was his knowledge of what
had been. Caswall did not understand him, and to such a nature as his,
ignorance was a cause of alarm, of dread. Caswall resumed his habit of watching the great kite straining at its
cord, varying his vigils in this way by a further examination of the
mysterious treasures of his house, especially Mesmer's chest. He sat
much on the roof of the tower, brooding over his thwarted passion. The
vast extent of his possessions, visible to him at that altitude, might,
one would have thought, have restored some of his complacency. But the
very extent of his ownership, thus perpetually brought before him,
created a fresh sense of grievance. How was it, he thought, that with so
much at command that others wished for, he could not achieve the dearest
wishes of his heart? In this state of intellectual and moral depravity, he found a solace in
the renewal of his experiments with the mechanical powers of the kite. For a couple of weeks he did not see Lady Arabella, who was always on the
watch for a chance of meeting him; neither did he see the Watford girls,
who studiously kept out of his way. Adam Salton simply marked time,
keeping ready to deal with anything that might affect his friends. He
called at the farm and heard from Mimi of the last battle of wills, but
it had only one consequence. He got from Ross several more mongooses,
including a second king-cobra-killer, which he generally carried with him
in its box whenever he walked out. Mr. Caswall's experiments with the kite went on successfully. Each day
he tried the lifting of greater weight, and it seemed almost as if the
machine had a sentience of its own, which was increasing with the
obstacles placed before it. All this time the kite hung in the sky at an
enormous height. The wind was steadily from the north, so the trend of
the kite was to the south. All day long, runners of increasing magnitude
were sent up. These were only of paper or thin cardboard, or leather, or
other flexible materials. The great height at which the kite hung made a
great concave curve in the string, so that as the runners went up they
made a flapping sound. If one laid a finger on the string, the sound
answered to the flapping of the runner in a sort of hollow intermittent
murmur. Edgar Caswall, who was now wholly obsessed by the kite and all
belonging to it, found a distinct resemblance between that intermittent
rumble and the snake-charming music produced by the pigeons flying
through the dry reeds. One day he made a discovery in Mesmer's chest which he thought he would
utilise with regard to the runners. This was a great length of wire,
"fine as human hair," coiled round a finely made wheel, which ran to a
wondrous distance freely, and as lightly. He tried this on runners, and
found it work admirably. Whether the runner was alone, or carried
something much more weighty than itself, it worked equally well. Also it
was strong enough and light enough to draw back the runner without undue
strain. He tried this a good many times successfully, but it was now
growing dusk and he found some difficulty in keeping the runner in sight. So he looked for something heavy enough to keep it still. He placed the
Egyptian image of Bes on the fine wire, which crossed the wooden ledge
which protected it. Then, the darkness growing, he went indoors and
forgot all about it. He had a strange feeling of uneasiness that night--not sleeplessness, for
he seemed conscious of being asleep. At daylight he rose, and as usual
looked out for the kite. He did not see it in its usual position in the
sky, so looked round the points of the compass. He was more than
astonished when presently he saw the missing kite struggling as usual
against the controlling cord. But it had gone to the further side of the
tower, and now hung and strained _against the wind_ to the north. He
thought it so strange that he determined to investigate the phenomenon,
and to say nothing about it in the meantime. In his many travels, Edgar Caswall had been accustomed to use the
sextant, and was now an expert in the matter. By the aid of this and
other instruments, he was able to fix the position of the kite and the
point over which it hung. He was startled to find that exactly under
it--so far as he could ascertain--was Diana's Grove. He had an
inclination to take Lady Arabella into his confidence in the matter, but
he thought better of it and wisely refrained. For some reason which he
did not try to explain to himself, he was glad of his silence, when, on
the following morning, he found, on looking out, that the point over
which the kite then hovered was Mercy Farm. When he had verified this
with his instruments, he sat before the window of the tower, looking out
and thinking. The new locality was more to his liking than the other;
but the why of it puzzled him, all the same. He spent the rest of the
day in the turret-room, which he did not leave all day. It seemed to him
that he was now drawn by forces which he could not control--of which,
indeed, he had no knowledge--in directions which he did not understand,
and which were without his own volition. In sheer helpless inability to
think the problem out satisfactorily, he called up a servant and told him
to tell Oolanga that he wanted to see him at once in the turret-room. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
The
answer came back that the African had not been seen since the previous
evening. Caswall was now so irritable that even this small thing upset him. As he
was distrait and wanted to talk to somebody, he sent for Simon Chester,
who came at once, breathless with hurrying and upset by the unexpected
summons. Caswall bade him sit down, and when the old man was in a less
uneasy frame of mind, he again asked him if he had ever seen what was in
Mesmer's chest or heard it spoken about. Chester admitted that he had once, in the time of "the then Mr. Edgar,"
seen the chest open, which, knowing something of its history and guessing
more, so upset him that he had fainted. When he recovered, the chest was
closed. From that time the then Mr. Edgar had never spoken about it
again. When Caswall asked him to describe what he had seen when the chest was
open, he got very agitated, and, despite all his efforts to remain calm,
he suddenly went off into a faint. Caswall summoned servants, who
applied the usual remedies. Still the old man did not recover. After
the lapse of a considerable time, the doctor who had been summoned made
his appearance. A glance was sufficient for him to make up his mind. Still, he knelt down by the old man, and made a careful examination. Then
he rose to his feet, and in a hushed voice said:
"I grieve to say, sir, that he has passed away." CHAPTER XV--ON THE TRACK
Those who had seen Edgar Caswall familiarly since his arrival, and had
already estimated his cold-blooded nature at something of its true value,
were surprised that he took so to heart the death of old Chester. The
fact was that not one of them had guessed correctly at his character. They thought, naturally enough, that the concern which he felt was that
of a master for a faithful old servant of his family. They little
thought that it was merely the selfish expression of his disappointment,
that he had thus lost the only remaining clue to an interesting piece of
family history--one which was now and would be for ever wrapped in
mystery. Caswall knew enough about the life of his ancestor in Paris to
wish to know more fully and more thoroughly all that had been. The
period covered by that ancestor's life in Paris was one inviting every
form of curiosity. Lady Arabella, who had her own game to play, saw in the _metier_ of
sympathetic friend, a series of meetings with the man she wanted to
secure. She made the first use of the opportunity the day after old
Chester's death; indeed, as soon as the news had filtered in through the
back door of Diana's Grove. At that meeting, she played her part so well
that even Caswall's cold nature was impressed. Oolanga was the only one who did not credit her with at least some sense
of fine feeling in the matter. In emotional, as in other matters,
Oolanga was distinctly a utilitarian, and as he could not understand
anyone feeling grief except for his own suffering, pain, or for the loss
of money, he could not understand anyone simulating such an emotion
except for show intended to deceive. He thought that she had come to
Castra Regis again for the opportunity of stealing something, and was
determined that on this occasion the chance of pressing his advantage
over her should not pass. He felt, therefore, that the occasion was one
for extra carefulness in the watching of all that went on. Ever since he
had come to the conclusion that Lady Arabella was trying to steal the
treasure-chest, he suspected nearly everyone of the same design, and made
it a point to watch all suspicious persons and places. As Adam was
engaged on his own researches regarding Lady Arabella, it was only
natural that there should be some crossing of each other's tracks. This
is what did actually happen. Adam had gone for an early morning survey of the place in which he was
interested, taking with him the mongoose in its box. He arrived at the
gate of Diana's Grove just as Lady Arabella was preparing to set out for
Castra Regis on what she considered her mission of comfort. Seeing Adam
from her window going through the shadows of the trees round the gate,
she thought that he must be engaged on some purpose similar to her own. So, quickly making her toilet, she quietly left the house, and, taking
advantage of every shadow and substance which could hide her, followed
him on his walk. Oolanga, the experienced tracker, followed her, but succeeded in hiding
his movements better than she did. He saw that Adam had on his shoulder
a mysterious box, which he took to contain something valuable. Seeing
that Lady Arabella was secretly following Adam, he was confirmed in this
idea. His mind--such as it was--was fixed on her trying to steal, and he
credited her at once with making use of this new opportunity. In his walk, Adam went into the grounds of Castra Regis, and Oolanga saw
her follow him with great secrecy. He feared to go closer, as now on
both sides of him were enemies who might make discovery. When he
realised that Lady Arabella was bound for the Castle, he devoted himself
to following her with singleness of purpose. He therefore missed seeing
that Adam branched off the track and returned to the high road. That night Edgar Caswall had slept badly. The tragic occurrence of the
day was on his mind, and he kept waking and thinking of it. After an
early breakfast, he sat at the open window watching the kite and thinking
of many things. From his room he could see all round the neighbourhood,
but the two places that interested him most were Mercy Farm and Diana's
Grove. At first the movements about those spots were of a humble
kind--those that belong to domestic service or agricultural needs--the
opening of doors and windows, the sweeping and brushing, and generally
the restoration of habitual order. From his high window--whose height made it a screen from the observation
of others--he saw the chain of watchers move into his own grounds, and
then presently break up--Adam Salton going one way, and Lady Arabella,
followed by the nigger, another. Then Oolanga disappeared amongst the
trees; but Caswall could see that he was still watching. Lady Arabella,
after looking around her, slipped in by the open door, and he could, of
course, see her no longer. Presently, however, he heard a light tap at his door, then the door
opened slowly, and he could see the flash of Lady Arabella's white dress
through the opening. CHAPTER XVI--A VISIT OF SYMPATHY
Caswall was genuinely surprised when he saw Lady Arabella, though he need
not have been, after what had already occurred in the same way. The look
of surprise on his face was so much greater than Lady Arabella had
expected--though she thought she was prepared to meet anything that might
occur--that she stood still, in sheer amazement. Cold-blooded as she was
and ready for all social emergencies, she was nonplussed how to go on. She was plucky, however, and began to speak at once, although she had not
the slightest idea what she was going to say. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
"I came to offer you my very warm sympathy with the grief you have so
lately experienced." "My grief? I'm afraid I must be very dull; but I really do not
understand." Already she felt at a disadvantage, and hesitated. "I mean about the old man who died so suddenly--your old . . . retainer." Caswall's face relaxed something of its puzzled concentration. "Oh, he was only a servant; and he had over-stayed his three-score and
ten years by something like twenty years. He must have been ninety!" "Still, as an old servant . . . " Caswall's words were not so cold as their inflection. "I never interfere with servants. He was kept on here merely because he
had been so long on the premises. I suppose the steward thought it might
make him unpopular if the old fellow had been dismissed." How on earth was she to proceed on such a task as hers if this was the
utmost geniality she could expect? So she at once tried another
tack--this time a personal one. "I am sorry I disturbed you. I am really not unconventional--though
certainly no slave to convention. Still there are limits . . . it is bad
enough to intrude in this way, and I do not know what you can say or
think of the time selected, for the intrusion." After all, Edgar Caswall was a gentleman by custom and habit, so he rose
to the occasion. "I can only say, Lady Arabella, that you are always welcome at any time
you may deign to honour my house with your presence." She smiled at him sweetly. "Thank you _so_ much. You _do_ put one at ease. My breach of convention
makes me glad rather than sorry. I feel that I can open my heart to you
about anything." Forthwith she proceeded to tell him about Oolanga and his strange
suspicions of her honesty. Caswall laughed and made her explain all the
details. His final comment was enlightening. "Let me give you a word of advice: If you have the slightest fault to
find with that infernal nigger, shoot him at sight. A swelled-headed
nigger, with a bee in his bonnet, is one of the worst difficulties in the
world to deal with. So better make a clean job of it, and wipe him out
at once!" "But what about the law, Mr. Caswall?" "Oh, the law doesn't concern itself much about dead niggers. A few more
or less do not matter. To my mind it's rather a relief!" "I'm afraid of you," was her only comment, made with a sweet smile and in
a soft voice. "All right," he said, "let us leave it at that. Anyhow, we shall be rid
of one of them!" "I don't love niggers any more than you do," she replied, "and I suppose
one mustn't be too particular where that sort of cleaning up is
concerned." Then she changed in voice and manner, and asked genially:
"And now tell me, am I forgiven?" "You are, dear lady--if there is anything to forgive." As he spoke, seeing that she had moved to go, he came to the door with
her, and in the most natural way accompanied her downstairs. He passed
through the hall with her and down the avenue. As he went back to the
house, she smiled to herself. "Well, that is all right. I don't think the morning has been altogether
thrown away." And she walked slowly back to Diana's Grove. Adam Salton followed the line of the Brow, and refreshed his memory as to
the various localities. He got home to Lesser Hill just as Sir Nathaniel
was beginning lunch. Mr. Salton had gone to Walsall to keep an early
appointment; so he was all alone. When the meal was over--seeing in
Adam's face that he had something to speak about--he followed into the
study and shut the door. When the two men had lighted their pipes, Sir Nathaniel began. "I have remembered an interesting fact about Diana's Grove--there is, I
have long understood, some strange mystery about that house. It may be
of some interest, or it may be trivial, in such a tangled skein as we are
trying to unravel." "Please tell me all you know or suspect. To begin, then, of what sort
is the mystery--physical, mental, moral, historical, scientific, occult? Any kind of hint will help me." "Quite right. I shall try to tell you what I think; but I have not put
my thoughts on the subject in sequence, so you must forgive me if due
order is not observed in my narration. I suppose you have seen the house
at Diana's Grove?" "The outside of it; but I have that in my mind's eye, and I can fit into
my memory whatever you may mention." "The house is very old--probably the first house of some sort that stood
there was in the time of the Romans. This was probably renewed--perhaps
several times at later periods. The house stands, or, rather, used to
stand here when Mercia was a kingdom--I do not suppose that the basement
can be later than the Norman Conquest. Some years ago, when I was
President of the Mercian Archaeological Society, I went all over it very
carefully. This was when it was purchased by Captain March. The house
had then been done up, so as to be suitable for the bride. The basement
is very strong,--almost as strong and as heavy as if it had been intended
as a fortress. There are a whole series of rooms deep underground. One
of them in particular struck me. The room itself is of considerable
size, but the masonry is more than massive. In the middle of the room is
a sunk well, built up to floor level and evidently going deep
underground. There is no windlass nor any trace of there ever having
been any--no rope--nothing. Now, we know that the Romans had wells of
immense depth, from which the water was lifted by the 'old rag rope';
that at Woodhull used to be nearly a thousand feet. Here, then, we have
simply an enormously deep well-hole. The door of the room was massive,
and was fastened with a lock nearly a foot square. It was evidently
intended for some kind of protection to someone or something; but no one
in those days had ever heard of anyone having been allowed even to see
the room. All this is _a propos_ of a suggestion on my part that the
well-hole was a way by which the White Worm (whatever it was) went and
came. At that time I would have had a search made--even excavation if
necessary--at my own expense, but all suggestions were met with a prompt
and explicit negative. So, of course, I took no further step in the
matter. Then it died out of recollection--even of mine." "Do you remember, sir," asked Adam, "what was the appearance of the room
where the well-hole was? Was there furniture--in fact, any sort of thing
in the room?" "The only thing I remember was a sort of green light--very clouded, very
dim--which came up from the well. Not a fixed light, but intermittent
and irregular--quite unlike anything I had ever seen." "Do you remember how you got into the well-room? Was there a separate
door from outside, or was there any interior room or passage which opened
into it?" "I think there must have been some room with a way into it. I remember
going up some steep steps; they must have been worn smooth by long use or
something of the kind, for I could hardly keep my feet as I went up. Once
I stumbled and nearly fell into the well-hole." | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
"Was there anything strange about the place--any queer smell, for
instance?" "Queer smell--yes! Like bilge or a rank swamp. It was distinctly
nauseating; when I came out I felt as if I had just been going to be
sick. I shall try back on my visit and see if I can recall any more of
what I saw or felt." "Then perhaps, sir, later in the day you will tell me anything you may
chance to recollect." "I shall be delighted, Adam. If your uncle has not returned by then,
I'll join you in the study after dinner, and we can resume this
interesting chat." CHAPTER XVII--THE MYSTERY OF "THE GROVE"
That afternoon Adam decided to do a little exploring. As he passed
through the wood outside the gate of Diana's Grove, he thought he saw the
African's face for an instant. So he went deeper into the undergrowth,
and followed along parallel to the avenue to the house. He was glad that
there was no workman or servant about, for he did not care that any of
Lady Arabella's people should find him wandering about her grounds. Taking advantage of the denseness of the trees, he came close to the
house and skirted round it. He was repaid for his trouble, for on the
far side of the house, close to where the rocky frontage of the cliff
fell away, he saw Oolanga crouched behind the irregular trunk of a great
oak. The man was so intent on watching someone, or something, that he
did not guard against being himself watched. This suited Adam, for he
could thus make scrutiny at will. The thick wood, though the trees were mostly of small girth, threw a
heavy shadow, so that the steep declension, in front of which grew the
tree behind which the African lurked, was almost in darkness. Adam drew
as close as he could, and was amazed to see a patch of light on the
ground before him; when he realised what it was, he was determined, more
than ever to follow on his quest. The nigger had a dark lantern in his
hand, and was throwing the light down the steep incline. The glare
showed a series of stone steps, which ended in a low-lying heavy iron
door fixed against the side of the house. All the strange things he had
heard from Sir Nathaniel, and all those, little and big, which he had
himself noticed, crowded into his mind in a chaotic way. Instinctively
he took refuge behind a thick oak stem, and set himself down, to watch
what might occur. After a short time it became apparent that the African was trying to find
out what was behind the heavy door. There was no way of looking in, for
the door fitted tight into the massive stone slabs. The only opportunity
for the entrance of light was through a small hole between the great
stones above the door. This hole was too high up to look through from
the ground level. Oolanga, having tried standing tiptoe on the highest
point near, and holding the lantern as high as he could, threw the light
round the edges of the door to see if he could find anywhere a hole or a
flaw in the metal through which he could obtain a glimpse. Foiled in
this, he brought from the shrubbery a plank, which he leant against the
top of the door and then climbed up with great dexterity. This did not
bring him near enough to the window-hole to look in, or even to throw the
light of the lantern through it, so he climbed down and carried the plank
back to the place from which he had got it. Then he concealed himself
near the iron door and waited, manifestly with the intent of remaining
there till someone came near. Presently Lady Arabella, moving
noiselessly through the shade, approached the door. When he saw her
close enough to touch it, Oolanga stepped forward from his concealment,
and spoke in a whisper, which through the gloom sounded like a hiss. "I want to see you, missy--soon and secret." "What do you want?" "You know well, missy; I told you already." She turned on him with blazing eyes, the green tint in them glowing like
emeralds. "Come, none of that. If there is anything sensible which you wish to say
to me, you can see me here, just where we are, at seven o'clock." He made no reply in words, but, putting the backs of his hands together,
bent lower and lower till his forehead touched the earth. Then he rose
and went slowly away. Adam Salton, from his hiding-place, saw and wondered. In a few minutes
he moved from his place and went home to Lesser Hill, fully determined
that seven o'clock would find him in some hidden place behind Diana's
Grove. At a little before seven Adam stole softly out of the house and took the
back-way to the rear of Diana's Grove. The place seemed silent and
deserted, so he took the opportunity of concealing himself near the spot
whence he had seen Oolanga trying to investigate whatever was concealed
behind the iron door. He waited, perfectly still, and at last saw a
gleam of white passing soundlessly through the undergrowth. He was not
surprised when he recognised the colour of Lady Arabella's dress. She
came close and waited, with her face to the iron door. From some place
of concealment near at hand Oolanga appeared, and came close to her. Adam
noticed, with surprised amusement, that over his shoulder was the box
with the mongoose. Of course the African did not know that he was seen
by anyone, least of all by the man whose property he had with him. Silent-footed as he was, Lady Arabella heard him coming, and turned to
meet him. It was somewhat hard to see in the gloom, for, as usual, he
was all in black, only his collar and cuffs showing white. Lady Arabella
opened the conversation which ensued between the two. "What do you want? To rob me, or murder me?" "No, to lub you!" This frightened her a little, and she tried to change the tone. "Is that a coffin you have with you? If so, you are wasting your time. It would not hold me." When a nigger suspects he is being laughed at, all the ferocity of his
nature comes to the front; and this man was of the lowest kind. "Dis ain't no coffin for nobody. Dis box is for you. Somefin you lub. Me give him to you!" Still anxious to keep off the subject of affection, on which she believed
him to have become crazed, she made another effort to keep his mind
elsewhere. "Is this why you want to see me?" He nodded. "Then come round to the
other door. But be quiet. I have no desire to be seen so close to my
own house in conversation with a--a--a nigger like you!" She had chosen the word deliberately. She wished to meet his passion
with another kind. Such would, at all events, help to keep him quiet. In
the deep gloom she could not see the anger which suffused his face. Rolling eyeballs and grinding teeth are, however, sufficient signs of
anger to be decipherable in the dark. She moved round the corner of the
house to her right. Oolanga was following her, when she stopped him by
raising her hand. "No, not that door," she said; "that is not for niggers. The other door
will do well enough for you!" | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
Lady Arabella took in her hand a small key which hung at the end of her
watch-chain, and moved to a small door, low down, round the corner, and a
little downhill from the edge of the Brow. Oolanga, in obedience to her
gesture, went back to the iron door. Adam looked carefully at the
mongoose box as the African went by, and was glad to see that it was
intact. Unconsciously, as he looked, he fingered the key that was in his
waistcoat pocket. When Oolanga was out of sight, Adam hurried after Lady
Arabella. CHAPTER XVIII--EXIT OOLANGA
The woman turned sharply as Adam touched her shoulder. "One moment whilst we are alone. You had better not trust that nigger!" he whispered. Her answer was crisp and concise:
"I don't." "Forewarned is forearmed. Tell me if you will--it is for your own
protection. Why do you mistrust him?" "My friend, you have no idea of that man's impudence. Would you believe
that he wants me to marry him?" "No!" said Adam incredulously, amused in spite of himself. "Yes, and wanted to bribe me to do it by sharing a chest of treasure--at
least, he thought it was--stolen from Mr. Caswall. Why do you distrust
him, Mr. Salton?" "Did you notice that box he had slung on his shoulder? That belongs to
me. I left it in the gun-room when I went to lunch. He must have crept
in and stolen it. Doubtless he thinks that it, too, is full of
treasure." "He does!" "How on earth do you know?" asked Adam. "A little while ago he offered to give it to me--another bribe to accept
him. Faugh! I am ashamed to tell you such a thing. The beast!" Whilst they had been speaking, she had opened the door, a narrow iron
one, well hung, for it opened easily and closed tightly without any
creaking or sound of any kind. Within all was dark; but she entered as
freely and with as little misgiving or restraint as if it had been broad
daylight. For Adam, there was just sufficient green light from somewhere
for him to see that there was a broad flight of heavy stone steps leading
upward; but Lady Arabella, after shutting the door behind her, when it
closed tightly without a clang, tripped up the steps lightly and swiftly. For an instant all was dark, but there came again the faint green light
which enabled him to see the outlines of things. Another iron door,
narrow like the first and fairly high, led into another large room, the
walls of which were of massive stones, so closely joined together as to
exhibit only one smooth surface. This presented the appearance of having
at one time been polished. On the far side, also smooth like the walls,
was the reverse of a wide, but not high, iron door. Here there was a
little more light, for the high-up aperture over the door opened to the
air. Lady Arabella took from her girdle another small key, which she inserted
in a keyhole in the centre of a massive lock. The great bolt seemed
wonderfully hung, for the moment the small key was turned, the bolts of
the great lock moved noiselessly and the iron doors swung open. On the
stone steps outside stood Oolanga, with the mongoose box slung over his
shoulder. Lady Arabella stood a little on one side, and the African,
accepting the movement as an invitation, entered in an obsequious way. The moment, however, that he was inside, he gave a quick look around him. "Much death here--big death. Many deaths. Good, good!" He sniffed round as if he was enjoying the scent. The matter and manner
of his speech were so revolting that instinctively Adam's hand wandered
to his revolver, and, with his finger on the trigger, he rested satisfied
that he was ready for any emergency. There was certainly opportunity for the nigger's enjoyment, for the open
well-hole was almost under his nose, sending up such a stench as almost
made Adam sick, though Lady Arabella seemed not to mind it at all. It
was like nothing that Adam had ever met with. He compared it with all
the noxious experiences he had ever had--the drainage of war hospitals,
of slaughter-houses, the refuse of dissecting rooms. None of these was
like it, though it had something of them all, with, added, the sourness
of chemical waste and the poisonous effluvium of the bilge of a water-
logged ship whereon a multitude of rats had been drowned. Then, quite unexpectedly, the negro noticed the presence of a third
person--Adam Salton! He pulled out a pistol and shot at him, happily
missing. Adam was himself usually a quick shot, but this time his mind
had been on something else and he was not ready. However, he was quick
to carry out an intention, and he was not a coward. In another moment
both men were in grips. Beside them was the dark well-hole, with that
horrid effluvium stealing up from its mysterious depths. Adam and Oolanga both had pistols; Lady Arabella, who had not one, was
probably the most ready of them all in the theory of shooting, but that
being impossible, she made her effort in another way. Gliding forward,
she tried to seize the African; but he eluded her grasp, just missing, in
doing so, falling into the mysterious hole. As he swayed back to firm
foothold, he turned his own gun on her and shot. Instinctively Adam
leaped at his assailant; clutching at each other, they tottered on the
very brink. Lady Arabella's anger, now fully awake, was all for Oolanga. She moved
towards him with her hands extended, and had just seized him when the
catch of the locked box--due to some movement from within--flew open, and
the king-cobra-killer flew at her with a venomous fury impossible to
describe. As it seized her throat, she caught hold of it, and, with a
fury superior to its own, tore it in two just as if it had been a sheet
of paper. The strength used for such an act must have been terrific. In
an instant, it seemed to spout blood and entrails, and was hurled into
the well-hole. In another instant she had seized Oolanga, and with a
swift rush had drawn him, her white arms encircling him, down with her
into the gaping aperture. Adam saw a medley of green and red lights blaze in a whirling circle, and
as it sank down into the well, a pair of blazing green eyes became fixed,
sank lower and lower with frightful rapidity, and disappeared, throwing
upward the green light which grew more and more vivid every moment. As
the light sank into the noisome depths, there came a shriek which chilled
Adam's blood--a prolonged agony of pain and terror which seemed to have
no end. Adam Salton felt that he would never be able to free his mind from the
memory of those dreadful moments. The gloom which surrounded that
horrible charnel pit, which seemed to go down to the very bowels of the
earth, conveyed from far down the sights and sounds of the nethermost
hell. The ghastly fate of the African as he sank down to his terrible
doom, his black face growing grey with terror, his white eyeballs, now
like veined bloodstone, rolling in the helpless extremity of fear. The
mysterious green light was in itself a milieu of horror. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
And through it
all the awful cry came up from that fathomless pit, whose entrance was
flooded with spots of fresh blood. Even the death of the fearless little
snake-killer--so fierce, so frightful, as if stained with a ferocity
which told of no living force above earth, but only of the devils of the
pit--was only an incident. Adam was in a state of intellectual tumult,
which had no parallel in his experience. He tried to rush away from the
horrible place; even the baleful green light, thrown up through the
gloomy well-shaft, was dying away as its source sank deeper into the
primeval ooze. The darkness was closing in on him in overwhelming
density--darkness in such a place and with such a memory of it! He made a wild rush forward--slipt on the steps in some sticky, acrid-
smelling mass that felt and smelt like blood, and, falling forward, felt
his way into the inner room, where the well-shaft was not. Then he rubbed his eyes in sheer amazement. Up the stone steps from the
narrow door by which he had entered, glided the white-clad figure of Lady
Arabella, the only colour to be seen on her being blood-marks on her face
and hands and throat. Otherwise, she was calm and unruffled, as when
earlier she stood aside for him to pass in through the narrow iron door. CHAPTER XIX--AN ENEMY IN THE DARK
Adam Salton went for a walk before returning to Lesser Hill; he felt that
it might be well, not only to steady his nerves, shaken by the horrible
scene, but to get his thoughts into some sort of order, so as to be ready
to enter on the matter with Sir Nathaniel. He was a little embarrassed
as to telling his uncle, for affairs had so vastly progressed beyond his
original view that he felt a little doubtful as to what would be the old
gentleman's attitude when he should hear of the strange events for the
first time. Mr. Salton would certainly not be satisfied at being treated
as an outsider with regard to such things, most of which had points of
contact with the inmates of his own house. It was with an immense sense
of relief that Adam heard that his uncle had telegraphed to the
housekeeper that he was detained by business at Walsall, where he would
remain for the night; and that he would be back in the morning in time
for lunch. When Adam got home after his walk, he found Sir Nathaniel just going to
bed. He did not say anything to him then of what had happened, but
contented himself with arranging that they would walk together in the
early morning, as he had much to say that would require serious
attention. Strangely enough he slept well, and awoke at dawn with his mind clear and
his nerves in their usual unshaken condition. The maid brought up, with
his early morning cup of tea, a note which had been found in the letter-
box. It was from Lady Arabella, and was evidently intended to put him on
his guard as to what he should say about the previous evening. He read it over carefully several times, before he was satisfied that he
had taken in its full import. "DEAR MR. SALTON,
"I cannot go to bed until I have written to you, so you must forgive
me if I disturb you, and at an unseemly time. Indeed, you must also
forgive me if, in trying to do what is right, I err in saying too much
or too little. The fact is that I am quite upset and unnerved by all
that has happened in this terrible night. I find it difficult even to
write; my hands shake so that they are not under control, and I am
trembling all over with memory of the horrors we saw enacted before
our eyes. I am grieved beyond measure that I should be, however
remotely, a cause of this horror coming on you. Forgive me if you
can, and do not think too hardly of me. This I ask with confidence,
for since we shared together the danger--the very pangs--of death, I
feel that we should be to one another something more than mere
friends, that I may lean on you and trust you, assured that your
sympathy and pity are for me. You really must let me thank you for
the friendliness, the help, the confidence, the real aid at a time of
deadly danger and deadly fear which you showed me. That awful man--I
shall see him for ever in my dreams. His black, malignant face will
shut out all memory of sunshine and happiness. I shall eternally see
his evil eyes as he threw himself into that well-hole in a vain effort
to escape from the consequences of his own misdoing. The more I think
of it, the more apparent it seems to me that he had premeditated the
whole thing--of course, except his own horrible death. "Perhaps you have noticed a fur collar I occasionally wear. It is one
of my most valued treasures--an ermine collar studded with emeralds. I
had often seen the nigger's eyes gleam covetously when he looked at
it. Unhappily, I wore it yesterday. That may have been the cause
that lured the poor man to his doom. On the very brink of the abyss
he tore the collar from my neck--that was the last I saw of him. When
he sank into the hole, I was rushing to the iron door, which I pulled
behind me. When I heard that soul-sickening yell, which marked his
disappearance in the chasm, I was more glad than I can say that my
eyes were spared the pain and horror which my ears had to endure. "When I tore myself out of the negro's grasp as he sank into the well-
hole; I realised what freedom meant. Freedom! Freedom! Not only
from that noisome prison-house, which has now such a memory, but from
the more noisome embrace of that hideous monster. Whilst I live, I
shall always thank you for my freedom. A woman must sometimes express
her gratitude; otherwise it becomes too great to bear. I am not a
sentimental girl, who merely likes to thank a man; I am a woman who
knows all, of bad as well as good, that life can give. I have known
what it is to love and to lose. But you must not let me bring any
unhappiness into your life. I must live on--as I have lived--alone,
and, in addition, bear with other woes the memory of this latest
insult and horror. In the meantime, I must get away as quickly as
possible from Diana's Grove. In the morning I shall go up to town,
where I shall remain for a week--I cannot stay longer, as business
affairs demand my presence here. I think, however, that a week in the
rush of busy London, surrounded with multitudes of commonplace people,
will help to soften--I cannot expect total obliteration--the terrible
images of the bygone night. When I can sleep easily--which will be, I
hope, after a day or two--I shall be fit to return home and take up
again the burden which will, I suppose, always be with me. "I shall be most happy to see you on my return--or earlier, if my good
fortune sends you on any errand to London. I shall stay at the
Mayfair Hotel. In that busy spot we may forget some of the dangers
and horrors we have shared together. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
Adieu, and thank you, again and
again, for all your kindness and consideration to me. "ARABELLA MARSH." Adam was surprised by this effusive epistle, but he determined to say
nothing of it to Sir Nathaniel until he should have thought it well over. When Adam met Sir Nathaniel at breakfast, he was glad that he had taken
time to turn things over in his mind. The result had been that not only
was he familiar with the facts in all their bearings, but he had already
so far differentiated them that he was able to arrange them in his own
mind according to their values. Breakfast had been a silent function, so
it did not interfere in any way with the process of thought. So soon as the door was closed, Sir Nathaniel began:
"I see, Adam, that something has occurred, and that you have much to tell
me." "That is so, sir. I suppose I had better begin by telling you all I
know--all that has happened since I left you yesterday?" Accordingly Adam gave him details of all that had happened during the
previous evening. He confined himself rigidly to the narration of
circumstances, taking care not to colour events by any comment of his
own, or any opinion of the meaning of things which he did not fully
understand. At first, Sir Nathaniel seemed disposed to ask questions,
but shortly gave this up when he recognised that the narration was
concise and self-explanatory. Thenceforth, he contented himself with
quick looks and glances, easily interpreted, or by some acquiescent
motions of his hands, when such could be convenient, to emphasise his
idea of the correctness of any inference. Until Adam ceased speaking,
having evidently come to an end of what he had to say with regard to this
section of his story, the elder man made no comment whatever. Even when
Adam took from his pocket Lady Arabella's letter, with the manifest
intention of reading it, he did not make any comment. Finally, when Adam
folded up the letter and put it, in its envelope, back in his pocket, as
an intimation that he had now quite finished, the old diplomatist
carefully made a few notes in his pocket-book. "Your narrative, my dear Adam, is altogether admirable. I think I may
now take it that we are both well versed in the actual facts, and that
our conference had better take the shape of a mutual exchange of ideas. Let us both ask questions as they may arise; and I do not doubt that we
shall arrive at some enlightening conclusions." "Will you kindly begin, sir? I do not doubt that, with your longer
experience, you will be able to dissipate some of the fog which envelops
certain of the things which we have to consider." "I hope so, my dear boy. For a beginning, then, let me say that Lady
Arabella's letter makes clear some things which she intended--and also
some things which she did not intend. But, before I begin to draw
deductions, let me ask you a few questions. Adam, are you heart-whole,
quite heart-whole, in the matter of Lady Arabella?" His companion answered at once, each looking the other straight in the
eyes during question and answer. "Lady Arabella, sir, is a charming woman, and I should have deemed it a
privilege to meet her--to talk to her--even--since I am in the
confessional--to flirt a little with her. But if you mean to ask if my
affections are in any way engaged, I can emphatically answer 'No!' --as
indeed you will understand when presently I give you the reason. Apart
from that, there are the unpleasant details we discussed the other day." "Could you--would you mind giving me the reason now? It will help us to
understand what is before us, in the way of difficulty." "Certainly, sir. My reason, on which I can fully depend, is that I love
another woman!" "That clinches it. May I offer my good wishes, and, I hope, my
congratulations?" "I am proud of your good wishes, sir, and I thank you for them. But it
is too soon for congratulations--the lady does not even know my hopes
yet. Indeed, I hardly knew them myself, as definite, till this moment." "I take it then, Adam, that at the right time I may be allowed to know
who the lady is?" Adam laughed a low, sweet laugh, such as ripples from a happy heart. "There need not be an hour's, a minute's delay. I shall be glad to share
my secret with you, sir. The lady, sir, whom I am so happy as to love,
and in whom my dreams of life-long happiness are centred, is Mimi
Watford!" "Then, my dear Adam, I need not wait to offer congratulations. She is
indeed a very charming young lady. I do not think I ever saw a girl who
united in such perfection the qualities of strength of character and
sweetness of disposition. With all my heart, I congratulate you. Then I
may take it that my question as to your heart-wholeness is answered in
the affirmative?" "Yes; and now, sir, may I ask in turn why the question?" "Certainly! I asked because it seems to me that we are coming to a point
where my questions might be painful to you." "It is not merely that I love Mimi, but I have reason to look on Lady
Arabella as her enemy," Adam continued. "Her enemy?" "Yes. A rank and unscrupulous enemy who is bent on her destruction." Sir Nathaniel went to the door, looked outside it and returned, locking
it carefully behind him. CHAPTER XX--METABOLISM
"Am I looking grave?" asked Sir Nathaniel inconsequently when he
re-entered the room. "You certainly are, sir." "We little thought when first we met that we should be drawn into such a
vortex. Already we are mixed up in robbery, and probably murder, but--a
thousand times worse than all the crimes in the calendar--in an affair of
ghastly mystery which has no bottom and no end--with forces of the most
unnerving kind, which had their origin in an age when the world was
different from the world which we know. We are going back to the origin
of superstition--to an age when dragons tore each other in their slime. We must fear nothing--no conclusion, however improbable, almost
impossible it may be. Life and death is hanging on our judgment, not
only for ourselves, but for others whom we love. Remember, I count on
you as I hope you count on me." "I do, with all confidence." "Then," said Sir Nathaniel, "let us think justly and boldly and fear
nothing, however terrifying it may seem. I suppose I am to take as exact
in every detail your account of all the strange things which happened
whilst you were in Diana's Grove?" "So far as I know, yes. Of course I may be mistaken in recollection of
some detail or another, but I am certain that in the main what I have
said is correct." "You feel sure that you saw Lady Arabella seize the negro round the neck,
and drag him down with her into the hole?" "Absolutely certain, sir, otherwise I should have gone to her
assistance." "We have, then, an account of what happened from an eye-witness whom we
trust--that is yourself. We have also another account, written by Lady
Arabella under her own hand. These two accounts do not agree. Therefore
we must take it that one of the two is lying." "Apparently, sir." | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
"And that Lady Arabella is the liar!" "Apparently--as I am not." "We must, therefore, try to find a reason for her lying. She has nothing
to fear from Oolanga, who is dead. Therefore the only reason which could
actuate her would be to convince someone else that she was blameless. This 'someone' could not be you, for you had the evidence of your own
eyes. There was no one else present; therefore it must have been an
absent person." "That seems beyond dispute, sir." "There is only one other person whose good opinion she could wish to
keep--Edgar Caswall. He is the only one who fills the bill. Her lies
point to other things besides the death of the African. She evidently
wanted it to be accepted that his falling into the well was his own act. I cannot suppose that she expected to convince you, the eye-witness; but
if she wished later on to spread the story, it was wise of her to try to
get your acceptance of it." "That is so!" "Then there were other matters of untruth. That, for instance, of the
ermine collar embroidered with emeralds. If an understandable reason be
required for this, it would be to draw attention away from the green
lights which were seen in the room, and especially in the well-hole. Any
unprejudiced person would accept the green lights to be the eyes of a
great snake, such as tradition pointed to living in the well-hole. In
fine, therefore, Lady Arabella wanted the general belief to be that there
was no snake of the kind in Diana's Grove. For my own part, I don't
believe in a partial liar--this art does not deal in veneer; a liar is a
liar right through. Self-interest may prompt falsity of the tongue; but
if one prove to be a liar, nothing that he says can ever be believed. This leads us to the conclusion that because she said or inferred that
there was no snake, we should look for one--and expect to find it, too. "Now let me digress. I live, and have for many years lived, in
Derbyshire, a county more celebrated for its caves than any other county
in England. I have been through them all, and am familiar with every
turn of them; as also with other great caves in Kentucky, in France, in
Germany, and a host of other places--in many of these are tremendously
deep caves of narrow aperture, which are valued by intrepid explorers,
who descend narrow gullets of abysmal depth--and sometimes never return. In many of the caverns in the Peak I am convinced that some of the
smaller passages were used in primeval times as the lairs of some of the
great serpents of legend and tradition. It may have been that such
caverns were formed in the usual geologic way--bubbles or flaws in the
earth's crust--which were later used by the monsters of the period of the
young world. It may have been, of course, that some of them were worn
originally by water; but in time they all found a use when suitable for
living monsters. "This brings us to another point, more difficult to accept and understand
than any other requiring belief in a base not usually accepted, or indeed
entered on--whether such abnormal growths could have ever changed in
their nature. Some day the study of metabolism may progress so far as to
enable us to accept structural changes proceeding from an intellectual or
moral base. We may lean towards a belief that great animal strength may
be a sound base for changes of all sorts. If this be so, what could be a
more fitting subject than primeval monsters whose strength was such as to
allow a survival of thousands of years? We do not know yet if brain can
increase and develop independently of other parts of the living
structure. "After all, the mediaeval belief in the Philosopher's Stone which could
transmute metals, has its counterpart in the accepted theory of
metabolism which changes living tissue. In an age of investigation like
our own, when we are returning to science as the base of wonders--almost
of miracles--we should be slow to refuse to accept facts, however
impossible they may seem to be. "Let us suppose a monster of the early days of the world--a dragon of the
prime--of vast age running into thousands of years, to whom had been
conveyed in some way--it matters not--a brain just sufficient for the
beginning of growth. Suppose the monster to be of incalculable size and
of a strength quite abnormal--a veritable incarnation of animal strength. Suppose this animal is allowed to remain in one place, thus being removed
from accidents of interrupted development; might not, would not this
creature, in process of time--ages, if necessary--have that rudimentary
intelligence developed? There is no impossibility in this; it is only
the natural process of evolution. In the beginning, the instincts of
animals are confined to alimentation, self-protection, and the
multiplication of their species. As time goes on and the needs of life
become more complex, power follows need. We have been long accustomed to
consider growth as applied almost exclusively to size in its various
aspects. But Nature, who has no doctrinaire ideas, may equally apply it
to concentration. A developing thing may expand in any given way or
form. Now, it is a scientific law that increase implies gain and loss of
various kinds; what a thing gains in one direction it may lose in
another. May it not be that Mother Nature may deliberately encourage
decrease as well as increase--that it may be an axiom that what is gained
in concentration is lost in size? Take, for instance, monsters that
tradition has accepted and localised, such as the Worm of Lambton or that
of Spindleston Heugh. If such a creature were, by its own process of
metabolism, to change much of its bulk for intellectual growth, we should
at once arrive at a new class of creature--more dangerous, perhaps, than
the world has ever had any experience of--a force which can think, which
has no soul and no morals, and therefore no acceptance of responsibility. A snake would be a good illustration of this, for it is cold-blooded, and
therefore removed from the temptations which often weaken or restrict
warm-blooded creatures. If, for instance, the Worm of Lambton--if such
ever existed--were guided to its own ends by an organised intelligence
capable of expansion, what form of creature could we imagine which would
equal it in potentialities of evil? Why, such a being would devastate a
whole country. Now, all these things require much thought, and we want
to apply the knowledge usefully, and we should therefore be exact. Would
it not be well to resume the subject later in the day?" "I quite agree, sir. I am in a whirl already; and want to attend
carefully to what you say; so that I may try to digest it." Both men seemed fresher and better for the "easy," and when they met in
the afternoon each of them had something to contribute to the general
stock of information. Adam, who was by nature of a more militant
disposition than his elderly friend, was glad to see that the conference
at once assumed a practical trend. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
Sir Nathaniel recognised this, and,
like an old diplomatist, turned it to present use. "Tell me now, Adam, what is the outcome, in your own mind, of our
conversation?" "That the whole difficulty already assumes practical shape; but with
added dangers, that at first I did not imagine." "What is the practical shape, and what are the added dangers? I am not
disputing, but only trying to clear my own ideas by the consideration of
yours--"
So Adam went on:
"In the past, in the early days of the world, there were monsters who
were so vast that they could exist for thousands of years. Some of them
must have overlapped the Christian era. They may have progressed
intellectually in process of time. If they had in any way so progressed,
or even got the most rudimentary form of brain, they would be the most
dangerous things that ever were in the world. Tradition says that one of
these monsters lived in the Marsh of the East, and came up to a cave in
Diana's Grove, which was also called the Lair of the White Worm. Such
creatures may have grown down as well as up. They _may_ have grown into,
or something like, human beings. Lady Arabella March is of snake nature. She has committed crimes to our knowledge. She retains something of the
vast strength of her primal being--can see in the dark--has the eyes of a
snake. She used the nigger, and then dragged him through the snake's
hole down to the swamp; she is intent on evil, and hates some one we
love. Result . . . " "Yes, the result?" "First, that Mimi Watford should be taken away at once--then--"
"Yes?" "The monster must be destroyed." "Bravo! That is a true and fearless conclusion. At whatever cost, it
must be carried out." "At once?" "Soon, at all events. That creature's very existence is a danger. Her
presence in this neighbourhood makes the danger immediate." As he spoke, Sir Nathaniel's mouth hardened and his eyebrows came down
till they met. There was no doubting his concurrence in the resolution,
or his readiness to help in carrying it out. But he was an elderly man
with much experience and knowledge of law and diplomacy. It seemed to
him to be a stern duty to prevent anything irrevocable taking place till
it had been thought out and all was ready. There were all sorts of legal
cruxes to be thought out, not only regarding the taking of life, even of
a monstrosity in human form, but also of property. Lady Arabella, be she
woman or snake or devil, owned the ground she moved in, according to
British law, and the law is jealous and swift to avenge wrongs done
within its ken. All such difficulties should be--must be--avoided for
Mr. Salton's sake, for Adam's own sake, and, most of all, for Mimi
Watford's sake. Before he spoke again, Sir Nathaniel had made up his mind that he must
try to postpone decisive action until the circumstances on which they
depended--which, after all, were only problematical--should have been
tested satisfactorily, one way or another. When he did speak, Adam at
first thought that his friend was wavering in his intention, or "funking"
the responsibility. However, his respect for Sir Nathaniel was so great
that he would not act, or even come to a conclusion on a vital point,
without his sanction. He came close and whispered in his ear:
"We will prepare our plans to combat and destroy this horrible menace,
after we have cleared up some of the more baffling points. Meanwhile, we
must wait for the night--I hear my uncle's footsteps echoing down the
hall." Sir Nathaniel nodded his approval. CHAPTER XXI--GREEN LIGHT
When old Mr. Salton had retired for the night, Adam and Sir Nathaniel
returned to the study. Things went with great regularity at Lesser Hill,
so they knew that there would be no interruption to their talk. When their cigars were lighted, Sir Nathaniel began. "I hope, Adam, that you do not think me either slack or changeable of
purpose. I mean to go through this business to the bitter end--whatever
it may be. Be satisfied that my first care is, and shall be, the
protection of Mimi Watford. To that I am pledged; my dear boy, we who
are interested are all in the same danger. That semi-human monster out
of the pit hates and means to destroy us all--you and me certainly, and
probably your uncle. I wanted especially to talk with you to-night, for
I cannot help thinking that the time is fast coming--if it has not come
already--when we must take your uncle into our confidence. It was one
thing when fancied evils threatened, but now he is probably marked for
death, and it is only right that he should know all." "I am with you, sir. Things have changed since we agreed to keep him out
of the trouble. Now we dare not; consideration for his feelings might
cost his life. It is a duty--and no light or pleasant one, either. I
have not a shadow of doubt that he will want to be one with us in this. But remember, we are his guests; his name, his honour, have to be thought
of as well as his safety." "All shall be as you wish, Adam. And now as to what we are to do? We
cannot murder Lady Arabella off-hand. Therefore we shall have to put
things in order for the killing, and in such a way that we cannot be
taxed with a crime." "It seems to me, sir, that we are in an exceedingly tight place. Our
first difficulty is to know where to begin. I never thought this
fighting an antediluvian monster would be such a complicated job. This
one is a woman, with all a woman's wit, combined with the heartlessness
of a _cocotte_. She has the strength and impregnability of a diplodocus. We may be sure that in the fight that is before us there will be no
semblance of fair-play. Also that our unscrupulous opponent will not
betray herself!" "That is so--but being feminine, she will probably over-reach herself. Now, Adam, it strikes me that, as we have to protect ourselves and others
against feminine nature, our strong game will be to play our masculine
against her feminine. Perhaps we had better sleep on it. She is a thing
of the night; and the night may give us some ideas." So they both turned in. Adam knocked at Sir Nathaniel's door in the grey of the morning, and, on
being bidden, came into the room. He had several letters in his hand. Sir Nathaniel sat up in bed. "Well!" "I should like to read you a few letters, but, of course, I shall not
send them unless you approve. In fact"--with a smile and a blush--"there
are several things which I want to do; but I hold my hand and my tongue
till I have your approval." "Go on!" said the other kindly. "Tell me all, and count at any rate on
my sympathy, and on my approval and help if I can see my way." Accordingly Adam proceeded:
"When I told you the conclusions at which I had arrived, I put in the
foreground that Mimi Watford should, for the sake of her own safety, be
removed--and that the monster which had wrought all the harm should be
destroyed." "Yes, that is so." "To carry this into practice, sir, one preliminary is required--unless
harm of another kind is to be faced. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
Mimi should have some protector
whom all the world would recognise. The only form recognised by
convention is marriage!" Sir Nathaniel smiled in a fatherly way. "To marry, a husband is required. And that husband should be you." "Yes, yes." "And the marriage should be immediate and secret--or, at least, not
spoken of outside ourselves. Would the young lady be agreeable to that
proceeding?" "I do not know, sir!" "Then how are we to proceed?" "I suppose that we--or one of us--must ask her." "Is this a sudden idea, Adam, a sudden resolution?" "A sudden resolution, sir, but not a sudden idea. If she agrees, all is
well and good. The sequence is obvious." "And it is to be kept a secret amongst ourselves?" "I want no secret, sir, except for Mimi's good. For myself, I should
like to shout it from the house-tops! But we must be discreet; untimely
knowledge to our enemy might work incalculable harm." "And how would you suggest, Adam, that we could combine the momentous
question with secrecy?" Adam grew red and moved uneasily. "Someone must ask her--as soon as possible!" "And that someone?" "I thought that you, sir, would be so good!" "God bless my soul! This is a new kind of duty to take on--at my time of
life. Adam, I hope you know that you can count on me to help in any way
I can!" "I have already counted on you, sir, when I ventured to make such a
suggestion. I can only ask," he added, "that you will be more than ever
kind to me--to us--and look on the painful duty as a voluntary act of
grace, prompted by kindness and affection." "Painful duty!" "Yes," said Adam boldly. "Painful to you, though to me it would be all
joyful." "It is a strange job for an early morning! Well, we all live and learn. I suppose the sooner I go the better. You had better write a line for me
to take with me. For, you see, this is to be a somewhat unusual
transaction, and it may be embarrassing to the lady, even to myself. So
we ought to have some sort of warrant, something to show that we have
been mindful of her feelings. It will not do to take acquiescence for
granted--although we act for her good." "Sir Nathaniel, you are a true friend; I am sure that both Mimi and I
shall be grateful to you for all our lives--however long they may be!" So the two talked it over and agreed as to points to be borne in mind by
the ambassador. It was striking ten when Sir Nathaniel left the house,
Adam seeing him quietly off. As the young man followed him with wistful eyes--almost jealous of the
privilege which his kind deed was about to bring him--he felt that his
own heart was in his friend's breast. The memory of that morning was like a dream to all those concerned in it. Sir Nathaniel had a confused recollection of detail and sequence, though
the main facts stood out in his memory boldly and clearly. Adam Salton's
recollection was of an illimitable wait, filled with anxiety, hope, and
chagrin, all dominated by a sense of the slow passage of time and
accompanied by vague fears. Mimi could not for a long time think at all,
or recollect anything, except that Adam loved her and was saving her from
a terrible danger. When she had time to think, later on, she wondered
when she had any ignorance of the fact that Adam loved her, and that she
loved him with all her heart. Everything, every recollection however
small, every feeling, seemed to fit into those elemental facts as though
they had all been moulded together. The main and crowning recollection
was her saying goodbye to Sir Nathaniel, and entrusting to him loving
messages, straight from her heart, to Adam Salton, and of his bearing
when--with an impulse which she could not check--she put her lips to his
and kissed him. Later, when she was alone and had time to think, it was
a passing grief to her that she would have to be silent, for a time, to
Lilla on the happy events of that strange mission. She had, of course, agreed to keep all secret until Adam should give her
leave to speak. The advice and assistance of Sir Nathaniel was a great help to Adam in
carrying out his idea of marrying Mimi Watford without publicity. He
went with him to London, and, with his influence, the young man obtained
the license of the Archbishop of Canterbury for a private marriage. Sir
Nathaniel then persuaded old Mr. Salton to allow his nephew to spend a
few weeks with him at Doom Tower, and it was here that Mimi became Adam's
wife. But that was only the first step in their plans; before going
further, however, Adam took his bride off to the Isle of Man. He wished
to place a stretch of sea between Mimi and the White Worm, while things
matured. On their return, Sir Nathaniel met them and drove them at once
to Doom, taking care to avoid any one that he knew on the journey. Sir Nathaniel had taken care to have the doors and windows shut and
locked--all but the door used for their entry. The shutters were up and
the blinds down. Moreover, heavy curtains were drawn across the windows. When Adam commented on this, Sir Nathaniel said in a whisper:
"Wait till we are alone, and I'll tell you why this is done; in the
meantime not a word or a sign. You will approve when we have had a talk
together." They said no more on the subject till after dinner, when they were
ensconced in Sir Nathaniel's study, which was on the top storey. Doom
Tower was a lofty structure, situated on an eminence high up in the Peak. The top commanded a wide prospect, ranging from the hills above the
Ribble to the near side of the Brow, which marked the northern bound of
ancient Mercia. It was of the early Norman period, less than a century
younger than Castra Regis. The windows of the study were barred and
locked, and heavy dark curtains closed them in. When this was done not a
gleam of light from the tower could be seen from outside. When they were alone, Sir Nathaniel explained that he had taken his old
friend, Mr. Salton, into full confidence, and that in future all would
work together. "It is important for you to be extremely careful. In spite of the fact
that our marriage was kept secret, as also your temporary absence, both
are known." "How? To whom?" "How, I know not; but I am beginning to have an idea." "To her?" asked Adam, in momentary consternation. Sir Nathaniel shivered perceptibly. "The White Worm--yes!" Adam noticed that from now on, his friend never spoke of Lady Arabella
otherwise, except when he wished to divert the suspicion of others. Sir Nathaniel switched off the electric light, and when the room was
pitch dark, he came to Adam, took him by the hand, and led him to a seat
set in the southern window. Then he softly drew back a piece of the
curtain and motioned his companion to look out. Adam did so, and immediately shrank back as though his eyes had opened on
pressing danger. His companion set his mind at rest by saying in a low
voice:
"It is all right; you may speak, but speak low. There is no danger
here--at present!" Adam leaned forward, taking care, however, not to press his face against
the glass. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
What he saw would not under ordinary circumstances have
caused concern to anybody. With his special knowledge, it was
appalling--though the night was now so dark that in reality there was
little to be seen. On the western side of the tower stood a grove of old trees, of forest
dimensions. They were not grouped closely, but stood a little apart from
each other, producing the effect of a row widely planted. Over the tops
of them was seen a green light, something like the danger signal at a
railway-crossing. It seemed at first quite still; but presently, when
Adam's eye became accustomed to it, he could see that it moved as if
trembling. This at once recalled to Adam's mind the light quivering
above the well-hole in the darkness of that inner room at Diana's Grove,
Oolanga's awful shriek, and the hideous black face, now grown grey with
terror, disappearing into the impenetrable gloom of the mysterious
orifice. Instinctively he laid his hand on his revolver, and stood up
ready to protect his wife. Then, seeing that nothing happened, and that
the light and all outside the tower remained the same, he softly pulled
the curtain over the window. Sir Nathaniel switched on the light again, and in its comforting glow
they began to talk freely. CHAPTER XXII--AT CLOSE QUARTERS
"She has diabolical cunning," said Sir Nathaniel. "Ever since you left,
she has ranged along the Brow and wherever you were accustomed to
frequent. I have not heard whence the knowledge of your movements came
to her, nor have I been able to learn any data whereon to found an
opinion. She seems to have heard both of your marriage and your absence;
but I gather, by inference, that she does not actually know where you and
Mimi are, or of your return. So soon as the dusk fails, she goes out on
her rounds, and before dawn covers the whole ground round the Brow, and
away up into the heart of the Peak. The White Worm, in her own proper
shape, certainly has great facilities for the business on which she is
now engaged. She can look into windows of any ordinary kind. Happily,
this house is beyond her reach, if she wishes--as she manifestly does--to
remain unrecognised. But, even at this height, it is wise to show no
lights, lest she might learn something of our presence or absence." "Would it not be well, sir, if one of us could see this monster in her
real shape at close quarters? I am willing to run the risk--for I take
it there would be no slight risk in the doing. I don't suppose anyone of
our time has seen her close and lived to tell the tale." Sir Nathaniel held up an expostulatory hand. "Good God, lad, what are you suggesting? Think of your wife, and all
that is at stake." "It is of Mimi that I think--for her sake that I am willing to risk
whatever is to be risked." Adam's young bride was proud of her man, but she blanched at the thought
of the ghastly White Worm. Adam saw this and at once reassured her. "So long as her ladyship does not know whereabout I am, I shall have as
much safety as remains to us; bear in mind, my darling, that we cannot be
too careful." Sir Nathaniel realised that Adam was right; the White Worm had no
supernatural powers and could not harm them until she discovered their
hiding place. It was agreed, therefore, that the two men should go
together. When the two men slipped out by the back door of the house, they walked
cautiously along the avenue which trended towards the west. Everything
was pitch dark--so dark that at times they had to feel their way by the
palings and tree-trunks. They could still see, seemingly far in front of
them and high up, the baleful light which at the height and distance
seemed like a faint line. As they were now on the level of the ground,
the light seemed infinitely higher than it had from the top of the tower. At the sight Adam's heart fell; the danger of the desperate enterprise
which he had undertaken burst upon him. But this feeling was shortly
followed by another which restored him to himself--a fierce loathing, and
a desire to kill, such as he had never experienced before. They went on for some distance on a level road, fairly wide, from which
the green light was visible. Here Sir Nathaniel spoke softly, placing
his lips to Adam's ear for safety. "We know nothing whatever of this creature's power of hearing or
smelling, though I presume that both are of no great strength. As to
seeing, we may presume the opposite, but in any case we must try to keep
in the shade behind the tree-trunks. The slightest error would be fatal
to us." Adam only nodded, in case there should be any chance of the monster
seeing the movement. After a time that seemed interminable, they emerged from the circling
wood. It was like coming out into sunlight by comparison with the misty
blackness which had been around them. There was light enough to see by,
though not sufficient to distinguish things at a distance. Adam's eyes
sought the green light in the sky. It was still in about the same place,
but its surroundings were more visible. It was now at the summit of what
seemed to be a long white pole, near the top of which were two pendant
white masses, like rudimentary arms or fins. The green light, strangely
enough, did not seem lessened by the surrounding starlight, but had a
clearer effect and a deeper green. Whilst they were carefully regarding
this--Adam with the aid of an opera-glass--their nostrils were assailed
by a horrid stench, something like that which rose from the well-hole in
Diana's Grove. By degrees, as their eyes got the right focus, they saw an immense
towering mass that seemed snowy white. It was tall and thin. The lower
part was hidden by the trees which lay between, but they could follow the
tall white shaft and the duplicate green lights which topped it. As they
looked there was a movement--the shaft seemed to bend, and the line of
green light descended amongst the trees. They could see the green light
twinkle as it passed between the obstructing branches. Seeing where the head of the monster was, the two men ventured a little
further forward, and saw that the hidden mass at the base of the shaft
was composed of vast coils of the great serpent's body, forming a base
from which the upright mass rose. As they looked, this lower mass moved,
the glistening folds catching the moonlight, and they could see that the
monster's progress was along the ground. It was coming towards them at a
swift pace, so they turned and ran, taking care to make as little noise
as possible, either by their footfalls or by disturbing the undergrowth
close to them. They did not stop or pause till they saw before them the
high dark tower of Doom. CHAPTER XXIII--IN THE ENEMY'S HOUSE
Sir Nathaniel was in the library next morning, after breakfast, when Adam
came to him carrying a letter. "Her ladyship doesn't lose any time. She has begun work already!" Sir Nathaniel, who was writing at a table near the window, looked up. "What is it?" said he. Adam held out the letter he was carrying. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
It was in a blazoned envelope. "Ha!" said Sir Nathaniel, "from the White Worm! I expected something of
the kind." "But," said Adam, "how could she have known we were here? She didn't
know last night." "I don't think we need trouble about that, Adam. There is so much we do
not understand. This is only another mystery. Suffice it that she does
know--perhaps it is all the better and safer for us." "How is that?" asked Adam with a puzzled look. "General process of reasoning, my boy; and the experience of some years
in the diplomatic world. This creature is a monster without heart or
consideration for anything or anyone. She is not nearly so dangerous in
the open as when she has the dark to protect her. Besides, we know, by
our own experience of her movements, that for some reason she shuns
publicity. In spite of her vast bulk and abnormal strength, she is
afraid to attack openly. After all, she is only a snake and with a
snake's nature, which is to keep low and squirm, and proceed by stealth
and cunning. She will never attack when she can run away, although she
knows well that running away would probably be fatal to her. What is the
letter about?" Sir Nathaniel's voice was calm and self-possessed. When he was engaged
in any struggle of wits he was all diplomatist. "She asks Mimi and me to tea this afternoon at Diana's Grove, and hopes
that you also will favour her." Sir Nathaniel smiled. "Please ask Mrs. Salton to accept for us all." "She means some deadly mischief. Surely--surely it would be wiser not." "It is an old trick that we learn early in diplomacy, Adam--to fight on
ground of your own choice. It is true that she suggested the place on
this occasion; but by accepting it we make it ours. Moreover, she will
not be able to understand our reason for doing so, and her own bad
conscience--if she has any, bad or good--and her own fears and doubts
will play our game for us. No, my dear boy, let us accept, by all
means." Adam said nothing, but silently held out his hand, which his companion
shook: no words were necessary. When it was getting near tea-time, Mimi asked Sir Nathaniel how they were
going. "We must make a point of going in state. We want all possible
publicity." Mimi looked at him inquiringly. "Certainly, my dear, in the
present circumstances publicity is a part of safety. Do not be surprised
if, whilst we are at Diana's Grove, occasional messages come for you--for
all or any of us." "I see!" said Mrs. Salton. "You are taking no chances." "None, my dear. All I have learned at foreign courts, and amongst
civilised and uncivilised people, is going to be utilised within the next
couple of hours." Sir Nathaniel's voice was full of seriousness, and it brought to Mimi in
a convincing way the awful gravity of the occasion. In due course, they set out in a carriage drawn by a fine pair of horses,
who soon devoured the few miles of their journey. Before they came to
the gate, Sir Nathaniel turned to Mimi. "I have arranged with Adam certain signals which may be necessary if
certain eventualities occur. These need be nothing to do with you
directly. But bear in mind that if I ask you or Adam to do anything, do
not lose a second in the doing of it. We must try to pass off such
moments with an appearance of unconcern. In all probability, nothing
requiring such care will occur. The White Worm will not try force,
though she has so much of it to spare. Whatever she may attempt to-day,
of harm to any of us, will be in the way of secret plot. Some other time
she may try force, but--if I am able to judge such a thing--not to-day. The messengers who may ask for any of us will not be witnesses only, they
may help to stave off danger." Seeing query in her face, he went on: "Of
what kind the danger may be, I know not, and cannot guess. It will
doubtless be some ordinary circumstance; but none the less dangerous on
that account. Here we are at the gate. Now, be careful in all matters,
however small. To keep your head is half the battle." There were a number of men in livery in the hall when they arrived. The
doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and Lady Arabella came forth
and offered them cordial welcome. This having been got over, Lady
Arabella led them into another room where tea was served. Adam was acutely watchful and suspicious of everything, and saw on the
far side of this room a panelled iron door of the same colour and
configuration as the outer door of the room where was the well-hole
wherein Oolanga had disappeared. Something in the sight alarmed him, and
he quietly stood near the door. He made no movement, even of his eyes,
but he could see that Sir Nathaniel was watching him intently, and, he
fancied, with approval. They all sat near the table spread for tea, Adam still near the door. Lady Arabella fanned herself, complaining of heat, and told one of the
footmen to throw all the outer doors open. Tea was in progress when Mimi suddenly started up with a look of fright
on her face; at the same moment, the men became cognisant of a thick
smoke which began to spread through the room--a smoke which made those
who experienced it gasp and choke. The footmen began to edge uneasily
towards the inner door. Denser and denser grew the smoke, and more acrid
its smell. Mimi, towards whom the draught from the open door wafted the
smoke, rose up choking, and ran to the inner door, which she threw open
to its fullest extent, disclosing on the outside a curtain of thin silk,
fixed to the doorposts. The draught from the open door swayed the thin
silk towards her, and in her fright, she tore down the curtain, which
enveloped her from head to foot. Then she ran through the still open
door, heedless of the fact that she could not see where she was going. Adam, followed by Sir Nathaniel, rushed forward and joined her--Adam
catching his wife by the arm and holding her tight. It was well that he
did so, for just before her lay the black orifice of the well-hole,
which, of course, she could not see with the silk curtain round her head. The floor was extremely slippery; something like thick oil had been
spilled where she had to pass; and close to the edge of the hole her feet
shot from under her, and she stumbled forward towards the well-hole. When Adam saw Mimi slip, he flung himself backward, still holding her. His weight told, and he dragged her up from the hole and they fell
together on the floor outside the zone of slipperiness. In a moment he
had raised her up, and together they rushed out through the open door
into the sunlight, Sir Nathaniel close behind them. They were all pale
except the old diplomatist, who looked both calm and cool. It sustained
and cheered Adam and his wife to see him thus master of himself. Both
managed to follow his example, to the wonderment of the footmen, who saw
the three who had just escaped a terrible danger walking together gaily,
as, under the guiding pressure of Sir Nathaniel's hand, they turned to re-
enter the house. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
Lady Arabella, whose face had blanched to a deadly white, now resumed her
ministrations at the tea-board as though nothing unusual had happened. The slop-basin was full of half-burned brown paper, over which tea had
been poured. Sir Nathaniel had been narrowly observing his hostess, and took the first
opportunity afforded him of whispering to Adam:
"The real attack is to come--she is too quiet. When I give my hand to
your wife to lead her out, come with us--and caution her to hurry. Don't
lose a second, even if you have to make a scene. Hs-s-s-h!" Then they resumed their places close to the table, and the servants, in
obedience to Lady Arabella's order, brought in fresh tea. Thence on, that tea-party seemed to Adam, whose faculties were at their
utmost intensity, like a terrible dream. As for poor Mimi, she was so
overwrought both with present and future fear, and with horror at the
danger she had escaped, that her faculties were numb. However, she was
braced up for a trial, and she felt assured that whatever might come she
would be able to go through with it. Sir Nathaniel seemed just as
usual--suave, dignified, and thoughtful--perfect master of himself. To her husband, it was evident that Mimi was ill at ease. The way she
kept turning her head to look around her, the quick coming and going of
the colour of her face, her hurried breathing, alternating with periods
of suspicious calm, were evidences of mental perturbation. To her, the
attitude of Lady Arabella seemed compounded of social sweetness and
personal consideration. It would be hard to imagine more thoughtful and
tender kindness towards an honoured guest. When tea was over and the servants had come to clear away the cups, Lady
Arabella, putting her arm round Mimi's waist, strolled with her into an
adjoining room, where she collected a number of photographs which were
scattered about, and, sitting down beside her guest, began to show them
to her. While she was doing this, the servants closed all the doors of
the suite of rooms, as well as that which opened from the room
outside--that of the well-hole into the avenue. Suddenly, without any
seeming cause, the light in the room began to grow dim. Sir Nathaniel,
who was sitting close to Mimi, rose to his feet, and, crying, "Quick!" caught hold of her hand and began to drag her from the room. Adam caught
her other hand, and between them they drew her through the outer door
which the servants were beginning to close. It was difficult at first to
find the way, the darkness was so great; but to their relief when Adam
whistled shrilly, the carriage and horses, which had been waiting in the
angle of the avenue, dashed up. Her husband and Sir Nathaniel
lifted--almost threw--Mimi into the carriage. The postillion plied whip
and spur, and the vehicle, rocking with its speed, swept through the gate
and tore up the road. Behind them was a hubbub--servants rushing about,
orders being shouted out, doors shutting, and somewhere, seemingly far
back in the house, a strange noise. Every nerve of the horses was
strained as they dashed recklessly along the road. The two men held Mimi
between them, the arms of both of them round her as though protectingly. As they went, there was a sudden rise in the ground; but the horses,
breathing heavily, dashed up it at racing speed, not slackening their
pace when the hill fell away again, leaving them to hurry along the
downgrade. It would be foolish to say that neither Adam nor Mimi had any fear in
returning to Doom Tower. Mimi felt it more keenly than her husband,
whose nerves were harder, and who was more inured to danger. Still she
bore up bravely, and as usual the effort was helpful to her. When once
she was in the study in the top of the turret, she almost forgot the
terrors which lay outside in the dark. She did not attempt to peep out
of the window; but Adam did--and saw nothing. The moonlight showed all
the surrounding country, but nowhere was to be observed that tremulous
line of green light. The peaceful night had a good effect on them all; danger, being unseen,
seemed far off. At times it was hard to realise that it had ever been. With courage restored, Adam rose early and walked along the Brow, seeing
no change in the signs of life in Castra Regis. What he did see, to his
wonder and concern, on his returning homeward, was Lady Arabella, in her
tight-fitting white dress and ermine collar, but without her emeralds;
she was emerging from the gate of Diana's Grove and walking towards the
Castle. Pondering on this, and trying to find some meaning in it,
occupied his thoughts till he joined Mimi and Sir Nathaniel at breakfast. They began the meal in silence. What had been had been, and was known to
them all. Moreover, it was not a pleasant topic. A fillip was given to the conversation when Adam told of his seeing Lady
Arabella, on her way to Castra Regis. They each had something to say of
her, and of what her wishes or intentions were towards Edgar Caswall. Mimi spoke bitterly of her in every aspect. She had not forgotten--and
never would--never could--the occasion when, to harm Lilla, the woman had
consorted even with the nigger. As a social matter, she was disgusted
with her for following up the rich landowner--"throwing herself at his
head so shamelessly," was how she expressed it. She was interested to
know that the great kite still flew from Caswall's tower. But beyond
such matters she did not try to go. The only comment she made was of
strongly expressed surprise at her ladyship's "cheek" in ignoring her own
criminal acts, and her impudence in taking it for granted that others had
overlooked them also. CHAPTER XXIV--A STARTLING PROPOSITION
The more Mimi thought over the late events, the more puzzled she was. What did it all mean--what could it mean, except that there was an error
of fact somewhere. Could it be possible that some of them--all of them
had been mistaken, that there had been no White Worm at all? On either
side of her was a belief impossible of reception. Not to believe in what
seemed apparent was to destroy the very foundations of belief . . . yet
in old days there had been monsters on the earth, and certainly some
people had believed in just such mysterious changes of identity. It was
all very strange. Just fancy how any stranger--say a doctor--would
regard her, if she were to tell him that she had been to a tea-party with
an antediluvian monster, and that they had been waited on by up-to-date
men-servants. Adam had returned, exhilarated by his walk, and more settled in his mind
than he had been for some time. Like Mimi, he had gone through the phase
of doubt and inability to believe in the reality of things, though it had
not affected him to the same extent. The idea, however, that his wife
was suffering ill-effects from her terrible ordeal, braced him up. He
remained with her for a time, then he sought Sir Nathaniel in order to
talk over the matter with him. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
He knew that the calm common sense and
self-reliance of the old man, as well as his experience, would be helpful
to them all. Sir Nathaniel had come to the conclusion that, for some reason which he
did not understand, Lady Arabella had changed her plans, and, for the
present at all events, was pacific. He was inclined to attribute her
changed demeanour to the fact that her influence over Edgar Caswall was
so far increased, as to justify a more fixed belief in his submission to
her charms. As a matter of fact, she had seen Caswall that morning when she visited
Castra Regis, and they had had a long talk together, during which the
possibility of their union had been discussed. Caswall, without being
enthusiastic on the subject, had been courteous and attentive; as she had
walked back to Diana's Grove, she almost congratulated herself on her new
settlement in life. That the idea was becoming fixed in her mind, was
shown by a letter which she wrote later in the day to Adam Salton, and
sent to him by hand. It ran as follows:
"DEAR MR. SALTON,
"I wonder if you would kindly advise, and, if possible, help me in a
matter of business. I have been for some time trying to make up my
mind to sell Diana's Grove, I have put off and put off the doing of it
till now. The place is my own property, and no one has to be
consulted with regard to what I may wish to do about it. It was
bought by my late husband, Captain Adolphus Ranger March, who had
another residence, The Crest, Appleby. He acquired all rights of all
kinds, including mining and sporting. When he died, he left his whole
property to me. I shall feel leaving this place, which has become
endeared to me by many sacred memories and affections--the
recollection of many happy days of my young married life, and the more
than happy memories of the man I loved and who loved me so much. I
should be willing to sell the place for any fair price--so long, of
course, as the purchaser was one I liked and of whom I approved. May
I say that you yourself would be the ideal person. But I dare not
hope for so much. It strikes me, however, that among your Australian
friends may be someone who wishes to make a settlement in the Old
Country, and would care to fix the spot in one of the most historic
regions in England, full of romance and legend, and with a
never-ending vista of historical interest--an estate which, though
small, is in perfect condition and with illimitable possibilities of
development, and many doubtful--or unsettled--rights which have
existed before the time of the Romans or even Celts, who were the
original possessors. In addition, the house has been kept up to the
_dernier cri_. Immediate possession can be arranged. My lawyers can
provide you, or whoever you may suggest, with all business and
historical details. A word from you of acceptance or refusal is all
that is necessary, and we can leave details to be thrashed out by our
agents. Forgive me, won't you, for troubling you in the matter, and
believe me, yours very sincerely. "ARABELLA MARCH." Adam read this over several times, and then, his mind being made up, he
went to Mimi and asked if she had any objection. She answered--after a
shudder--that she was, in this, as in all things, willing to do whatever
he might wish. "Dearest, I am willing that you should judge what is best for us. Be
quite free to act as you see your duty, and as your inclination calls. We
are in the hands of God, and He has hitherto guided us, and will do so to
His own end." From his wife's room Adam Salton went straight to the study in the tower,
where he knew Sir Nathaniel would be at that hour. The old man was
alone, so, when he had entered in obedience to the "Come in," which
answered his query, he closed the door and sat down beside him. "Do you think, sir, that it would be well for me to buy Diana's Grove?" "God bless my soul!" said the old man, startled, "why on earth would you
want to do that?" "Well, I have vowed to destroy that White Worm, and my being able to do
whatever I may choose with the Lair would facilitate matters and avoid
complications." Sir Nathaniel hesitated longer than usual before speaking. He was
thinking deeply. "Yes, Adam, there is much common sense in your suggestion, though it
startled me at first. I think that, for all reasons, you would do well
to buy the property and to have the conveyance settled at once. If you
want more money than is immediately convenient, let me know, so that I
may be your banker." "Thank you, sir, most heartily; but I have more money at immediate call
than I shall want. I am glad you approve." "The property is historic, and as time goes on it will increase in value. Moreover, I may tell you something, which indeed is only a surmise, but
which, if I am right, will add great value to the place." Adam listened. "Has it ever struck you why the old name, 'The Lair of the White Worm,'
was given? We know that there was a snake which in early days was called
a worm; but why white?" "I really don't know, sir; I never thought of it. I simply took it for
granted." "So did I at first--long ago. But later I puzzled my brain for a
reason." "And what was the reason, sir?" "Simply and solely because the snake or worm _was_ white. We are near
the county of Stafford, where the great industry of china-burning was
originated and grew. Stafford owes much of its wealth to the large
deposits of the rare china clay found in it from time to time. These
deposits become in time pretty well exhausted; but for centuries Stafford
adventurers looked for the special clay, as Ohio and Pennsylvania farmers
and explorers looked for oil. Anyone owning real estate on which china
clay can be discovered strikes a sort of gold mine." "Yes, and then--" The young man looked puzzled. "The original 'Worm' so-called, from which the name of the place came,
had to find a direct way down to the marshes and the mud-holes. Now, the
clay is easily penetrable, and the original hole probably pierced a bed
of china clay. When once the way was made it would become a sort of
highway for the Worm. But as much movement was necessary to ascend such
a great height, some of the clay would become attached to its rough skin
by attrition. The downway must have been easy work, but the ascent was
different, and when the monster came to view in the upper world, it would
be fresh from contact with the white clay. Hence the name, which has no
cryptic significance, but only fact. Now, if that surmise be true--and I
do not see why not--there must be a deposit of valuable clay--possibly of
immense depth." Adam's comment pleased the old gentleman. "I have it in my bones, sir, that you have struck--or rather reasoned
out--a great truth." Sir Nathaniel went on cheerfully. "When the world of commerce wakes up
to the value of your find, it will be as well that your title to
ownership has been perfectly secured. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
If anyone ever deserved such a
gain, it is you." With his friend's aid, Adam secured the property without loss of time. Then he went to see his uncle, and told him about it. Mr. Salton was
delighted to find his young relative already constructively the owner of
so fine an estate--one which gave him an important status in the county. He made many anxious enquiries about Mimi, and the doings of the White
Worm, but Adam reassured him. The next morning, when Adam went to his host in the smoking-room, Sir
Nathaniel asked him how he purposed to proceed with regard to keeping his
vow. "It is a difficult matter which you have undertaken. To destroy such a
monster is something like one of the labours of Hercules, in that not
only its size and weight and power of using them in little-known ways are
against you, but the occult side is alone an unsurpassable difficulty. The Worm is already master of all the elements except fire--and I do not
see how fire can be used for the attack. It has only to sink into the
earth in its usual way, and you could not overtake it if you had the
resources of the biggest coal-mine in existence. But I daresay you have
mapped out some plan in your mind," he added courteously. "I have, sir. But, of course, it may not stand the test of practice." "May I know the idea?" "Well, sir, this was my argument: At the time of the Chartist trouble, an
idea spread amongst financial circles that an attack was going to be made
on the Bank of England. Accordingly, the directors of that institution
consulted many persons who were supposed to know what steps should be
taken, and it was finally decided that the best protection against
fire--which is what was feared--was not water but sand. To carry the
scheme into practice great store of fine sea-sand--the kind that blows
about and is used to fill hour-glasses--was provided throughout the
building, especially at the points liable to attack, from which it could
be brought into use. "I propose to provide at Diana's Grove, as soon as it comes into my
possession, an enormous amount of such sand, and shall take an early
occasion of pouring it into the well-hole, which it will in time choke. Thus Lady Arabella, in her guise of the White Worm, will find herself cut
off from her refuge. The hole is a narrow one, and is some hundreds of
feet deep. The weight of the sand this can contain would not in itself
be sufficient to obstruct; but the friction of such a body working up
against it would be tremendous." "One moment. What use would the sand be for destruction?" "None, directly; but it would hold the struggling body in place till the
rest of my scheme came into practice." "And what is the rest?" "As the sand is being poured into the well-hole, quantities of dynamite
can also be thrown in!" "Good. But how would the dynamite explode--for, of course, that is what
you intend. Would not some sort of wire or fuse he required for each
parcel of dynamite?" Adam smiled. "Not in these days, sir. That was proved in New York. A thousand pounds
of dynamite, in sealed canisters, was placed about some workings. At the
last a charge of gunpowder was fired, and the concussion exploded the
dynamite. It was most successful. Those who were non-experts in high
explosives expected that every pane of glass in New York would be
shattered. But, in reality, the explosive did no harm outside the area
intended, although sixteen acres of rock had been mined and only the
supporting walls and pillars had been left intact. The whole of the
rocks were shattered." Sir Nathaniel nodded approval. "That seems a good plan--a very excellent one. But if it has to tear
down so many feet of precipice, it may wreck the whole neighbourhood." "And free it for ever from a monster," added Adam, as he left the room to
find his wife. CHAPTER XXV--THE LAST BATTLE
Lady Arabella had instructed her solicitors to hurry on with the
conveyance of Diana's Grove, so no time was lost in letting Adam Salton
have formal possession of the estate. After his interview with Sir
Nathaniel, he had taken steps to begin putting his plan into action. In
order to accumulate the necessary amount of fine sea-sand, he ordered the
steward to prepare for an elaborate system of top-dressing all the
grounds. A great heap of the sand, brought from bays on the Welsh coast,
began to grow at the back of the Grove. No one seemed to suspect that it
was there for any purpose other than what had been given out. Lady Arabella, who alone could have guessed, was now so absorbed in her
matrimonial pursuit of Edgar Caswall, that she had neither time nor
inclination for thought extraneous to this. She had not yet moved from
the house, though she had formally handed over the estate. Adam put up a rough corrugated-iron shed behind the Grove, in which he
stored his explosives. All being ready for his great attempt whenever
the time should come, he was now content to wait, and, in order to pass
the time, interested himself in other things--even in Caswall's great
kite, which still flew from the high tower of Castra Regis. The mound of fine sand grew to proportions so vast as to puzzle the
bailiffs and farmers round the Brow. The hour of the intended cataclysm
was approaching apace. Adam wished--but in vain--for an opportunity,
which would appear to be natural, of visiting Caswall in the turret of
Castra Regis. At last, one morning, he met Lady Arabella moving towards
the Castle, so he took his courage _a deux mains_ and asked to be allowed
to accompany her. She was glad, for her own purposes, to comply with his
wishes. So together they entered, and found their way to the
turret-room. Caswall was much surprised to see Adam come to his house,
but lent himself to the task of seeming to be pleased. He played the
host so well as to deceive even Adam. They all went out on the turret
roof, where he explained to his guests the mechanism for raising and
lowering the kite, taking also the opportunity of testing the movements
of the multitudes of birds, how they answered almost instantaneously to
the lowering or raising of the kite. As Lady Arabella walked home with Adam from Castra Regis, she asked him
if she might make a request. Permission having been accorded, she
explained that before she finally left Diana's Grove, where she had lived
so long, she had a desire to know the depth of the well-hole. Adam was
really happy to meet her wishes, not from any sentiment, but because he
wished to give some valid and ostensible reason for examining the passage
of the Worm, which would obviate any suspicion resulting from his being
on the premises. He brought from London a Kelvin sounding apparatus,
with a sufficient length of piano-wire for testing any probable depth. The wire passed easily over the running wheel, and when this was once
fixed over the hole, he was satisfied to wait till the most advantageous
time for his final experiment. * * * * *
In the meantime, affairs had been going quietly at Mercy Farm. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
Lilla, of
course, felt lonely in the absence of her cousin, but the even tenor of
life went on for her as for others. After the first shock of parting was
over, things went back to their accustomed routine. In one respect,
however, there was a marked difference. So long as home conditions had
remained unchanged, Lilla was content to put ambition far from her, and
to settle down to the life which had been hers as long as she could
remember. But Mimi's marriage set her thinking; naturally, she came to
the conclusion that she too might have a mate. There was not for her
much choice--there was little movement in the matrimonial direction at
the farmhouse. She did not approve of the personality of Edgar Caswall,
and his struggle with Mimi had frightened her; but he was unmistakably an
excellent _parti_, much better than she could have any right to expect. This weighs much with a woman, and more particularly one of her class. So, on the whole, she was content to let things take their course, and to
abide by the issue. As time went on, she had reason to believe that things did not point to
happiness. She could not shut her eyes to certain disturbing facts,
amongst which were the existence of Lady Arabella and her growing
intimacy with Edgar Caswall; as well as his own cold and haughty nature,
so little in accord with the ardour which is the foundation of a young
maid's dreams of happiness. How things would, of necessity, alter if she
were to marry, she was afraid to think. All told, the prospect was not
happy for her, and she had a secret longing that something might occur to
upset the order of things as at present arranged. When Lilla received a note from Edgar Caswall asking if he might come to
tea on the following afternoon, her heart sank within her. If it was
only for her father's sake, she must not refuse him or show any
disinclination which he might construe into incivility. She missed Mimi
more than she could say or even dared to think. Hitherto, she had always
looked to her cousin for sympathy, for understanding, for loyal support. Now she and all these things, and a thousand others--gentle, assuring,
supporting--were gone. And instead there was a horrible aching void. For the whole afternoon and evening, and for the following forenoon, poor
Lilla's loneliness grew to be a positive agony. For the first time she
began to realise the sense of her loss, as though all the previous
suffering had been merely a preparation. Everything she looked at,
everything she remembered or thought of, became laden with poignant
memory. Then on the top of all was a new sense of dread. The reaction
from the sense of security, which had surrounded her all her life, to a
never-quieted apprehension, was at times almost more than she could bear. It so filled her with fear that she had a haunting feeling that she would
as soon die as live. However, whatever might be her own feelings, duty
had to be done, and as she had been brought up to consider duty first,
she braced herself to go through, to the very best of her ability, what
was before her. Still, the severe and prolonged struggle for self-control told upon
Lilla. She looked, as she felt, ill and weak. She was really in a
nerveless and prostrate condition, with black circles round her eyes,
pale even to her lips, and with an instinctive trembling which she was
quite unable to repress. It was for her a sad mischance that Mimi was
away, for her love would have seen through all obscuring causes, and have
brought to light the girl's unhappy condition of health. Lilla was
utterly unable to do anything to escape from the ordeal before her; but
her cousin, with the experience of her former struggles with Mr. Caswall
and of the condition in which these left her, would have taken steps--even
peremptory ones, if necessary--to prevent a repetition. Edgar arrived punctually to the time appointed by herself. When Lilla,
through the great window, saw him approaching the house, her condition of
nervous upset was pitiable. She braced herself up, however, and managed
to get through the interview in its preliminary stages without any
perceptible change in her normal appearance and bearing. It had been to
her an added terror that the black shadow of Oolanga, whom she dreaded,
would follow hard on his master. A load was lifted from her mind when he
did not make his usual stealthy approach. She had also feared, though in
lesser degree, lest Lady Arabella should be present to make trouble for
her as before. With a woman's natural forethought in a difficult position, she had
provided the furnishing of the tea-table as a subtle indication of the
social difference between her and her guest. She had chosen the
implements of service, as well as all the provender set forth, of the
humblest kind. Instead of arranging the silver teapot and china cups,
she had set out an earthen teapot, such as was in common use in the farm
kitchen. The same idea was carried out in the cups and saucers of thick
homely delft, and in the cream-jug of similar kind. The bread was of
simple whole-meal, home-baked. The butter was good, since she had made
it herself, while the preserves and honey came from her own garden. Her
face beamed with satisfaction when the guest eyed the appointments with a
supercilious glance. It was a shock to the poor girl herself, for she
enjoyed offering to a guest the little hospitalities possible to her; but
that had to be sacrificed with other pleasures. Caswall's face was more set and iron-clad than ever--his piercing eyes
seemed from the very beginning to look her through and through. Her
heart quailed when she thought of what would follow--of what would be the
end, when this was only the beginning. As some protection, though it
could be only of a sentimental kind, she brought from her own room the
photographs of Mimi, of her grandfather, and of Adam Salton, whom by now
she had grown to look on with reliance, as a brother whom she could
trust. She kept the pictures near her heart, to which her hand naturally
strayed when her feelings of constraint, distrust, or fear became so
poignant as to interfere with the calm which she felt was necessary to
help her through her ordeal. At first Edgar Caswall was courteous and polite, even thoughtful; but
after a little while, when he found her resistance to his domination
grow, he abandoned all forms of self-control and appeared in the same
dominance as he had previously shown. She was prepared, however, for
this, both by her former experience and the natural fighting instinct
within her. By this means, as the minutes went on, both developed the
power and preserved the equality in which they had begun. Without warning, the psychic battle between the two individualities began
afresh. This time both the positive and negative causes were all in
favour of the man. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
The woman was alone and in bad spirits, unsupported;
nothing at all was in her favour except the memory of the two victorious
contests; whereas the man, though unaided, as before, by either Lady
Arabella or Oolanga, was in full strength, well rested, and in
flourishing circumstances. It was not, therefore, to be wondered at that
his native dominance of character had full opportunity of asserting
itself. He began his preliminary stare with a conscious sense of power,
and, as it appeared to have immediate effect on the girl, he felt an ever-
growing conviction of ultimate victory. After a little Lilla's resolution began to flag. She felt that the
contest was unequal--that she was unable to put forth her best efforts. As she was an unselfish person, she could not fight so well in her own
battle as in that of someone whom she loved and to whom she was devoted. Edgar saw the relaxing of the muscles of face and brow, and the almost
collapse of the heavy eyelids which seemed tumbling downward in sleep. Lilla made gallant efforts to brace her dwindling powers, but for a time
unsuccessfully. At length there came an interruption, which seemed like
a powerful stimulant. Through the wide window she saw Lady Arabella
enter the plain gateway of the farm, and advance towards the hall door. She was clad as usual in tight-fitting white, which accentuated her thin,
sinuous figure. The sight did for Lilla what no voluntary effort could have done. Her
eyes flashed, and in an instant she felt as though a new life had
suddenly developed within her. Lady Arabella's entry, in her usual
unconcerned, haughty, supercilious way, heightened the effect, so that
when the two stood close to each other battle was joined. Mr. Caswall,
too, took new courage from her coming, and all his masterfulness and
power came back to him. His looks, intensified, had more obvious effect
than had been noticeable that day. Lilla seemed at last overcome by his
dominance. Her face became red and pale--violently red and ghastly
pale--by rapid turns. Her strength seemed gone. Her knees collapsed,
and she was actually sinking on the floor, when to her surprise and joy
Mimi came into the room, running hurriedly and breathing heavily. Lilla rushed to her, and the two clasped hands. With that, a new sense
of power, greater than Lilla had ever seen in her, seemed to quicken her
cousin. Her hand swept the air in front of Edgar Caswall, seeming to
drive him backward more and more by each movement, till at last he seemed
to be actually hurled through the door which Mimi's entrance had left
open, and fell at full length on the gravel path without. Then came the final and complete collapse of Lilla, who, without a sound,
sank down on the floor. CHAPTER XXVI--FACE TO FACE
Mimi was greatly distressed when she saw her cousin lying prone. She had
a few times in her life seen Lilla on the verge of fainting, but never
senseless; and now she was frightened. She threw herself on her knees
beside Lilla, and tried, by rubbing her hands and other measures commonly
known, to restore her. But all her efforts were unavailing. Lilla still
lay white and senseless. In fact, each moment she looked worse; her
breast, that had been heaving with the stress, became still, and the
pallor of her face grew like marble. At these succeeding changes Mimi's fright grew, till it altogether
mastered her. She succeeded in controlling herself only to the extent
that she did not scream. Lady Arabella had followed Caswall, when he had recovered sufficiently to
get up and walk--though stumblingly--in the direction of Castra Regis. When Mimi was quite alone with Lilla and the need for effort had ceased,
she felt weak and trembled. In her own mind, she attributed it to a
sudden change in the weather--it was momentarily becoming apparent that a
storm was coming on. She raised Lilla's head and laid it on her warm young breast, but all in
vain. The cold of the white features thrilled through her, and she
utterly collapsed when it was borne in on her that Lilla had passed away. The dusk gradually deepened and the shades of evening closed in, but Mimi
did not seem to notice or to care. She sat on the floor with her arms
round the body of the girl whom she loved. Darker and blacker grew the
sky as the coming storm and the closing night joined forces. Still she
sat on--alone--tearless--unable to think. Mimi did not know how long she
sat there. Though it seemed to her that ages had passed, it could not
have been more than half-an-hour. She suddenly came to herself, and was
surprised to find that her grandfather had not returned. For a while she
lay quiet, thinking of the immediate past. Lilla's hand was still in
hers, and to her surprise it was still warm. Somehow this helped her
consciousness, and without any special act of will she stood up. She lit
a lamp and looked at her cousin. There was no doubt that Lilla was dead;
but when the lamp-light fell on her eyes, they seemed to look at Mimi
with intent--with meaning. In this state of dark isolation a new
resolution came to her, and grew and grew until it became a fixed
definite purpose. She would face Caswall and call him to account for his
murder of Lilla--that was what she called it to herself. She would also
take steps--she knew not what or how--to avenge the part taken by Lady
Arabella. In this frame of mind she lit all the lamps in the room, got water and
linen from her room, and set about the decent ordering of Lilla's body. This took some time; but when it was finished, she put on her hat and
cloak, put out the lights, and set out quietly for Castra Regis. As Mimi drew near the Castle, she saw no lights except those in and
around the tower room. The lights showed her that Mr. Caswall was there,
so she entered by the hall door, which as usual was open, and felt her
way in the darkness up the staircase to the lobby of the room. The door
was ajar, and the light from within showed brilliantly through the
opening. She saw Edgar Caswall walking restlessly to and fro in the
room, with his hands clasped behind his back. She opened the door
without knocking, and walked right into the room. As she entered, he
ceased walking, and stared at her in surprise. She made no remark, no
comment, but continued the fixed look which he had seen on her entrance. For a time silence reigned, and the two stood looking fixedly at each
other. Mimi was the first to speak. "You murderer! Lilla is dead!" "Dead! Good God! When did she die?" "She died this afternoon, just after you left her." "Are you sure?" "Yes--and so are you--or you ought to be. You killed her!" "I killed her! Be careful what you say!" "As God sees us, it is true; and you know it. You came to Mercy Farm on
purpose to break her--if you could. And the accomplice of your guilt,
Lady Arabella March, came for the same purpose." "Be careful, woman," he said hotly. "Do not use such names in that way,
or you shall suffer for it." | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
"I am suffering for it--have suffered for it--shall suffer for it. Not
for speaking the truth as I have done, but because you two, with devilish
malignity, did my darling to death. It is you and your accomplice who
have to dread punishment, not I." "Take care!" he said again. "Oh, I am not afraid of you or your accomplice," she answered spiritedly. "I am content to stand by every word I have said, every act I have done. Moreover, I believe in God's justice. I fear not the grinding of His
mills; if necessary I shall set the wheels in motion myself. But you
don't care for God, or believe in Him. Your god is your great kite,
which cows the birds of a whole district. But be sure that His hand,
when it rises, always falls at the appointed time. It may be that your
name is being called even at this very moment at the Great Assize. Repent
while there is still time. Happy you, if you may be allowed to enter
those mighty halls in the company of the pure-souled angel whose voice
has only to whisper one word of justice, and you disappear for ever into
everlasting torment." The sudden death of Lilla caused consternation among Mimi's friends and
well-wishers. Such a tragedy was totally unexpected, as Adam and Sir
Nathaniel had been expecting the White Worm's vengeance to fall upon
themselves. Adam, leaving his wife free to follow her own desires with regard to
Lilla and her grandfather, busied himself with filling the well-hole with
the fine sand prepared for the purpose, taking care to have lowered at
stated intervals quantities of the store of dynamite, so as to be ready
for the final explosion. He had under his immediate supervision a corps
of workmen, and was assisted by Sir Nathaniel, who had come over for the
purpose, and all were now staying at Lesser Hill. Mr. Salton, too, showed much interest in the job, and was constantly
coming in and out, nothing escaping his observation. Since her marriage to Adam and their coming to stay at Doom Tower, Mimi
had been fettered by fear of the horrible monster at Diana's Grove. But
now she dreaded it no longer. She accepted the fact of its assuming at
will the form of Lady Arabella. She had still to tax and upbraid her for
her part in the unhappiness which had been wrought on Lilla, and for her
share in causing her death. One evening, when Mimi entered her own room, she went to the window and
threw an eager look round the whole circle of sight. A single glance
satisfied her that the White Worm in _propria persona_ was not visible. So she sat down in the window-seat and enjoyed the pleasure of a full
view, from which she had been so long cut off. The maid who waited on
her had told her that Mr. Salton had not yet returned home, so she felt
free to enjoy the luxury of peace and quiet. As she looked out of the window, she saw something thin and white move
along the avenue. She thought she recognised the figure of Lady
Arabella, and instinctively drew back behind the curtain. When she had
ascertained, by peeping out several times, that the lady had not seen
her, she watched more carefully, all her instinctive hatred flooding back
at the sight of her. Lady Arabella was moving swiftly and stealthily,
looking back and around her at intervals, as if she feared to be
followed. This gave Mimi an idea that she was up to no good, so she
determined to seize the occasion for watching her in more detail. Hastily putting on a dark cloak and hat, she ran downstairs and out into
the avenue. Lady Arabella had moved, but the sheen of her white dress
was still to be seen among the young oaks around the gateway. Keeping in
shadow, Mimi followed, taking care not to come so close as to awake the
other's suspicion, and watched her quarry pass along the road in the
direction of Castra Regis. She followed on steadily through the gloom of the trees, depending on the
glint of the white dress to keep her right. The wood began to thicken,
and presently, when the road widened and the trees grew farther back, she
lost sight of any indication of her whereabouts. Under the present
conditions it was impossible for her to do any more, so, after waiting
for a while, still hidden in the shadow to see if she could catch another
glimpse of the white frock, she determined to go on slowly towards Castra
Regis, and trust to the chapter of accidents to pick up the trail again. She went on slowly, taking advantage of every obstacle and shadow to keep
herself concealed. At last she entered on the grounds of the Castle, at a spot from which
the windows of the turret were dimly visible, without having seen again
any sign of Lady Arabella. Meanwhile, during most of the time that Mimi Salton had been moving
warily along in the gloom, she was in reality being followed by Lady
Arabella, who had caught sight of her leaving the house and had never
again lost touch with her. It was a case of the hunter being hunted. For
a time Mimi's many turnings, with the natural obstacles that were
perpetually intervening, caused Lady Arabella some trouble; but when she
was close to Castra Regis, there was no more possibility of concealment,
and the strange double following went swiftly on. When she saw Mimi close to the hall door of Castra Regis and ascending
the steps, she followed. When Mimi entered the dark hall and felt her
way up the staircase, still, as she believed, following Lady Arabella,
the latter kept on her way. When they reached the lobby of the turret-
rooms, Mimi believed that the object of her search was ahead of her. Edgar Caswall sat in the gloom of the great room, occasionally stirred to
curiosity when the drifting clouds allowed a little light to fall from
the storm-swept sky. But nothing really interested him now. Since he
had heard of Lilla's death, the gloom of his remorse, emphasised by
Mimi's upbraiding, had made more hopeless his cruel, selfish, saturnine
nature. He heard no sound, for his normal faculties seemed benumbed. Mimi, when she came to the door, which stood ajar, gave a light tap. So
light was it that it did not reach Caswall's ears. Then, taking her
courage in both hands, she boldly pushed the door and entered. As she
did so, her heart sank, for now she was face to face with a difficulty
which had not, in her state of mental perturbation, occurred to her. CHAPTER XXVII--ON THE TURRET ROOF
The storm which was coming was already making itself manifest, not only
in the wide scope of nature, but in the hearts and natures of human
beings. Electrical disturbance in the sky and the air is reproduced in
animals of all kinds, and particularly in the highest type of them
all--the most receptive--the most electrical. So it was with Edgar
Caswall, despite his selfish nature and coldness of blood. So it was
with Mimi Salton, despite her unselfish, unchanging devotion for those
she loved. So it was even with Lady Arabella, who, under the instincts
of a primeval serpent, carried the ever-varying wishes and customs of
womanhood, which is always old--and always new. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
Edgar, after he had turned his eyes on Mimi, resumed his apathetic
position and sullen silence. Mimi quietly took a seat a little way
apart, whence she could look on the progress of the coming storm and
study its appearance throughout the whole visible circle of the
neighbourhood. She was in brighter and better spirits than she had been
for many days past. Lady Arabella tried to efface herself behind the now
open door. Without, the clouds grew thicker and blacker as the storm-centre came
closer. As yet the forces, from whose linking the lightning springs,
were held apart, and the silence of nature proclaimed the calm before the
storm. Caswall felt the effect of the gathering electric force. A sort
of wild exultation grew upon him, such as he had sometimes felt just
before the breaking of a tropical storm. As he became conscious of this,
he raised his head and caught sight of Mimi. He was in the grip of an
emotion greater than himself; in the mood in which he was he felt the
need upon him of doing some desperate deed. He was now absolutely
reckless, and as Mimi was associated with him in the memory which drove
him on, he wished that she too should be engaged in this enterprise. He
had no knowledge of the proximity of Lady Arabella, and thought that he
was far removed from all he knew and whose interests he shared--alone
with the wild elements, which were being lashed to fury, and with the
woman who had struggled with him and vanquished him, and on whom he would
shower the full measure of his hate. The fact was that Edgar Caswall was, if not mad, close to the
border-line. Madness in its first stage--monomania--is a lack of
proportion. So long as this is general, it is not always noticeable, for
the uninspired onlooker is without the necessary means of comparison. But
in monomania the errant faculty protrudes itself in a way that may not be
denied. It puts aside, obscures, or takes the place of something
else--just as the head of a pin placed before the centre of the iris will
block out the whole scope of vision. The most usual form of monomania
has commonly the same beginning as that from which Edgar Caswall
suffered--an over-large idea of self-importance. Alienists, who study
the matter exactly, probably know more of human vanity and its effects
than do ordinary men. Caswall's mental disturbance was not hard to
identify. Every asylum is full of such cases--men and women, who,
naturally selfish and egotistical, so appraise to themselves their own
importance that every other circumstance in life becomes subservient to
it. The disease supplies in itself the material for self-magnification. When the decadence attacks a nature naturally proud and selfish and vain,
and lacking both the aptitude and habit of self-restraint, the
development of the disease is more swift, and ranges to farther limits. It is such persons who become imbued with the idea that they have the
attributes of the Almighty--even that they themselves are the Almighty. Mimi had a suspicion--or rather, perhaps, an intuition--of the true state
of things when she heard him speak, and at the same time noticed the
abnormal flush on his face, and his rolling eyes. There was a certain
want of fixedness of purpose which she had certainly not noticed before--a
quick, spasmodic utterance which belongs rather to the insane than to
those of intellectual equilibrium. She was a little frightened, not only
by his thoughts, but by his staccato way of expressing them. Caswall moved to the door leading to the turret stair by which the roof
was reached, and spoke in a peremptory way, whose tone alone made her
feel defiant. "Come! I want you." She instinctively drew back--she was not accustomed to such words, more
especially to such a tone. Her answer was indicative of a new contest. "Why should I go? What for?" He did not at once reply--another indication of his overwhelming egotism. She repeated her questions; habit reasserted itself, and he spoke without
thinking the words which were in his heart. "I want you, if you will be so good, to come with me to the turret roof. I am much interested in certain experiments with the kite, which would
be, if not a pleasure, at least a novel experience to you. You would see
something not easily seen otherwise." "I will come," she answered simply; Edgar moved in the direction of the
stair, she following close behind him. She did not like to be left alone at such a height, in such a place, in
the darkness, with a storm about to break. Of himself she had no fear;
all that had been seemed to have passed away with her two victories over
him in the struggle of wills. Moreover, the more recent
apprehension--that of his madness--had also ceased. In the conversation
of the last few minutes he seemed so rational, so clear, so unaggressive,
that she no longer saw reason for doubt. So satisfied was she that even
when he put out a hand to guide her to the steep, narrow stairway, she
took it without thought in the most conventional way. Lady Arabella, crouching in the lobby behind the door, heard every word
that had been said, and formed her own opinion of it. It seemed evident
to her that there had been some rapprochement between the two who had so
lately been hostile to each other, and that made her furiously angry. Mimi was interfering with her plans! She had made certain of her capture
of Edgar Caswall, and she could not tolerate even the lightest and most
contemptuous fancy on his part which might divert him from the main
issue. When she became aware that he wished Mimi to come with him to the
roof and that she had acquiesced, her rage got beyond bounds. She became
oblivious to any danger there might be in a visit to such an exposed
place at such a time, and to all lesser considerations, and made up her
mind to forestall them. She stealthily and noiselessly crept through the
wicket, and, ascending the stair, stepped out on the roof. It was
bitterly cold, for the fierce gusts of the storm which swept round the
turret drove in through every unimpeded way, whistling at the sharp
corners and singing round the trembling flagstaff. The kite-string and
the wire which controlled the runners made a concourse of weird sounds
which somehow, perhaps from the violence which surrounded them, acting on
their length, resolved themselves into some kind of harmony--a fitting
accompaniment to the tragedy which seemed about to begin. Mimi's heart beat heavily. Just before leaving the turret-chamber she
had a shock which she could not shake off. The lights of the room had
momentarily revealed to her, as they passed out, Edgar's face,
concentrated as it was whenever he intended to use his mesmeric power. Now the black eyebrows made a thick line across his face, under which his
eyes shone and glittered ominously. Mimi recognised the danger, and
assumed the defiant attitude that had twice already served her so well. She had a fear that the circumstances and the place were against her, and
she wanted to be forearmed. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
The sky was now somewhat lighter than it had been. Either there was
lightning afar off, whose reflections were carried by the rolling clouds,
or else the gathered force, though not yet breaking into lightning, had
an incipient power of light. It seemed to affect both the man and the
woman. Edgar seemed altogether under its influence. His spirits were
boisterous, his mind exalted. He was now at his worst; madder than he
had been earlier in the night. Mimi, trying to keep as far from him as possible, moved across the stone
floor of the turret roof, and found a niche which concealed her. It was
not far from Lady Arabella's place of hiding. Edgar, left thus alone on the centre of the turret roof, found himself
altogether his own master in a way which tended to increase his madness. He knew that Mimi was close at hand, though he had lost sight of her. He
spoke loudly, and the sound of his own voice, though it was carried from
him on the sweeping wind as fast as the words were spoken, seemed to
exalt him still more. Even the raging of the elements round him appeared
to add to his exaltation. To him it seemed that these manifestations
were obedient to his own will. He had reached the sublime of his
madness; he was now in his own mind actually the Almighty, and whatever
might happen would be the direct carrying out of his own commands. As he
could not see Mimi, nor fix whereabout she was, he shouted loudly:
"Come to me! You shall see now what you are despising, what you are
warring against. All that you see is mine--the darkness as well as the
light. I tell you that I am greater than any other who is, or was, or
shall be. When the Master of Evil took Christ up on a high place and
showed Him all the kingdoms of the earth, he was doing what he thought no
other could do. He was wrong--he forgot _Me_. I shall send you light,
up to the very ramparts of heaven. A light so great that it shall
dissipate those black clouds that are rushing up and piling around us. Look! Look! At the very touch of my hand that light springs into being
and mounts up--and up--and up!" He made his way whilst he was speaking to the corner of the turret whence
flew the giant kite, and from which the runners ascended. Mimi looked
on, appalled and afraid to speak lest she should precipitate some
calamity. Within the niche Lady Arabella cowered in a paroxysm of fear. Edgar took up a small wooden box, through a hole in which the wire of the
runner ran. This evidently set some machinery in motion, for a sound as
of whirring came. From one side of the box floated what looked like a
piece of stiff ribbon, which snapped and crackled as the wind took it. For a few seconds Mimi saw it as it rushed along the sagging line to the
kite. When close to it, there was a loud crack, and a sudden light
appeared to issue from every chink in the box. Then a quick flame
flashed along the snapping ribbon, which glowed with an intense light--a
light so great that the whole of the countryside around stood out against
the background of black driving clouds. For a few seconds the light
remained, then suddenly disappeared in the blackness around. It was
simply a magnesium light, which had been fired by the mechanism within
the box and carried up to the kite. Edgar was in a state of tumultuous
excitement, shouting and yelling at the top of his voice and dancing
about like a lunatic. This was more than Lady Arabella's curious dual nature could stand--the
ghoulish element in her rose triumphant, and she abandoned all idea of
marriage with Edgar Caswall, gloating fiendishly over the thought of
revenge. She must lure him to the White Worm's hole--but how? She glanced around
and quickly made up her mind. The man's whole thoughts were absorbed by
his wonderful kite, which he was showing off, in order to fascinate her
imaginary rival, Mimi. On the instant she glided through the darkness to the wheel whereon the
string of the kite was wound. With deft fingers she unshipped this, took
it with her, reeling out the wire as she went, thus keeping, in a way, in
touch with the kite. Then she glided swiftly to the wicket, through
which she passed, locking the gate behind her as she went. Down the turret stair she ran quickly, letting the wire run from the
wheel which she carried carefully, and, passing out of the hall door,
hurried down the avenue with all her speed. She soon reached her own
gate, ran down the avenue, and with her key opened the iron door leading
to the well-hole. She felt well satisfied with herself. All her plans were maturing, or
had already matured. The Master of Castra Regis was within her grasp. The woman whose interference she had feared, Lilla Watford, was dead. Truly, all was well, and she felt that she might pause a while and rest. She tore off her clothes, with feverish fingers, and in full enjoyment of
her natural freedom, stretched her slim figure in animal delight. Then
she lay down on the sofa--to await her victim! Edgar Caswall's life
blood would more than satisfy her for some time to come. CHAPTER XXVIII--THE BREAKING OF THE STORM
When Lady Arabella had crept away in her usual noiseless fashion, the two
others remained for a while in their places on the turret roof: Caswall
because he had nothing to say, Mimi because she had much to say and
wished to put her thoughts in order. For quite a while--which seemed
interminable--silence reigned between them. At last Mimi made a
beginning--she had made up her mind how to act. "Mr. Caswall," she said loudly, so as to make sure of being heard through
the blustering of the wind and the perpetual cracking of the electricity. Caswall said something in reply, but his words were carried away on the
storm. However, one of her objects was effected: she knew now exactly
whereabout on the roof he was. So she moved close to the spot before she
spoke again, raising her voice almost to a shout. "The wicket is shut. Please to open it. I can't get out." As she spoke, she was quietly fingering a revolver which Adam had given
to her in case of emergency and which now lay in her breast. She felt
that she was caged like a rat in a trap, but did not mean to be taken at
a disadvantage, whatever happened. Caswall also felt trapped, and all
the brute in him rose to the emergency. In a voice which was raucous and
brutal--much like that which is heard when a wife is being beaten by her
husband in a slum--he hissed out, his syllables cutting through the
roaring of the storm:
"You came of your own accord--without permission, or even asking it. Now
you can stay or go as you choose. But you must manage it for yourself;
I'll have nothing to do with it." Her answer was spoken with dangerous suavity
"I am going. Blame yourself if you do not like the time and manner of
it. I daresay Adam--my husband--will have a word to say to you about
it!" "Let him say, and be damned to him, and to you too! I'll show you a
light. You shan't be able to say that you could not see what you were
doing." | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
As he spoke, he was lighting another piece of the magnesium ribbon, which
made a blinding glare in which everything was plainly discernible, down
to the smallest detail. This exactly suited Mimi. She took accurate
note of the wicket and its fastening before the glare had died away. She
took her revolver out and fired into the lock, which was shivered on the
instant, the pieces flying round in all directions, but happily without
causing hurt to anyone. Then she pushed the wicket open and ran down the
narrow stair, and so to the hall door. Opening this also, she ran down
the avenue, never lessening her speed till she stood outside the door of
Lesser Hill. The door was opened at once on her ringing. "Is Mr. Adam Salton in?" she asked. "He has just come in, a few minutes ago. He has gone up to the study,"
replied a servant. She ran upstairs at once and joined him. He seemed relieved when he saw
her, but scrutinised her face keenly. He saw that she had been in some
concern, so led her over to the sofa in the window and sat down beside
her. "Now, dear, tell me all about it!" he said. She rushed breathlessly through all the details of her adventure on the
turret roof. Adam listened attentively, helping her all he could, and
not embarrassing her by any questioning. His thoughtful silence was a
great help to her, for it allowed her to collect and organise her
thoughts. "I must go and see Caswall to-morrow, to hear what he has to say on the
subject." "But, dear, for my sake, don't have any quarrel with Mr. Caswall. I have
had too much trial and pain lately to wish it increased by any anxiety
regarding you." "You shall not, dear--if I can help it--please God," he said solemnly,
and he kissed her. Then, in order to keep her interested so that she might forget the fears
and anxieties that had disturbed her, he began to talk over the details
of her adventure, making shrewd comments which attracted and held her
attention. Presently, _inter alia_, he said:
"That's a dangerous game Caswall is up to. It seems to me that that
young man--though he doesn't appear to know it--is riding for a fall!" "How, dear? I don't understand." "Kite flying on a night like this from a place like the tower of Castra
Regis is, to say the least of it, dangerous. It is not merely courting
death or other accident from lightning, but it is bringing the lightning
into where he lives. Every cloud that is blowing up here--and they all
make for the highest point--is bound to develop into a flash of
lightning. That kite is up in the air and is bound to attract the
lightning. Its cord makes a road for it on which to travel to earth. When it does come, it will strike the top of the tower with a weight a
hundred times greater than a whole park of artillery, and will knock
Castra Regis into pieces. Where it will go after that, no one can tell. If there should be any metal by which it can travel, such will not only
point the road, but be the road itself." "Would it be dangerous to be out in the open air when such a thing is
taking place?" she asked. "No, little woman. It would be the safest possible place--so long as one
was not in the line of the electric current." "Then, do let us go outside. I don't want to run into any foolish
danger--or, far more, to ask you to do so. But surely if the open is
safest, that is the place for us." Without another word, she put on again the cloak she had thrown off, and
a small, tight-fitting cap. Adam too put on his cap, and, after seeing
that his revolver was all right, gave her his hand, and they left the
house together. "I think the best thing we can do will be to go round all the places
which are mixed up in this affair." "All right, dear, I am ready. But, if you don't mind, we might go first
to Mercy. I am anxious about grandfather, and we might see that--as yet,
at all events--nothing has happened there." So they went on the high-hung road along the top of the Brow. The wind
here was of great force, and made a strange booming noise as it swept
high overhead; though not the sound of cracking and tearing as it passed
through the woods of high slender trees which grew on either side of the
road. Mimi could hardly keep her feet. She was not afraid; but the
force to which she was opposed gave her a good excuse to hold on to her
husband extra tight. At Mercy there was no one up--at least, all the lights were out. But to
Mimi, accustomed to the nightly routine of the house, there were manifest
signs that all was well, except in the little room on the first floor,
where the blinds were down. Mimi could not bear to look at that, to
think of it. Adam understood her pain, for he had been keenly interested
in poor Lilla. He bent over and kissed her, and then took her hand and
held it hard. Thus they passed on together, returning to the high road
towards Castra Regis. At the gate of Castra Regis they were extra careful. When drawing near,
Adam stumbled upon the wire that Lady Arabella had left trailing on the
ground. Adam drew his breath at this, and spoke in a low, earnest whisper:
"I don't want to frighten you, Mimi dear, but wherever that wire is there
is danger." "Danger! How?" "That is the track where the lightning will go; at any moment, even now
whilst we are speaking and searching, a fearful force may be loosed upon
us. Run on, dear; you know the way to where the avenue joins the
highroad. If you see any sign of the wire, keep away from it, for God's
sake. I shall join you at the gateway." "Are you going to follow that wire alone?" "Yes, dear. One is sufficient for that work. I shall not lose a moment
till I am with you." "Adam, when I came with you into the open, my main wish was that we
should be together if anything serious happened. You wouldn't deny me
that right, would you, dear?" "No, dear, not that or any right. Thank God that my wife has such a
wish. Come; we will go together. We are in the hands of God. If He
wishes, we shall be together at the end, whenever or wherever that may
be." They picked up the trail of the wire on the steps and followed it down
the avenue, taking care not to touch it with their feet. It was easy
enough to follow, for the wire, if not bright, was self-coloured, and
showed clearly. They followed it out of the gateway and into the avenue
of Diana's Grove. Here a new gravity clouded Adam's face, though Mimi saw no cause for
fresh concern. This was easily enough explained. Adam knew of the
explosive works in progress regarding the well-hole, but the matter had
been kept from his wife. As they stood near the house, Adam asked Mimi
to return to the road, ostensibly to watch the course of the wire,
telling her that there might be a branch wire leading somewhere else. She
was to search the undergrowth, and if she found it, was to warn him by
the Australian native "Coo-ee!" Whilst they were standing together, there came a blinding flash of
lightning, which lit up for several seconds the whole area of earth and
sky. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
It was only the first note of the celestial prelude, for it was
followed in quick succession by numerous flashes, whilst the crash and
roll of thunder seemed continuous. Adam, appalled, drew his wife to him and held her close. As far as he
could estimate by the interval between lightning and thunder-clap, the
heart of the storm was still some distance off, so he felt no present
concern for their safety. Still, it was apparent that the course of the
storm was moving swiftly in their direction. The lightning flashes came
faster and faster and closer together; the thunder-roll was almost
continuous, not stopping for a moment--a new crash beginning before the
old one had ceased. Adam kept looking up in the direction where the kite
strained and struggled at its detaining cord, but, of course, the dull
evening light prevented any distinct scrutiny. At length there came a flash so appallingly bright that in its glare
Nature seemed to be standing still. So long did it last, that there was
time to distinguish its configuration. It seemed like a mighty tree
inverted, pendent from the sky. The whole country around within the
angle of vision was lit up till it seemed to glow. Then a broad ribbon
of fire seemed to drop on to the tower of Castra Regis just as the
thunder crashed. By the glare, Adam could see the tower shake and
tremble, and finally fall to pieces like a house of cards. The passing
of the lightning left the sky again dark, but a blue flame fell downward
from the tower, and, with inconceivable rapidity, running along the
ground in the direction of Diana's Grove, reached the dark silent house,
which in the instant burst into flame at a hundred different points. At the same moment there rose from the house a rending, crashing sound of
woodwork, broken or thrown about, mixed with a quick scream so appalling
that Adam, stout of heart as he undoubtedly was, felt his blood turn into
ice. Instinctively, despite the danger and their consciousness of it,
husband and wife took hands and listened, trembling. Something was going
on close to them, mysterious, terrible, deadly! The shrieks continued,
though less sharp in sound, as though muffled. In the midst of them was
a terrific explosion, seemingly from deep in the earth. The flames from Castra Regis and from Diana's Grove made all around
almost as light as day, and now that the lightning had ceased to flash,
their eyes, unblinded, were able to judge both perspective and detail. The heat of the burning house caused the iron doors to warp and collapse. Seemingly of their own accord, they fell open, and exposed the interior. The Saltons could now look through to the room beyond, where the well-
hole yawned, a deep narrow circular chasm. From this the agonised
shrieks were rising, growing ever more terrible with each second that
passed. But it was not only the heart-rending sound that almost paralysed poor
Mimi with terror. What she saw was sufficient to fill her with evil
dreams for the remainder of her life. The whole place looked as if a sea
of blood had been beating against it. Each of the explosions from below
had thrown out from the well-hole, as if it had been the mouth of a
cannon, a mass of fine sand mixed with blood, and a horrible repulsive
slime in which were great red masses of rent and torn flesh and fat. As
the explosions kept on, more and more of this repulsive mass was shot up,
the great bulk of it falling back again. Many of the awful fragments
were of something which had lately been alive. They quivered and
trembled and writhed as though they were still in torment, a supposition
to which the unending scream gave a horrible credence. At moments some
mountainous mass of flesh surged up through the narrow orifice, as though
forced by a measureless power through an opening infinitely smaller than
itself. Some of these fragments were partially covered with white skin
as of a human being, and others--the largest and most numerous--with
scaled skin as of a gigantic lizard or serpent. Once, in a sort of lull
or pause, the seething contents of the hole rose, after the manner of a
bubbling spring, and Adam saw part of the thin form of Lady Arabella,
forced up to the top amid a mass of blood and slime, and what looked as
if it had been the entrails of a monster torn into shreds. Several times
some masses of enormous bulk were forced up through the well-hole with
inconceivable violence, and, suddenly expanding as they came into larger
space, disclosed sections of the White Worm which Adam and Sir Nathaniel
had seen looking over the trees with its enormous eyes of emerald-green
flickering like great lamps in a gale. At last the explosive power, which was not yet exhausted, evidently
reached the main store of dynamite which had been lowered into the worm
hole. The result was appalling. The ground for far around quivered and
opened in long deep chasms, whose edges shook and fell in, throwing up
clouds of sand which fell back and hissed amongst the rising water. The
heavily built house shook to its foundations. Great stones were thrown
up as from a volcano, some of them, great masses of hard stone, squared
and grooved with implements wrought by human hands, breaking up and
splitting in mid air as though riven by some infernal power. Trees near
the house--and therefore presumably in some way above the hole, which
sent up clouds of dust and steam and fine sand mingled, and which carried
an appalling stench which sickened the spectators--were torn up by the
roots and hurled into the air. By now, flames were bursting violently
from all over the ruins, so dangerously that Adam caught up his wife in
his arms, and ran with her from the proximity of the flames. Then almost as quickly as it had begun, the whole cataclysm ceased,
though a deep-down rumbling continued intermittently for some time. Then
silence brooded over all--silence so complete that it seemed in itself a
sentient thing--silence which seemed like incarnate darkness, and
conveyed the same idea to all who came within its radius. To the young
people who had suffered the long horror of that awful night, it brought
relief--relief from the presence or the fear of all that was
horrible--relief which seemed perfected when the red rays of sunrise shot
up over the far eastern sea, bringing a promise of a new order of things
with the coming day. * * * * *
His bed saw little of Adam Salton for the remainder of that night. He
and Mimi walked hand in hand in the brightening dawn round by the Brow to
Castra Regis and on to Lesser Hill. They did so deliberately, in an
attempt to think as little as possible of the terrible experiences of the
night. The morning was bright and cheerful, as a morning sometimes is
after a devastating storm. The clouds, of which there were plenty in
evidence, brought no lingering idea of gloom. All nature was bright and
joyous, being in striking contrast to the scenes of wreck and
devastation, the effects of obliterating fire and lasting ruin. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
The only evidence of the once stately pile of Castra Regis and its
inhabitants was a shapeless huddle of shattered architecture, dimly seen
as the keen breeze swept aside the cloud of acrid smoke which marked the
site of the once lordly castle. As for Diana's Grove, they looked in
vain for a sign which had a suggestion of permanence. The oak trees of
the Grove were still to be seen--some of them--emerging from a haze of
smoke, the great trunks solid and erect as ever, but the larger branches
broken and twisted and rent, with bark stripped and chipped, and the
smaller branches broken and dishevelled looking from the constant stress
and threshing of the storm. Of the house as such, there was, even at the short distance from which
they looked, no trace. Adam resolutely turned his back on the
devastation and hurried on. Mimi was not only upset and shocked in many
ways, but she was physically "dog tired," and falling asleep on her feet. Adam took her to her room and made her undress and get into bed, taking
care that the room was well lighted both by sunshine and lamps. The only
obstruction was from a silk curtain, drawn across the window to keep out
the glare. He sat beside her, holding her hand, well knowing that the
comfort of his presence was the best restorative for her. He stayed with
her till sleep had overmastered her wearied body. Then he went softly
away. He found his uncle and Sir Nathaniel in the study, having an early
cup of tea, amplified to the dimensions of a possible breakfast. Adam
explained that he had not told his wife that he was going over the
horrible places again, lest it should frighten her, for the rest and
sleep in ignorance would help her and make a gap of peacefulness between
the horrors. Sir Nathaniel agreed. "We know, my boy," he said, "that the unfortunate Lady Arabella is dead,
and that the foul carcase of the Worm has been torn to pieces--pray God
that its evil soul will never more escape from the nethermost hell." They visited Diana's Grove first, not only because it was nearer, but
also because it was the place where most description was required, and
Adam felt that he could tell his story best on the spot. The absolute
destruction of the place and everything in it seen in the broad daylight
was almost inconceivable. To Sir Nathaniel, it was as a story of horror
full and complete. But to Adam it was, as it were, only on the fringes. He knew what was still to be seen when his friends had got over the
knowledge of externals. As yet, they had only seen the outside of the
house--or rather, where the outside of the house once had been. The
great horror lay within. However, age--and the experience of age--counts. A strange, almost elemental, change in the aspect had taken place in the
time which had elapsed since the dawn. It would almost seem as if Nature
herself had tried to obliterate the evil signs of what had occurred. True, the utter ruin of the house was made even more manifest in the
searching daylight; but the more appalling destruction which lay beneath
was not visible. The rent, torn, and dislocated stonework looked worse
than before; the upheaved foundations, the piled-up fragments of masonry,
the fissures in the torn earth--all were at the worst. The Worm's hole
was still evident, a round fissure seemingly leading down into the very
bowels of the earth. But all the horrid mass of blood and slime, of
torn, evil-smelling flesh and the sickening remnants of violent death,
were gone. Either some of the later explosions had thrown up from the
deep quantities of water which, though foul and corrupt itself, had still
some cleansing power left, or else the writhing mass which stirred from
far below had helped to drag down and obliterate the items of horror. A
grey dust, partly of fine sand, partly of the waste of the falling ruin,
covered everything, and, though ghastly itself, helped to mask something
still worse. After a few minutes of watching, it became apparent to the three men that
the turmoil far below had not yet ceased. At short irregular intervals
the hell-broth in the hole seemed as if boiling up. It rose and fell
again and turned over, showing in fresh form much of the nauseous detail
which had been visible earlier. The worst parts were the great masses of
the flesh of the monstrous Worm, in all its red and sickening aspect. Such fragments had been bad enough before, but now they were infinitely
worse. Corruption comes with startling rapidity to beings whose
destruction has been due wholly or in part to lightning--the whole mass
seemed to have become all at once corrupt! The whole surface of the
fragments, once alive, was covered with insects, worms, and vermin of all
kinds. The sight was horrible enough, but, with the awful smell added,
was simply unbearable. The Worm's hole appeared to breathe forth death
in its most repulsive forms. The friends, with one impulse, moved to the
top of the Brow, where a fresh breeze from the sea was blowing up. At the top of the Brow, beneath them as they looked down, they saw a
shining mass of white, which looked strangely out of place amongst such
wreckage as they had been viewing. It appeared so strange that Adam
suggested trying to find a way down, so that they might see it more
closely. "We need not go down; I know what it is," Sir Nathaniel said. "The
explosions of last night have blown off the outside of the cliffs--that
which we see is the vast bed of china clay through which the Worm
originally found its way down to its lair. I can catch the glint of the
water of the deep quags far down below. Well, her ladyship didn't
deserve such a funeral--or such a monument." * * * * *
The horrors of the last few hours had played such havoc with Mimi's
nerves, that a change of scene was imperative--if a permanent breakdown
was to be avoided. "I think," said old Mr. Salton, "it is quite time you young people
departed for that honeymoon of yours!" There was a twinkle in his eye as
he spoke. | Stoker, Bram - The Lair of the White Worm |
Transcribed from the 1897 Robert Hayes edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
THE MAN
BY
BRAM STOKER
AUTHOR OF "DRACULA," ETC. LONDON: ROBERT HAYES, LTD.
SIXTY-ONE FLEET STREET, E.C. Copyright, 1897, in the United States of America, according to Act of
Congress, by Bram Stoker. [_All rights reserved_]
FORE-GLIMPSE
'I would rather be an angel than God!' The voice of the speaker sounded clearly through the hawthorn tree. The
young man and the young girl who sat together on the low tombstone looked
at each other. They had heard the voices of the two children talking,
but had not noticed what they said; it was the sentiment, not the sound,
which roused their attention. The girl put her finger to her lips to impress silence, and the man
nodded; they sat as still as mice whilst the two children went on
talking. * * * * *
The scene would have gladdened a painter's heart. An old churchyard. The
church low and square-towered, with long mullioned windows, the yellow-
grey stone roughened by age and tender-hued with lichens. Round it
clustered many tombstones tilted in all directions. Behind the church a
line of gnarled and twisted yews. The churchyard was full of fine trees. On one side a magnificent cedar;
on the other a great copper beech. Here and there among the tombs and
headstones many beautiful blossoming trees rose from the long green
grass. The laburnum glowed in the June afternoon sunlight; the lilac,
the hawthorn and the clustering meadowsweet which fringed the edge of the
lazy stream mingled their heavy sweetness in sleepy fragrance. The
yellow-grey crumbling walls were green in places with wrinkled
harts-tongues, and were topped with sweet-williams and spreading house-
leek and stone-crop and wild-flowers whose delicious sweetness made for
the drowsy repose of perfect summer. But amid all that mass of glowing colour the two young figures seated on
the grey old tomb stood out conspicuously. The man was in conventional
hunting-dress: red coat, white stock, black hat, white breeches, and top-
boots. The girl was one of the richest, most glowing, and yet withal
daintiest figures the eye of man could linger on. She was in
riding-habit of hunting scarlet cloth; her black hat was tipped forward
by piled-up masses red-golden hair. Round her neck was a white lawn
scarf in the fashion of a man's hunting-stock, close fitting, and sinking
into a gold-buttoned waistcoat of snowy twill. As she sat with the long
skirt across her left arm her tiny black top-boots appeared underneath. Her gauntleted gloves were of white buckskin; her riding-whip was plaited
of white leather, topped with ivory and banded with gold. Even in her fourteenth year Miss Stephen Norman gave promise of striking
beauty; beauty of a rarely composite character. In her the various
elements of her race seemed to have cropped out. The firm-set jaw, with
chin broader and more square than is usual in a woman, and the wide fine
forehead and aquiline nose marked the high descent from Saxon through
Norman. The glorious mass of red hair, of the true flame colour, showed
the blood of another ancient ancestor of Northern race, and suited well
with the voluptuous curves of the full, crimson lips. The purple-black
eyes, the raven eyebrows and eyelashes, and the fine curve of the
nostrils spoke of the Eastern blood of the far-back wife of the Crusader. Already she was tall for her age, with something of that lankiness which
marks the early development of a really fine figure. Long-legged, long-
necked, as straight as a lance, with head poised on the proud neck like a
lily on its stem. Stephen Norman certainly gave promise of a splendid womanhood. Pride,
self-reliance and dominance were marked in every feature; in her bearing
and in her lightest movement. Her companion, Harold An Wolf, was some five years her senior, and by
means of those five years and certain qualities had long stood in the
position of her mentor. He was more than six feet two in height, deep-
chested, broad-shouldered, lean-flanked, long-armed and big-handed. He
had that appearance strength, with well-poised neck and forward set of
the head, which marks the successful athlete. The two sat quiet, listening. Through the quiet hum of afternoon came
the voices of the two children. Outside the lich-gate, under the shade
of the spreading cedar, the horses stamped occasionally as the flies
troubled them. The grooms were mounted; one held the delicate-limbed
white Arab, the other the great black horse. 'I would rather be an angel than God!' The little girl who made the remark was an ideal specimen of the village
Sunday-school child. Blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked, thick-legged, with her
straight brown hair tied into a hard bunch with a much-creased, cherry-
coloured ribbon. A glance at the girl would have satisfied the most
sceptical as to her goodness. Without being in any way smug she was
radiant with self-satisfaction and well-doing. A child of the people; an
early riser; a help to her mother; a good angel to her father; a little
mother to her brothers and sisters; cleanly in mind and body;
self-reliant, full of faith, cheerful. The other little girl was prettier, but of a more stubborn type; more
passionate, less organised, and infinitely more assertive. Black-haired,
black-eyed, swarthy, large-mouthed, snub-nosed; the very type and essence
of unrestrained, impulsive, emotional, sensual nature. A seeing eye
would have noted inevitable danger for the early years of her womanhood. She seemed amazed by the self-abnegation implied by her companion's
statement; after a pause she replied:
'I wouldn't! I'd rather be up at the top of everything and give orders
to the angels if I chose. I can't think, Marjorie, why you'd rather take
orders than give them.' 'That's just it, Susan. I don't want to give orders; I'd rather obey
them. It must be very terrible to have to think of things so much, that
you want everything done your own way. And besides, I shouldn't like to
have to be just!' 'Why not?' the voice was truculent, though there was wistfulness in it
also. 'Oh Susan. Just fancy having to punish; for of course justice needs
punishing as well as praising. Now an angel has such a nice time,
helping people and comforting them, and bringing sunshine into dark
places. Putting down fresh dew every morning; making the flowers grow,
and bringing babies and taking care of them till their mothers find them. Of course God is very good and very sweet and very merciful, but oh, He
must be very terrible.' 'All the same I would rather be God and able to do things!' Then the children moved off out of earshot. The two seated on the
tombstone looked after them. The first to speak was the girl, who said:
'That's very sweet and good of Marjorie; but do you know, Harold, I like
Susie's idea better.' 'Which idea was that, Stephen?' 'Why, didn't you notice what she said: "I'd like to be God and be able to
do things"?' 'Yes,' he said after a moment's reflection. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
'That's a fine idea in the
abstract; but I doubt of its happiness in the long-run.' 'Doubt of its happiness? Come now? what could there be better, after
all? Isn't it good enough to be God? What more do you want?' The girl's tone was quizzical, but her great black eyes blazed with some
thought of sincerity which lay behind the fun. The young man shook his
head with a smile of kindly tolerance as he answered:
'It isn't that--surely you must know it. I'm ambitious enough, goodness
knows; but there are bounds to satisfy even me. But I'm not sure that
the good little thing isn't right. She seemed, somehow, to hit a bigger
truth than she knew: "fancy having to be just."' 'I don't see much difficulty in that. Anyone can be just!' 'Pardon me,' he answered, 'there is perhaps nothing so difficult in the
whole range of a man's work.' There was distinct defiance in the girl's
eyes as she asked:
'A man's work! Why a man's work? Isn't it a woman's work also?' 'Well, I suppose it ought to be, theoretically; practically it isn't.' 'And why not, pray?' The mere suggestion of any disability of woman as
such aroused immediate antagonism. Her companion suppressed a smile as
he answered deliberately:
'Because, my dear Stephen, the Almighty has ordained that justice is not
a virtue women can practise. Mind, I do not say women are unjust. Far
from it, where there are no interests of those dear to them they can be
of a sincerity of justice that can make a man's blood run cold. But
justice in the abstract is not an ordinary virtue: it has to be
considerate as well as stern, and above all interest of all kinds and of
every one--' The girl interrupted hotly:
'I don't agree with you at all. You can't give an instance where women
are unjust. I don't mean of course individual instances, but classes of
cases where injustice is habitual.' The suppressed smile cropped out now
unconsciously round the man's lips in a way which was intensely
aggravating to the girl. 'I'll give you a few,' he said. 'Did you ever know a mother just to a
boy who beat her own boy at school?' The girl replied quietly:
'Ill-treatment and bullying are subjects for punishment, not justice.' 'Oh, I don't mean that kind of beating. I mean getting the prizes their
own boys contended for; getting above them in class; showing superior
powers in running or cricket or swimming, or in any of the forms of
effort in which boys vie with each other.' The girl reflected, then she
spoke:
'Well, you may be right. I don't altogether admit it, but I accept it as
not on my side. But this is only one case.' 'A pretty common one. Do you think that Sheriff of Galway, who in
default of a hangman hanged his son with his own hands, would have done
so if he had been a woman?' The girl answered at once:
'Frankly, no. I don't suppose the mother was ever born who would do such
a thing. But that is not a common case, is it? Have you any other?' The
young man paused before he spoke:
'There is another, but I don't think I can go into it fairly with you.' 'Why not?' 'Well, because after all you know, Stephen, you are only a girl and you
can't be expected to know.' The girl laughed:
'Well, if it's anything about women surely a girl, even of my tender age,
must know something more of it, or be able to guess at, than any young
man can. However, say what you think and I'll tell you frankly if I
agree--that is if a woman can be just, in such a matter.' 'Shortly the point is this: Can a woman be just to another woman, or to a
man for the matter of that, where either her own affection or a fault of
the other is concerned?' 'I don't see any reason to the contrary. Surely pride alone should
ensure justice in the former case, and the consciousness of superiority
in the other.' The young man shook his head:
'Pride and the consciousness of superiority! Are they not much the same
thing. But whether or no, if either of them has to be relied on, I'm
afraid the scales of Justice would want regulating, and her sword should
be blunted in case its edge should be turned back on herself. I have an
idea that although pride might be a guiding principle with you
individually, it would be a failure with the average. However, as it
would be in any case a rule subject to many exceptions I must let it go.' Harold looked at his watch and rose. Stephen followed him; transferring
her whip into the hand which held up the skirt, she took his arm with her
right hand in the pretty way in which a young girl clings to her elders. Together they went out at the lich-gate. The groom drew over with the
horses. Stephen patted hers and gave her a lump of sugar. Then putting
her foot into Harold's ready hand she sprang lightly into the saddle. Harold swung himself into his saddle with the dexterity of an
accomplished rider. As the two rode up the road, keeping on the shady side under the trees,
Stephen said quietly, half to herself, as if the sentence had impressed
itself on her mind:
'To be God and able to do things!' Harold rode on in silence. The chill of some vague fear was upon him. CHAPTER I--STEPHEN
Stephen Norman of Normanstand had remained a bachelor until close on
middle age, when the fact took hold of him that there was no immediate
heir to his great estate. Whereupon, with his wonted decision, he set
about looking for a wife. He had been a close friend of his next neighbour, Squire Rowly, ever
since their college days. They had, of course, been often in each
other's houses, and Rowly's young sister--almost a generation younger
than himself, and the sole fruit of his father's second marriage--had
been like a little sister to him too. She had, in the twenty years which
had elapsed, grown to be a sweet and beautiful young woman. In all the
past years, with the constant opportunity which friendship gave of close
companionship, the feeling never altered. Squire Norman would have been
surprised had he been asked to describe Margaret Rowly and found himself
compelled to present the picture of a woman, not a child. Now, however, when his thoughts went womanward and wifeward, he awoke to
the fact that Margaret came within the category of those he sought. His
usual decision ran its course. Semi-brotherly feeling gave place to a
stronger and perhaps more selfish feeling. Before he even knew it, he
was head over ears in love with his pretty neighbour. Norman was a fine man, stalwart and handsome; his forty years sat so
lightly on him that his age never seemed to come into question in a
woman's mind. Margaret had always liked him and trusted him; he was the
big brother who had no duty in the way of scolding to do. His presence
had always been a gladness; and the sex of the girl, first unconsciously
then consciously, answered to the man's overtures, and her consent was
soon obtained. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
When in the fulness of time it was known that an heir was expected,
Squire Norman took for granted that the child would be a boy, and held
the idea so tenaciously that his wife, who loved him deeply, gave up
warning and remonstrance after she had once tried to caution him against
too fond a hope. She saw how bitterly he would be disappointed in case
it should prove to be a girl. He was, however, so fixed on the point
that she determined to say no more. After all, it might be a boy; the
chances were equal. The Squire would not listen to any one else at all;
so as the time went on his idea was more firmly fixed than ever. His
arrangements were made on the base that he would have a son. The name
was of course decided. Stephen had been the name of all the Squires of
Normanstand for ages--as far back as the records went; and Stephen the
new heir of course would be. Like all middle-aged men with young wives he was supremely anxious as the
time drew near. In his anxiety for his wife his belief in the son became
passive rather than active. Indeed, the idea of a son was so deeply
fixed in his mind that it was not disturbed even by his anxiety for the
young wife he idolised. When instead of a son a daughter was born, the Doctor and the nurse, who
knew his views on the subject, held back from the mother for a little the
knowledge of the sex. Dame Norman was so weak that the Doctor feared
lest anxiety as to how her husband would bear the disappointment, might
militate against her. Therefore the Doctor sought the Squire in his
study, and went resolutely at his task. 'Well, Squire, I congratulate you on the birth of your child!' Norman
was of course struck with the use of the word 'child'; but the cause of
his anxiety was manifested by his first question:
'How is she, Doctor? Is she safe?' The child was after all of secondary
importance! The Doctor breathed more freely; the question had lightened
his task. There was, therefore, more assurance in his voice as he
answered:
'She is safely through the worst of her trouble, but I am greatly anxious
yet. She is very weak. I fear anything that might upset her.' The Squire's voice came quick and strong:
'There must be no upset! And now tell me about my son?' He spoke the
last word half with pride, half bashfully. 'Your son is a daughter!' There was silence for so long that the Doctor
began to be anxious. Squire Norman sat quite still; his right hand
resting on the writing-table before him became clenched so hard that the
knuckles looked white and the veins red. After a long slow breath he
spoke:
'She, my daughter, is well?' The Doctor answered with cheerful alacrity:
'Splendid!--I never saw a finer child in my life. She will be a comfort
and an honour to you!' The Squire spoke again:
'What does her mother think? I suppose she's very proud of her?' 'She does not know yet that it is a girl. I thought it better not to let
her know till I had told you.' 'Why?' 'Because--because--Norman, old friend, you know why! Because you had set
your heart on a son; and I know how it would grieve that sweet young wife
and mother to feel your disappointment. I want your lips to be the first
to tell her; so that on may assure her of your happiness in that a
daughter has been born to you.' The Squire put out his great hand and laid it on the other's shoulder. There was almost a break in his voice as he said:
'Thank you, my old friend, my true friend, for your thought. When may I
see her?' 'By right, not yet. But, as knowing your views, she may fret herself
till she knows, I think you had better come at once.' All Norman's love and strength combined for his task. As he leant over
and kissed his young wife there was real fervour in his voice as he said:
'Where is my dear daughter that you may place her in my arms?' For an
instant there came a chill to the mother's heart that her hopes had been
so far disappointed; but then came the reaction of her joy that her
husband, her baby's father, was pleased. There was a heavenly dawn of
red on her pale face as she drew her husband's head down and kissed him. 'Oh, my dear,' she said, 'I am so happy that you are pleased!' The nurse
took the mother's hand gently and held it to the baby as she laid it in
the father's arms. He held the mother's hand as he kissed the baby's brow. The Doctor touched him gently on the arm and beckoned him away. He went
with careful footsteps, looking behind as he went. After dinner he talked with the Doctor on various matters; but presently
he asked:
'I suppose, Doctor, it is no sort of rule that the first child regulates
the sex of a family?' 'No, of course not. Otherwise how should we see boys and girls mixed in
one family, as is nearly always the case. But, my friend,' he went on,
'you must not build hopes so far away. I have to tell you that your wife
is far from strong. Even now she is not so well as I could wish, and
there yet may be change.' The Squire leaped impetuously to his feet as
he spoke quickly:
'Then why are we waiting here? Can nothing be done? Let us have the
best help, the best advice in the world.' The Doctor raised his hand. 'Nothing can be done as yet. I have only fear.' 'Then let us be ready in case your fears should be justified! Who are
the best men in London to help in such a case?' The Doctor mentioned two
names; and within a few minutes a mounted messenger was galloping to
Norcester, the nearest telegraph centre. The messenger was to arrange
for a special train if necessary. Shortly afterwards the Doctor went
again to see his patient. After a long absence he came back, pale and
agitated. Norman felt his heart sink when he saw him; a groan broke from
him as the Doctor spoke:
'She is much worse! I am in great fear that she may pass away before the
morning!' The Squire's strong voice was clouded, with a hoarse veil as
he asked:
'May I see her?' 'Not yet; at present she is sleeping. She may wake strengthened; in
which case you may see her. But if not--'
'If not?' --the voice was not like his own. 'Then I shall send for you at once!' The Doctor returned to his vigil. The Squire, left alone, sank on his knees, his face in his hands; his
great shoulders shook with the intensity of his grief. An hour or more passed before he heard hurried steps. He sprang to the
door:
'Well?' 'You had better come now.' 'Is she better?' 'Alas! no. I fear her minutes are numbered. School yourself, my dear
old friend! God will help you in this bitter hour. All you can do now
is to make her last moments happy.' 'I know! I know!' he answered in a voice so calm that his companion
wondered. When they came into the room Margaret was dozing. When her eyes opened
and she found her husband beside her bed there spread over her face a
glad look; which, alas! soon changed to one of pain. She motioned to him
to bend down. He knelt and put his head beside her on the pillow; his
arms went tenderly round her as though by his iron devotion and strength
he would shield her from all harm. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Her voice came very low and in broken
gasps; she was summoning all her strength that she might speak:
'My dear, dear husband, I am so sad at leaving you! You have made me so
happy, and I love you so! Forgive me, dear, for the pain I know you will
suffer when I am gone! And oh, Stephen, I know you will cherish our
little one--yours and mine--when I am gone. She will have no mother; you
will have to be father and mother too.' 'I will hold her in my very heart's core, my darling, as I hold you!' He
could hardly speak from emotion. She went on:
'And oh, my dear, you will not grieve that she is not a son to carry on
your name?' And then a sudden light came into her eyes; and there was
exultation in her weak voice as she said:
'She is to be our only one; let her be indeed our son! Call her the name
we both love!' For answer he rose and laid his hand very, very tenderly
on the babe as he said:
'This dear one, my sweet wife, who will carry your soul in her breast,
will be my son; the only son I shall ever have. All my life long I
shall, please Almighty God, so love her--our little Stephen--as you and I
love each other!' She laid her hand on his so that it touched at once her husband and her
child. Then she raised the other weak arm, and placed it round his neck,
and their lips met. Her soul went out in this last kiss. CHAPTER II--THE HEART OF A CHILD
For some weeks after his wife's death Squire Norman was overwhelmed with
grief. He made a brave effort, however, to go through the routine of his
life; and succeeded so far that he preserved an external appearance of
bearing his loss with resignation. But within, all was desolation. Little Stephen had winning ways which sent deep roots into her father's
heart. The little bundle of nerves which the father took into his arms
must have realised with all its senses that, in all that it saw and heard
and touched, there was nothing but love and help and protection. Gradually the trust was followed by expectation. If by some chance the
father was late in coming to the nursery the child would grow impatient
and cast persistent, longing glances at the door. When he came all was
joy. Time went quickly by, and Norman was only recalled to its passing by the
growth of his child. Seedtime and harvest, the many comings of nature's
growth were such commonplaces to him, and had been for so many years,
that they made on him no impressions of comparison. But his baby was one
and one only. Any change in it was not only in itself a new experience,
but brought into juxtaposition what is with what was. The changes that
began to mark the divergence of sex were positive shocks to him, for they
were unexpected. In the very dawn of babyhood dress had no special
import; to his masculine eyes sex was lost in youth. But, little by
little, came the tiny changes which convention has established. And with
each change came to Squire Norman the growing realisation that his child
was a woman. A tiny woman, it is true, and requiring more care and
protection and devotion than a bigger one; but still a woman. The pretty
little ways, the eager caresses, the graspings and holdings of the
childish hands, the little roguish smiles and pantings and flirtings were
all but repetitions in little of the dalliance of long ago. The father,
after all, reads in the same book in which the lover found his knowledge. At first there was through all his love for his child a certain
resentment of her sex. His old hope of a son had been rooted too deeply
to give way easily. But when the conviction came, and with it the habit
of its acknowledgment, there came also a certain resignation, which is
the halting-place for satisfaction. But he never, not then nor
afterwards, quite lost the old belief that Stephen was indeed a son. Could there ever have been a doubt, the remembrance of his wife's eyes
and of her faint voice, of her hope and her faith, as she placed her baby
in his arms would have refused it a resting-place. This belief tinged
all his after-life and moulded his policy with regard to his girl's
upbringing. If she was to be indeed his son as well as his daughter, she
must from the first be accustomed to boyish as well as to girlish ways. This, in that she was an only child, was not a difficult matter to
accomplish. Had she had brothers and sisters, matters of her sex would
soon have found their own level. There was one person who objected strongly to any deviation from the
conventional rule of a girl's education. This was Miss Laetitia Rowly,
who took after a time, in so far as such a place could be taken, that of
the child's mother. Laetitia Rowly was a young aunt of Squire Rowly of
Norwood; the younger sister of his father and some sixteen years his own
senior. When the old Squire's second wife had died, Laetitia, then a
conceded spinster of thirty-six, had taken possession of the young
Margaret. When Margaret had married Squire Norman, Miss Rowly was well
satisfied; for she had known Stephen Norman all her life. Though she
could have wished a younger bridegroom for her darling, she knew it would
be hard to get a better man or one of more suitable station in life. Also
she knew that Margaret loved him, and the woman who had never found the
happiness of mutual love in her own life found a pleasure in the romance
of true love, even when the wooer was middle-aged. She had been
travelling in the Far East when the belated news of Margaret's death came
to her. When she had arrived home she announced her intention of taking
care of Margaret's child, just as she had taken care of Margaret. For
several reasons this could not be done in the same way. She was not old
enough to go and live at Normanstand without exciting comment; and the
Squire absolutely refused to allow that his daughter should live anywhere
except in his own house. Educational supervision, exercised at such
distance and so intermittently, could neither be complete nor exact. Though Stephen was a sweet child she was a wilful one, and very early in
life manifested a dominant nature. This was a secret pleasure to her
father, who, never losing sight of his old idea that she was both son and
daughter, took pleasure as well as pride out of each manifestation of her
imperial will. The keen instinct of childhood, which reasons in feminine
fashion, and is therefore doubly effective in a woman-child, early
grasped the possibilities of her own will. She learned the measure of
her nurse's foot and then of her father's; and so, knowing where lay the
bounds of possibility of the achievement of her wishes, she at once
avoided trouble and learned how to make the most of the space within the
limit of her tether. It is not those who 'cry for the Moon' who go furthest or get most in
this limited world of ours. Stephen's pretty ways and unfailing good
temper were a perpetual joy to her father; and when he found that as a
rule her desires were reasonable, his wish to yield to them became a
habit. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Miss Rowly seldom saw any individual thing to disapprove of. She it was
who selected the governesses and who interviewed them from time to time
as to the child's progress. Not often was there any complaint, for the
little thing had such a pretty way of showing affection, and such a
manifest sense of justified trust in all whom she encountered, that it
would have been hard to name a specific fault. But though all went in tears of affectionate regret, and with eminently
satisfactory emoluments and references, there came an irregularly timed
succession of governesses. Stephen's affection for her 'Auntie' was never affected by any of the
changes. Others might come and go, but there no change came. The
child's little hand would steal into one of the old lady's strong ones,
or would clasp a finger and hold it tight. And then the woman who had
never had a child of her own would feel, afresh each time, as though the
child's hand was gripping her heart. With her father she was sweetest of all. And as he seemed to be pleased
when she did anything like a little boy, the habit of being like one
insensibly grew on her. An only child has certain educational difficulties. The true learning is
not that which we are taught, but that which we take in for ourselves
from experience and observation, and children's experiences and
observation, especially of things other than repressive, are mainly of
children. The little ones teach each other. Brothers and sisters are
more with each other than are ordinary playmates, and in the familiarity
of their constant intercourse some of the great lessons, so useful in
after-life, are learned. Little Stephen had no means of learning the
wisdom of give-and-take. To her everything was given, given bountifully
and gracefully. Graceful acceptance of good things came to her
naturally, as it does to one who is born to be a great lady. The
children of the farmers in the neighbourhood, with whom at times she
played, were in such habitual awe of the great house, that they were
seldom sufficiently at ease to play naturally. Children cannot be on
equal terms on special occasions with a person to whom they have been
taught to bow or courtesy as a public habit. The children of
neighbouring landowners, who were few and far between, and of the
professional people in Norcester, were at such times as Stephen met them,
generally so much on their good behaviour, that the spontaneity of play,
through which it is that sharp corners of individuality are knocked off
or worn down, did not exist. And so Stephen learned to read in the Book of Life; though only on one
side of it. At the age of six she had, though surrounded with loving
care and instructed by skilled teachers, learned only the accepting side
of life. Giving of course there was in plenty, for the traditions of
Normanstand were royally benevolent; many a blessing followed the little
maid's footsteps as she accompanied some timely aid to the sick and needy
sent from the Squire's house. Moreover, her Aunt tried to inculcate
certain maxims founded on that noble one that it is more blessed to give
than to receive. But of giving in its true sense: the giving that which
we want for ourselves, the giving that is as a temple built on the rock
of self-sacrifice, she knew nothing. Her sweet and spontaneous nature,
which gave its love and sympathy so readily, was almost a bar to
education: it blinded the eyes that would have otherwise seen any defect
that wanted altering, any evil trait that needed repression, any lagging
virtue that required encouragement--or the spur. CHAPTER III--HAROLD
Squire Norman had a clerical friend whose rectory of Carstone lay some
thirty miles from Normanstand. Thirty miles is not a great distance for
railway travel; but it is a long drive. The days had not come, nor were
they ever likely to come, for the making of a railway between the two
places. For a good many years the two men had met in renewal of their
old University days. Squire Norman and Dr. An Wolf had been chums at
Trinity, Cambridge, and the boyish friendship had ripened and lasted. When Harold An Wolf had put in his novitiate in a teeming Midland
manufacturing town, it was Norman's influence which obtained the
rectorship for his friend. It was not often that they could meet, for An
Wolf's work, which, though not very exacting, had to be done
single-handed, kept him to his post. Besides, he was a good scholar and
eked out a small income by preparing a few pupils for public school. An
occasional mid-week visit to Normanstand in the slack time of school work
on the Doctor's part, and now and again a drive by Norman over to the
rectory, returning the next day, had been for a good many years the
measure of their meeting. Then An Wolf's marriage and the birth of a son
had kept him closer to home. Mrs. An Wolf had been killed in a railway
accident a couple of years after her only child had been born; and at the
time Norman had gone over to render any assistance in his power to the
afflicted man, and to give him what was under the circumstances his best
gift, sympathy. After an interval of a few years the Squire's courtship
and marriage, at which his old friend had assisted, had confined his
activities to a narrower circle. The last time they had met was when An
Wolf had come over to Norcester to aid in the burial of his friend's
wife. In the process of years, however, the shadow over Norman's life
had begun to soften; when his baby had grown to be something of a
companion, they met again. Norman, 'who had never since his wife's death
been able to tear himself, even for a night, away from Normanstand and
Stephen, wrote to his old friend asking him to come to him. An Wolf
gladly promised, and for a week of growing expectation the Squire looked
forward to their meeting. Each found the other somewhat changed, in all
but their old affection. An Wolf was delighted with the little Stephen. Her dainty beauty seemed
to charm him; and the child, seeming to realise what pleasure she was
giving, exercised all her little winning ways. The rector, who knew more
of children than did his, friend, told her as she sat on his knee of a
very interesting person: his own son. The child listened, interested at
first, then enraptured. She asked all kinds of questions; and the
father's eyes brightened as he gladly answered the pretty sympathetic
child, already deep in his heart for her father's sake. He told her
about the boy who was so big and strong, and who could run and leap and
swim and play cricket and football better than any other boy with whom he
played. When, warmed himself by the keen interest of the little girl,
and seeing her beautiful black eyes beginning to glow, he too woke to the
glory of the time; and all the treasured moments of the father's lonely
heart gave out their store. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
And the other father, thrilled with delight
because of his baby's joy with, underlying all, an added pleasure that
the little Stephen's interest was in sports that were for boys, looked on
approvingly, now and again asking questions himself in furtherance of the
child's wishes. All the afternoon they sat in the garden, close to the stream that came
out of the rock, and An Wolf told father's tales of his only son. Of the
great cricket match with Castra Puerorum when he had made a hundred not
out. Of the school races when he had won so many prizes. Of the
swimming match in the Islam River when, after he had won the race and had
dressed himself, he went into the water in his clothes to help some
children who had upset a boat. How when Widow Norton's only son could
not be found, he dived into the deep hole of the intake of the milldam of
the great Carstone mills where Wingate the farrier had been drowned. And
how, after diving twice without success, he had insisted on going down
the third time though people had tried to hold him back; and how he had
brought up in his arms the child all white and so near death that they
had to put him in the ashes of the baker's oven before he could be
brought back to life. When her nurse came to take her to bed, she slid down from her father's
knee and coming over to Dr. An Wolf, gravely held out her hand and said:
'Good-bye!' Then she kissed him and said:
'Thank you so much, Mr. Harold's daddy. Won't you come soon again, and
tell us more?' Then she jumped again upon her father's knee and hugged
him round the neck and kissed him, and whispered in his ear:
'Daddy, please make Mr. Harold's daddy when he comes again, bring Harold
with him!' After all it is natural for women to put the essence of the letter in the
postscript! Two weeks afterwards Dr. An Wolf came again and brought Harold with him. The time had gone heavily with little Stephen when she knew that Harold
was coming with his father. Stephen had been all afire to see the big
boy whose feats had so much interested her, and for a whole week had
flooded Mrs. Jarrold with questions which she was unable to answer. At
last the time came and she went out to the hall door with her father to
welcome the guests. At the top of the great granite steps, down which in
time of bad weather the white awning ran, she stood holding her father's
hand and waving a welcome. 'Good morning, Harold! Good morning, Mr. Harold's daddy!' The meeting was a great pleasure to both the children, and resulted in an
immediate friendship. The small girl at once conceived a great
admiration for the big, strong boy nearly twice her age and more than
twice her size. At her time of life the convenances are not, and love is
a thing to be spoken out at once and in the open. Mrs. Jarrold, from the
moment she set eyes on him, liked the big kindly-faced boy who treated
her like a lady, and who stood awkwardly blushing and silent in the
middle of the nursery listening to the tiny child's proffers of
affection. For whatever kind of love it is that boys are capable of,
Harold had fallen into it. 'Calf-love' is a thing habitually treated
with contempt. It may be ridiculous; but all the same it is a serious
reality--to the calf. Harold's new-found affection was as deep as his nature. An only child
who had in his memory nothing of a mother's love, his naturally
affectionate nature had in his childish days found no means of
expression. A man child can hardly pour out his full heart to a man,
even a father or a comrade; and this child had not, in a way, the
consolations of other children. His father's secondary occupation of
teaching brought other boys to the house and necessitated a domestic
routine which had to be exact. There was no place for little girls in a
boys' school; and though many of Dr. An Wolf's friends who were mothers
made much of the pretty, quiet boy, and took him to play with their
children, he never seemed to get really intimate with them. The equality
of companionship was wanting. Boys he knew, and with them he could hold
his own and yet be on affectionate terms. But girls were strange to him,
and in their presence he was shy. With this lack of understanding of the
other sex, grew up a sort of awe of it. His opportunities of this kind
of study were so few that the view never could become rectified. And so it was that from his boyhood up to his twelfth year, Harold's
knowledge of girlhood never increased nor did his awe diminish. When his
father had told him all about his visit to Normanstand and of the
invitation which had been extended to him there came first awe, then
doubt, then expectation. Between Harold and his father there was love
and trust and sympathy. The father's married love so soon cut short
found expression towards his child; and between them there had never been
even the shadow of a cloud. When his father told him how pretty the
little Stephen was, how dainty, how sweet, he began to picture her in his
mind's eye and to be bashfully excited over meeting her. His first glimpse of Stephen was, he felt, one that he never could
forget. She had made up her mind that she would let Harold see what she
could do. Harold could fly kites and swim and play cricket; she could
not do any of these, but she could ride. Harold should see her pony, and
see her riding him all by herself. And there would be another pony for
Harold, a big, big, big one--she had spoken about its size herself to
Topham, the stud-groom. She had coaxed her daddy into promising that
after lunch she should take Harold riding. To this end she had made
ready early. She had insisted on putting on the red riding habit which
Daddy had given her for her birthday, and now she stood on the top of the
steps all glorious in hunting pink, with the habit held over her arms,
with the tiny hunting-hoots all shiny underneath. She had no hat on, and
her beautiful hair of golden red shone in its glory. But even it was
almost outshone by the joyous flush on her cheeks as she stood waving the
little hand that did not hold Daddy's. She was certainly a picture to
dream of! Her father's eyes lost nothing of her dainty beauty. He was
so proud of her that he almost forgot to wish that she had been a boy. The pleasure he felt in her appearance was increased by the fact that her
dress was his own idea. During luncheon Stephen was fairly silent; she usually chattered all
through as freely as a bird sings. Stephen was silent because the
occasion was important. Besides, Daddy wasn't all alone, and therefore
had not to be cheered up. Also--this in postscript form--Harold was
silent! In her present frame of mind Harold could do no wrong, and what
Harold did was right. She was unconsciously learning already a lesson
from his presence. That evening when going to bed she came to say good-night to Daddy. After
she had kissed him she also kissed 'old Mr. Harold,' as she now called
him, and as a matter of course kissed Harold also. He coloured up at
once. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
It was the first time a girl had ever kissed him. The next day from early morning until bed-time was one long joy to
Stephen, and there were few things of interest that Harold had not been
shown; there were few of the little secrets which had not been shared
with him as they went about hand in hand. Like all manly boys Harold was
good to little children and patient with them. He was content to follow
Stephen about and obey all her behests. He had fallen in love with her
to the very bottom of his boyish heart. When the guests were going, Stephen stood with her father on the steps to
see them off. When the carriage had swept behind the farthest point in
the long avenue, and when Harold's cap waving from the window could no
longer be seen, Squire Norman turned to go in, but paused in obedience to
the unconscious restraint of Stephen's hand. He waited patiently till
with a long sigh she turned to him and they went in together. That night before she went to bed Stephen came and sat on her father's
knee, and after sundry pattings and kissings whispered in his ear:
'Daddy, wouldn't it be nice if Harold could come here altogether? Couldn't you ask him to? And old Mr. Harold could come too. Oh, I wish
he was here!' CHAPTER IV--HAROLD AT NORMANSTAND
Two years afterwards a great blow fell upon Harold. His father, who had
been suffering from repeated attacks of influenza, was, when in the low
condition following this, seized with pneumonia, to which in a few days
he succumbed. Harold was heart-broken. The affection which had been
between him and his father had been so consistent that he had never known
a time when it was not. When Squire Norman had returned to the house with him after the funeral,
he sat in silence holding the boy's hand till he had wept his heart out. By this time the two were old friends, and the boy was not afraid or too
shy to break down before him. There was sufficient of the love of the
old generation to begin with trust in the new. Presently, when the storm was past and Harold had become his own man
again, Norman said:
'And now, Harold, I want you to listen to me. You know, my dear boy,
that I am your father's oldest friend, and right sure I am that he would
approve of what I say. You must come home with me to live. I know that
in his last hours the great concern of your dear father's heart would
have been for the future of his boy. And I know, too, that it was a
comfort to him to feel that you and I are such friends, and that the son
of my dearest old friend would be as a son to me. We have been friends,
you and I, a long time, Harold; and we have learned to trust, and I hope
to love, one another. And you and my little Stephen are such friends
already that your coming into the house will be a joy to us all. Why,
long ago, when first you came, she said to me the night you went away:
"Daddy, wouldn't it be nice if Harold could come here altogether?"' And so Harold An Wolf came back with the Squire to Normanstand, and from
that day on became a member of his house, and as a son to him. Stephen's
delight at his coming was of course largely qualified by her sympathy
with his grief; but it would have been hard to give him more comfort than
she did in her own pretty way. Putting her lips to his she kissed him,
and holding his big hand in both of her little ones, she whispered
softly:
'Poor Harold! You and I should love each other, for we have both lost
our mother. And now you have lost your father. But you must let my dear
daddy be yours too!' At this time Harold was between fourteen and fifteen years old. He was
well educated in so far as private teaching went. His father had devoted
much care to him, so that he was well grounded in all the Academic
branches of learning. He was also, for his years, an expert in most
manly exercises. He could ride anything, shoot straight, fence, run,
jump or swim with any boy more than his age and size. In Normanstand his education was continued by the rector. The Squire
used often to take him with him when he went to ride, or fish, or shoot;
frankly telling him that as his daughter was, as yet, too young to be his
companion in these matters, he would act as her locum tenens. His living
in the house and his helping as he did in Stephen's studies made
familiarity perpetual. He was just enough her senior to command her
childish obedience; and there were certain qualities in his nature which
were eminently calculated to win and keep the respect of women as well as
of men. He was the very incarnation of sincerity, and had now and again,
in certain ways, a sublime self-negation which, at times, seemed in
startling contrast to a manifestly militant nature. When at school he
had often been involved in fights which were nearly always on matters of
principle, and by a sort of unconscious chivalry he was generally found
fighting on the weaker side. Harold's father had been very proud of his
ancestry, which was Gothic through the Dutch, as the manifestly corrupted
prefix of the original name implied, and he had gathered from a constant
study of the Sagas something of the philosophy which lay behind the ideas
of the Vikings. This new stage of Harold's life made for quicker development than any
which had gone before. Hitherto he had not the same sense of
responsibility. To obey is in itself a relief; and as it is an actual
consolation to weak natures, so it is only a retarding of the strong. Now
he had another individuality to think of. There was in his own nature a
vein of anxiety of which the subconsciousness of his own strength threw
up the outcrop. Little Stephen with the instinct of her sex discovered before long this
weakness. For it is a weakness when any quality can be assailed or used. The using of a man's weakness is not always coquetry; but it is something
very like it. Many a time the little girl, who looked up to and admired
the big boy who could compel her to anything when he was so minded,
would, for her own ends, work on his sense of responsibility, taking an
elfin delight in his discomfiture. The result of Stephen's harmless little coquetries was that Harold had
occasionally either to thwart some little plan of daring, or else cover
up its results. In either case her confidence in him grew, so that
before long he became an established fact in her life, a being in whose
power and discretion and loyalty she had absolute, blind faith. And this
feeling seemed to grow with her own growth. Indeed at one time it came
to be more than an ordinary faith. It happened thus:
The old Church of St. Stephen, which was the parish church of
Normanstand, had a peculiar interest for the Norman family. There,
either within the existing walls or those which had preceded them when
the church was rebuilt by that Sir Stephen who was standard-bearer to
Henry VI., were buried all the direct members of the line. It was an
unbroken record of the inheritors since the first Sir Stephen, who had
his place in the Domesday Book. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Without, in the churchyard close to the
church, were buried all such of the collaterals as had died within hail
of Norcester. Some there were of course who, having achieved distinction
in various walks of life, were further honoured by a resting-place within
the chancel. The whole interior was full of records of the family. Squire Norman was fond of coming to the place; and often from the very
beginning had taken Stephen with him. One of her earliest recollections
was kneeling down with her father, who held her hand in his, whilst with
the other he wiped the tears from his eyes, before a tomb sculptured
beautifully in snowy marble. She never forgot the words he had said to
her:
'You will always remember, darling, that your dear mother rests in this
sacred place. When I am gone, if you are ever in any trouble come here. Come alone and open out your heart. You need never fear to ask God for
help at the grave of your mother!' The child had been impressed, as had
been many and many another of her race. For seven hundred years each
child of the house of Norman had been brought alone by either parent and
had heard some such words. The custom had come to be almost a family
ritual, and it never failed to leave its impress in greater or lesser
degree. Whenever Harold had in the early days paid a visit to Normanstand, the
church had generally been an objective of their excursions. He was
always delighted to go. His love for his own ancestry made him admire
and respect that of others; so that Stephen's enthusiasm in the matter
was but another cord to bind him to her. In one of their excursions they found the door into the crypt open; and
nothing would do Stephen but that they should enter it. To-day, however,
they had no light; but they arranged that on the morrow they would bring
candles with them and explore the place thoroughly. The afternoon of the
next day saw them at the door of the crypt with a candle, which Harold
proceeded to light. Stephen looked on admiringly, and said in a half-
conscious way, the half-consciousness being shown in the implication:
'You are not afraid of the crypt?' 'Not a bit! In my father's church there was a crypt, and I was in it
several times.' As he spoke the memory of the last time he had been
there swept over him. He seemed to see again the many lights, held in
hands that were never still, making a grim gloom where the black shadows
were not; to hear again the stamp and hurried shuffle of the many feet,
as the great oak coffin was borne by the struggling mass of men down the
steep stairway and in through the narrow door . . . And then the hush
when voices faded away; and the silence seemed a real thing, as for a
while he stood alone close to the dead father who had been all in all to
him. And once again he seemed to feel the recall to the living world of
sorrow and of light, when his inert hand was taken in the strong loving
one of Squire Norman. He paused and drew back. 'Why don't you go on?' she asked, surprised. He did not like to tell her then. Somehow, it seemed out of place. He
had often spoken to her of his father, and she had always been a
sympathetic listener; but here, at the entrance of the grim vault, he did
not wish to pain her with his own thoughts of sorrow and all the terrible
memories which the similarity of the place evoked. And even whilst he
hesitated there came to him a thought so laden with pain and fear that he
rejoiced at the pause which gave it to him in time. It was in that very
crypt that Stephen's mother had been buried, and had they two gone in, as
they had intended, the girl might have seen her mother's coffin as he had
seen his father's, but under circumstances which made him shiver. He had
been, as he said, often in the crypt at Carstone; and well he knew the
sordidness of the chamber of death. His imagination was alive as well as
his memory; he shuddered, not for himself, but for Stephen. How could he
allow the girl to suffer in such a way as she might, as she infallibly
would, if it were made apparent to her in such a brutal way? How
pitiful, how meanly pitiful, is the aftermath of death. Well he
remembered how many a night he woke in an agony, thinking of how his
father lay in that cold, silent, dust-strewn vault, in the silence and
the dark, with never a ray of light or hope or love! Gone, abandoned,
forgotten by all, save perhaps one heart which bled . . . He would save
little Stephen, if he could, from such a memory. He would not give any
reason for refusing to go in. He blew out the candle, and turned the key in the lock, took it out, and
put it in his pocket. 'Come, Stephen!' he said, 'let us go somewhere else. We will not go into
the crypt to-day!' 'Why not?' The lips that spoke were pouted mutinously and the face was
flushed. The imperious little lady was not at all satisfied to give up
the cherished project. For a whole day and night she had, whilst waking,
thought of the coming adventure; the thrill of it was not now to be
turned to cold disappointment without even an explanation. She did not
think that Harold was afraid; that would be ridiculous. But she
wondered; and mysteries always annoyed her. She did not like to be at
fault, more especially when other people knew. All the pride in her
revolted. 'Why not?' she repeated more imperiously still. Harold said kindly:
'Because, Stephen, there is really a good reason. Don't ask me, for I
can't tell you. You must take it from me that I am right. You know,
dear, that I wouldn't willingly disappoint you; and I know that you had
set your heart on this. But indeed, indeed I have a good reason.' Stephen was really angry now. She was amenable to reason, though she did
not consciously know what reason was; but to accept some one else's
reason blindfold was repugnant to her nature, even at her then age. She
was about to speak angrily, but looking up she saw that Harold's mouth
was set with marble firmness. So, after her manner, she acquiesced in
the inevitable and said:
'All right! Harold.' But in the inner recesses of her firm-set mind was a distinct intention
to visit the vault when more favourable circumstances would permit. CHAPTER V--THE CRYPT
It was some weeks before Stephen got the chance she wanted. She knew it
would be difficult to evade Harold's observation, for the big boy's
acuteness as to facts had impressed itself on her. It was strange that
out of her very trust in Harold came a form of distrust in others. In
the little matter of evading him she inclined to any one in whom there
was his opposite, in whose reliability she instinctively mistrusted. 'There is nothing bad or good but thinking makes it so!' To enter that
crypt, which had seemed so small a matter at first, had now in process of
thinking and wishing and scheming become a thing to be much desired. Harold saw, or rather felt, that something was in the girl's mind, and
took for granted that it had something to do with the crypt. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
But he
thought it better not to say anything lest he should keep awake a desire
which he hoped would die naturally. One day it was arranged that Harold should go over to Carstone to see the
solicitor who had wound up his father's business. He was to stay the
night and ride back next day. Stephen, on hearing of the arrangement, so
contrived matters that Master Everard, the son of a banker who had
recently purchased an estate in the neighbourhood, was asked to come to
play with her on the day when Harold left. It was holiday time at Eton,
and he was at home. Stephen did not mention to Harold the fact of his
coming; it was only from a chance allusion of Mrs. Jarrold before he went
that he inferred it. He did not think the matter of sufficient
importance to wonder why Stephen, who generally told him everything, had
not mentioned this. During their play, Stephen, after pledging him to secrecy, told Leonard
of her intention of visiting the crypt, and asked him to help her in it. This was an adventure, and as such commended itself to the schoolboy
heart. He entered at once into the scheme con amore; and the two
discussed ways and means. Leonard's only regret was that he was
associated with a little girl in such a project. It was something of a
blow to his personal vanity, which was a large item in his moral
equipment, that such a project should have been initiated by the girl and
not by himself. He was to get possession of the key and in the forenoon
of the next day he was to be waiting in the churchyard, when Stephen
would join him as soon as she could evade her nurse. She was now more
than eleven, and had less need of being watched than in her earlier
years. It was possible, with strategy, to get away undiscovered for an
hour. * * * * *
At Carstone Harold got though what he had to do that same afternoon and
arranged to start early in the morning for Normanstand. After an early
breakfast he set out on his thirty-mile journey at eight o'clock. Littlejohn, his horse, was in excellent form, notwithstanding his long
journey of the day before, and with his nose pointed for home, put his
best foot foremost. Harold felt in great spirits. The long ride the day
before had braced him physically, though there were on his journey times
of great sadness when the thought of his father came back to him and the
sense of loss was renewed with each thought of his old home. But youth
is naturally buoyant. His visit to the church, the first thing on his
arrival at Carstone, and his kneeling before the stone made sacred to his
father's memory, though it entailed a silent gush of tears, did him good,
and even seemed to place his sorrow farther away. When he came again in
the morning before leaving Carstone there were no tears. There was only
a holy memory which seemed to sanctify loss; and his father seemed nearer
to him than ever. As he drew near Normanstand he looked forward eagerly to seeing Stephen,
and the sight of the old church lying far below him as he came down the
steep road over Alt Hill, which was the short-cut from Norcester, set his
mind working. His visit to the tomb of his own father made him think of
the day when he kept Stephen from entering the crypt. The keenest thought is not always conscious. It was without definite
intention that when he came to the bridle-path Harold turned his horse's
head and rode down to the churchyard. As he pushed open the door of the
church he half expected to see Stephen; and there was a vague possibility
that Leonard Everard might be with her. The church was cool and dim. Coming from the hot glare the August
sunshine it seemed, at the first glance, dark. He looked around, and a
sense of relief came over him. The place was empty. But even as he stood, there came a sound which made his heart grow cold. A cry, muffled, far away and full of anguish; a sobbing cry, which
suddenly ceased. It was the voice of Stephen. He instinctively knew where it came from;
the crypt. Only for the experience he had had of her desire to enter the
place, he would never have suspected that it was so close to him. He ran
towards the corner where commenced the steps leading downward. As he
reached the spot a figure came rushing up the steps. A boy in Eton
jacket and wide collar, careless, pale, and agitated. It was Leonard
Everard. Harold seized him as he came. 'Where is Stephen?' he cried in a quick, low voice. 'In the vault below there. She dropped her light and then took mine, and
she dropped it too. Let me go! Let me go!' He struggled to get away;
but Harold held him tight. 'Where are the matches?' 'In my pocket. Let me go! Let me go!' 'Give me them--this instant!' He was examining the frightened boy's
waistcoat pockets as he spoke. When he had got the matches he let the
boy go, and ran down the steps and through the open door into the crypt,
calling out as he came:
'Stephen! Stephen dear, where are you? It is I--Harold!' There was no
response; his heart seemed to grow cold and his knees to weaken. The
match spluttered and flashed, and in the momentary glare he saw across
the vault, which was not a large place, a white mass on the ground. He
had to go carefully, lest the match should be blown out by the wind of
his passage; but on coming close he saw that it was Stephen lying
senseless in front of a great coffin which rested on a built-out pile of
masonry. Then the match went out. In the flare of the next one he lit
he saw a piece of candle lying on top of the coffin. He seized and lit
it. He was able to think coolly despite his agitation, and knew that
light was the first necessity. The bruised wick was slow to catch; he
had to light another match, his last one, before it flamed. The couple
of seconds that the light went down till the grease melted and the flame
leaped again seemed of considerable length. When the lit candle was
placed steadily on top of the coffin, and a light, dim, though strong
enough to see with, spread around, he stooped and lifted Stephen in his
arms. She was quite senseless, and so limp that a great fear came upon
him that she might be dead. He did not waste time, but carried her
across the vault where the door to the church steps stood out sharp
against the darkness, and bore her up into the church. Holding her in
one arm, with the other hand he dragged some long cushions from one of
the pews and spread them on the floor; on these he laid her. His heart
was smitten with love and pity as he looked. She was so helpless; so
pitifully helpless! Her arms and legs were doubled up as though broken,
disjointed; the white frock was smeared with patches of thick dust. Instinctively he stooped and pulled the frock down and straightened out
the arms and feet. He knelt beside her, and felt if her heart was still
beating, a great fear over him, a sick apprehension. A gush of thankful
prayer came from his heart. Thank God! she was alive; he could feel her
heart beat, though faintly underneath his hand. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
He started to his feet
and ran towards the door, seizing his hat, which lay on a seat. He
wanted it to bring back some water. As he passed out of the door he saw
Leonard a little distance off, but took no notice of him. He ran to the
stream, filled his hat with water, and brought it back. When he came
into the church he saw Stephen, already partially restored, sitting up on
the cushions with Leonard supporting her. He was rejoiced; but somehow disappointed. He would rather Leonard had
not been there. He remembered--he could not forget--the white face of
the boy who fled out of the crypt leaving Stephen in a faint within, and
who had lingered outside the church door whilst he ran for water. Harold
came forward quickly and raised Stephen, intending to bring her into the
fresh air. He had a shrewd idea that the sight of the sky and God's
greenery would be the best medicine for her after her fright. He lifted
her in his strong arms as he used to do when she was a very little child
and had got tired in their walks together; and carried her to the door. She lent herself unconsciously to the movement, holding fast with her arm
round his neck as she used to do. In her clinging was the expression of
her trust in him. The little sigh with which she laid her head on his
shoulder was the tribute to his masculine power, and her belief in it. Every instant her senses were coming back to her more and more. The veil
of oblivion was passing from her half-closed eyes, as the tide of full
remembrance swept in upon her. Her inner nature was expressed in the
sequence of her emotions. Her first feeling was one of her own fault. The sight of Harold and his proximity recalled to her vividly how he had
refused to go into the crypt, and how she had intentionally deceived him,
negatively, as to her intention of doing that of which he disapproved. Her second feeling was one of justice; and was perhaps partially evoked
by the sight of Leonard, who followed close as Harold brought her to the
door. She did not wish to speak of herself or Harold before him; but she
did not hesitate to speak of him to Harold:
'You must not blame Leonard. It was all my fault. I made him come!' Her
generosity appealed to Harold. He was angry with the boy for being there
at all; but more for his desertion of the girl in her trouble. 'I'm not blaming him for being with you!' he said simply. Leonard spoke
at once. He had been waiting to defend himself, for that was what first
concerned that young gentleman; next to his pleasure, his safety most
appealed to him. 'I went to get help. You had let the candle drop; and how could I see in
the dark? You would insist on looking at the plate on the coffin!' A low moan broke from Stephen, a long, low, trembling moan which went to
Harold's heart. Her head drooped over again on his shoulder; and she
clung close to him as the memory of her shock came back to her. Harold
spoke to Leonard over his shoulder in a low, fierce whisper, which
Stephen did not seem to hear:
'There! that will do. Go away! You have done enough already. Go! Go!' he added more sternly, as the boy seemed disposed to argue. Leonard ran
a few steps, then walked to the lich-gate, where he waited. Stephen clung close to Harold in a state of agitation which was almost
hysterical. She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing brokenly:
'Oh, Harold! It was too awful. I never thought, never for a moment,
that my poor dear mother was buried in the crypt. And when I went to
look at the name on the coffin that was nearest to where I was, I knocked
away the dust, and then I saw her name: "Margaret Norman, aetat 22." I
couldn't bear it. She was only a girl herself, only just twice my
age--lying there in that terrible dark place with all the thick dust and
the spiders' webs. Oh, Harold, Harold! How shall I ever bear to think
of her lying there, and that I shall never see her dear face? Never! Never!' He tried to soothe her by patting and holding her hands. For a good
while the resolution of the girl faltered, and she was but as a little
child. Then her habitual strength of mind asserted itself. She did not
ask Harold how she came to be out in the church instead of in the crypt
when she recovered her senses. She seemed to take it for granted that
Leonard had carried her out; and when she said how brave it had been of
him, Harold, with his customary generosity, allowed her to preserve the
belief. When they had made their way to the gate Leonard came up to
them; but before he could speak Stephen had begun to thank him. He
allowed her to do so, though the sight of Harold's mouth set in scorn,
and his commanding eyes firmly fixed on him, made him grow hot and cold
alternately. He withdrew without speaking; and took his way home with a
heart full of bitterness and revengeful feelings. In the park Stephen tried to dust herself, and then Harold tried to
assist her. But her white dress was incurably soiled, the fine dust of
the vault seemed to have got ingrained in the muslin. When she got to
the house she stole upstairs, so that no one might notice her till she
had made herself tidy. The next day but one she took Harold for a walk in the afternoon. When
they were quite alone and out of earshot she said:
'I have been thinking all night about poor mother. Of course I know she
cannot be moved from the crypt. She must remain there. But there
needn't be all that dust. I want you to come there with me some time
soon. I fear I am afraid to go alone. I want to bring some flowers and
to tidy up the place. Won't you come with me this time? I know now,
Harold, why you didn't let me go in before. But now it is different. This is not curiosity. It is Duty and Love. Won't you come with me,
Harold?' Harold leaped from the edge of the ha-ha where he had been sitting and
held up his hand. She took it and leaped down lightly beside him. 'Come,' he said, 'let us go there now!' She took his arm when they got
on the path again, and clinging to him in her pretty girlish way they
went together to the piece of garden which she called her own; there they
picked a great bunch of beautiful white flowers. Then they walked to the
old church. The door was open and they passed in. Harold took from his
pocket a tiny key. This surprised her, and heightened the agitation
which she naturally suffered from revisiting the place. She said nothing
whilst he opened the door to the crypt. Within, on a bracket, stood some
candles in glass shades and boxes of matches. Harold lit three candles,
and leaving one of them on the shelf, and placing his cap beside it, took
the other two in his hands. Stephen, holding her flowers tightly to her
breast with her right hand, took Harold's arm with the left, and with
beating heart entered the crypt. For several minutes Harold kept her engaged, telling her about the crypt
in his father's church, and how he went down at his last visit to see the
coffin of his dear father, and how he knelt before it. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Stephen was much
moved, and held tight to his arm, her heart beating. But in the time she
was getting accustomed to the place. Her eyes, useless at first on
coming out of the bright sunlight, and not able to distinguish anything,
began to take in the shape of the place and to see the rows of great
coffins that stood out along the far wall. She also saw with surprise
that the newest coffin, on which for several reasons her eyes rested, was
no longer dusty but was scrupulously clean. Following with her eyes as
well as she could see into the further corners she saw that there the
same reform had been effected. Even the walls and ceiling had been swept
of the hanging cobwebs, and the floor was clean with the cleanliness of
ablution. Still holding Harold's arm, she moved over towards her
mother's coffin and knelt before it. Harold knelt with her; for a little
while she remained still and silent, praying inwardly. Then she rose,
and taking her great bunch of flowers placed them lovingly on the lid of
the coffin above where she thought her mother's heart would be. Then she
turned to Harold, her eyes flowing and her cheeks wet with tears, and
laid her head against his breast. Her arms could not go round his neck
till he had bent his head, for with his great height he simply towered
above her. Presently she was quiet; the paroxysm of her grief had
passed. She took Harold's hand in both hers, and together they went to
the door. With his disengaged hand, for he would not have disturbed the
other for worlds, Harold put out the lights and locked the door behind
them. In the church she held him away from her, and looked him fairly in the
face. She said slowly:
'Harold, was it you who had the crypt cleaned?' He answered in a low
voice:
'I knew you would want to go again!' She took the great hand which she held between hers, and before he knew
what she was doing and could prevent her, raised it to her lips and
kissed it, saying lovingly:
'Oh, Harold! No brother in all the wide world could be kinder. And--and--'
this with a sob, 'we both thank you; mother and I!' CHAPTER VI--A VISIT TO OXFORD
The next important move in the household was Harold's going to Cambridge. His father had always intended this, and Squire Norman had borne his
wishes in mind. Harold joined Trinity, the college which had been his
father's, and took up his residence in due course. Stephen was now nearly twelve. Her range of friendships, naturally
limited by her circumstances in life, was enlarged to the full; and if
she had not many close friends there were at least of them all that was
numerically possible. She still kept up to certain degree the little
gatherings which in her childhood were got together for her amusement,
and in the various games then instituted she still took a part. She
never lost sight of the fact that her father took a certain pleasure in
her bodily vigour. And though with her growing years and the conscious
acceptance of her womanhood, she lost sight of the old childish fancy of
being a boy instead of a girl, she could not lose sight of the fact that
strength and alertness are sources of feminine as well as of masculine
power. Amongst the young friends who came from time to time during his holidays
was Leonard Everard, now a tall, handsome boy. He was one of those boys
who develop young, and who seem never to have any of that gawky stage so
noticeable in the youth of men made in a large pattern. He was always
well-poised, trim-set, alert; fleet of foot, and springy all over. In
games he was _facile princeps_, seeming to make his effort always in the
right way and without exertion, as if by an instinct of physical
masterdom. His universal success in such matters helped to give him an
easy debonair manner which was in itself winning. So physically complete
a youth has always a charm. In its very presence there is a sort of
sympathetic expression, such as comes with the sunshine. Stephen always in Leonard's presence showed something of the common
attitude. His youth and beauty and sex all had their influence on her. The influence of sex, as it is understood with regard to a later period
of life, did not in her case exist; Cupid's darts are barbed and winged
for more adult victims. But in her case Leonard's masculine superiority,
emphasised by the few years between their age, his sublime self-belief,
and, above all, his absolute disregard for herself or her wishes or her
feelings, put him on a level at which she had to look up to him. The
first step in the ladder of pre-eminence had been achieved when she
realised that he was not on her level; the second when she experienced
rather than thought that he had more influence on her than she had on
him. Here again was a little morsel of hero worship, which, though based
on a misconception of fact, was still of influence. In that episode of
the crypt she had always believed that it was Leonard who had carried her
out and laid her on the church floor in light and safety. He had been
strong enough and resolute enough to do this, whilst she had fainted! Harold's generous forbearance had really worked to a false end. It was not strange, therefore, that she found occasional companionship
with the handsome, wilful, domineering boy somewhat of luxury. She did
not see him often enough to get tired of him; to find out the weakness of
his character; to realise his deep-seated, remorseless selfishness. But
after all he was only an episode in a young life which was full of
interests. Term after term came and went; the holidays had their
seasonable pleasures, occasionally shared in common. That was all. Harold's attitude was the same as ever. He was of a constant nature; and
now that manhood was within hail the love of his boyhood was ripening to
a man's love. That was all. He was with regard to Stephen the same
devoted, worshipping protector, without thought of self; without hope of
reward. Whatever Stephen wished Harold did; and Stephen, knowing their
old wishes and their old pleasures, was content with their renewal. Each
holiday between the terms became mainly a repetition of the days of the
old life. They lived in the past. Amongst the things that did not change was Stephen's riding dress. The
scarlet habit had never been a thing for everyday wear, but had from the
first been kept for special occasions. Stephen herself knew that it was
not a conventional costume; but she rather preferred it, if on that
account alone. In a certain way she felt justified in using it; for a
red habit was a sort of tradition in the family. It was on one of these occasions that she had gone with Harold into the
churchyard where they had heard the discussion regarding God and the
Angels. * * * * *
When Stephen was about sixteen she went for a short visit to Oxford. She
stayed at Somerville with Mrs. Egerton, an old friend of her mother's,
who was a professor at the college. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
She sent back her maid who had
travelled with her, as she knew that the college girls did not have
servants of their own. The visit was prolonged by mutual consent into a
duration of some weeks. Stephen fell in love with the place and the
life, and had serious thoughts of joining the college herself. Indeed
she had made up her mind to ask her father to allow her, knowing well
that he would consent to that or to any other wholesome wish of hers. But
then came the thought that he would be all alone at home; and following
that came another thought, and one of more poignant feeling. He was
alone now! Already, for many days, she had left him, for the first time
in her life! Stephen was quick to act; well she knew that at home there
would be no fault found with her for a speedy return. Within a few hours
she had brought her visit to an end, and was by herself, despite Mrs.
Egerton's protest, in the train on the way back to Norcester. In the train she began to review, for the first time, her visit to the
university. All had been so strange and new and delightful to her that
she had never stopped for retrospect. Life in the new and enchanting
place had been in the moving present. The mind had been receptive only,
gathering data for later thought. During her visit she had had no one to
direct her thought, and so it had been all personal, with the freedom of
individuality at large. Of course her mother's friend, skilled in the
mind-workings of average girls, and able to pick her way through
intellectual and moral quagmires, had taken good care to point out to her
certain intellectual movements and certain moral lessons; just as she had
in their various walks and drives pointed out matters of
interest--architectural beauties and spots of historic import. And she
had taken in, loyally accepted, and thoroughly assimilated all that she
had been told. But there were other lessons which were for her young
eyes; facts which the older eyes had ceased to notice, if they had ever
noticed them at all. The self-content, the sex-content in the endless
tide of young men that thronged the streets and quads and parks; the all-
sufficing nature of sport or study, to whichever their inclinations
tended. The small part which womankind seemed to have in their lives. Stephen had had, as we know, a peculiar training; whatever her instincts
were, her habits were largely boy habits. Here she was amongst boys, a
glorious tide of them; it made now and again her heart beat to look at
them. And yet amongst them all she was only an outsider. She could not
do anything better than any of them. Of course, each time she went out,
she became conscious of admiring glances; she could not be woman without
such consciousness. But it was as a girl that men looked at her, not as
an equal. As well as personal experience and the lessons of eyes and
ears and intelligence, there were other things to classify and adjust;
things which were entirely from the outside of her own life. The
fragments of common-room gossip, which it had been her fortune to hear
accidentally now and again. The half confidences of scandals, borne on
whispered breaths. The whole confidences of dormitory and study which
she had been privileged to share. All were parts of the new and strange
world, the great world which had swum into her ken. As she sat now in the train, with some formulation of memory already
accomplished in the two hours of solitude, her first comment, spoken half
audibly, would have surprised her teachers as much as it would have
surprised herself, if she had been conscious of it; for as yet her
thinking was not self-conscious:
'Surely, I am not like that!' It was of the women she had been thinking, not of the men. The glimpse
which she had had of her own sex had been an awakening to her; and the
awakening had not been to a pleasant world. All at once she seemed to
realise that her sex had defects--littlenesses, meannesses, cowardices,
falsenesses. That their occupations were apt to be trivial or narrow or
selfish; that their desires were earthly, and their tastes coarse; that
what she held to be goodness was apt to be realised only as fear. That
innocence was but ignorance, or at least baffled curiosity. That . . . A flood of shame swept over her, and instinctively she put her hands
before her burning face. As usual, she was running all at once into
extremes. And above all these was borne upon her, and for the first time in her
life, that she was herself a woman! For a long time she sat quite still. The train thrilled and roared on
its way. Crowded stations took and gave their quantum of living freight;
but the young girl sat abstracted, unmoved, seemingly unconscious. All
the dominance and energy of her nature were at work. If, indeed, she was a woman, and had to abide by the exigencies of her
own sex, she would at least not be ruled and limited by woman's weakness. She would plan and act and manage things for herself, in her own way. Whatever her thoughts might be, she could at least control her acts. And
those acts should be based not on woman's weakness, but on man's
strength! CHAPTER VII--THE NEED OF KNOWING
When Stephen announced her intention of going with her father to the
Petty Sessions Court, there was consternation amongst the female
population of Normanstand and Norwood. Such a thing had not been heard
of in the experiences of any of them. Courts of Justice were places for
men; and the lower courts dealt with a class of cases . . . It was quite
impossible to imagine where any young lady could get such an idea . . . Miss Laetitia Rowly recognised that she had a difficult task before her,
for she was by now accustomed to Stephen's quiet method of having her own
way. She made a careful toilet before driving over to Normanstand. Her
wearing her best bonnet was a circumstance not unattended with dread for
some one. Behold her then, sailing into the great drawing-room at
Normanstand with her mind so firmly fixed on the task before her as to be
oblivious of minor considerations. She was so fond of Stephen, and
admired so truly her many beauties and fine qualities, that she was
secure and without flaw in her purpose. Stephen was in danger, and
though she doubted if she would be able to effect any change, she was
determined that at least she should not go into danger with her eyes
unopened. Stephen entered hastily and ran to her. She loved her great-aunt; really
and truly loved her. And indeed it would have been strange if she had
not, for from the earliest hour which she could recollect she had
received from her nothing but the truest, fondest affection. Moreover
she deeply respected the old lady, her truth, her resolution, her
kindliness, her genuine common-sense ability. Stephen always felt safe
with her aunt. In the presence of others she might now and again have a
qualm or a doubt; but not with her. There was an abiding calm in her
love, answering love realised and respected. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Her long and intimate
knowledge of Laetitia made her aware of her moods. She could read the
signs of them. She knew well the meaning of the bonnet which actually
seemed to quiver as though it had a sentience of its own. She knew well
the cause of her aunt's perturbation; the pain which must be caused to
her was perhaps the point of most resistance in herself--she having made
up her mind to her new experience. All she could do would be to try to
reconcile her by the assurance of good intention; by reason, and by
sweetness of manner. When she had kissed her and sat beside her, holding
her hand after her pretty way, she, seeing the elder woman somewhat at a
loss, opened the subject herself:
'You look troubled, auntie! I hope it is nothing serious?' 'It is, my dear! Very serious! Everything is serious to me which
touches you.' 'Me, Auntie!' Hypocrisy is a fine art. 'Yes! yes, Stephen. Oh! my dear child, what is this I hear about your
going to Petty Sessions with your father?' 'Oh, that! Why, Auntie dear, you must not let that trouble you. It is
all right. That is necessary!' 'Necessary!' the old lady's figure grew rigid and her voice was loud and
high. 'Necessary for a young lady to go to a court house. To hear low
people speaking of low crimes. To listen to cases of the most shocking
kind; cases of low immorality; cases of a kind, of a nature of a--a--class
that you are not supposed to know anything about. Really, Stephen! . . .
' She was drawing away her hand in indignation. But Stephen held it
tight, as she said very sweetly:
'That is just it, Auntie. I am so ignorant that I feel I should know
more of the lives of those very people!' Miss Laetitia interrupted:
'Ignorant! Of course you are ignorant. That is what you ought to be. Isn't it what we have all been devoting ourselves to effect ever since
you were born? Read your third chapter of Genesis and remember what came
of eating of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.' 'I think the Tree of Knowledge must have been an orange tree.' The old
lady looked up, her interest aroused:
'Why?' 'Because ever since Eden other brides have worn its blossom!' Her tone
was demure. Miss Rowly looked sharply at her, but her sharpness softened
off into a smile. 'H'm!' she said, and was silent. Stephen seized the opportunity to put
her own case:
'Auntie dear, you must forgive me! You really must, for my heart is set
on this. I assure you I am not doing it merely to please myself. I have
thought over the whole matter. Father has always wished me to be in a
position--a position of knowledge and experience--to manage Normanstand
if I should ever succeed him. From the earliest time I can remember he
has always kept this before me, and though of course I did not at first
understand what it meant, I have seemed in the last few years to know
better. Accordingly I learned all sorts of things under his care, and
sometimes even without his help. I have studied the estate map, and I
have been over the estate books and read some of the leases and all such
matters which they deal with in the estate office. This only told me the
bones of the thing. I wanted to know more of our people; and so I made a
point of going now and again to each house that we own. Of seeing the
people and talking with them familiarly; as familiarly as they would let
me, and indeed so far as was possible considering my position. For,
Auntie dear, I soon began to learn--to learn in a way there was no
mistaking--what my position is. And so I want to get to know more of
their ordinary lives; the darker as well as the lighter side. I would
like to do them good. I can see how my dear daddy has always been a sort
of power to help them, and I would like to carry on his work; to carry it
further if I may. But I must know.' Her aunt had been listening with growing interest, and with growing
respect too, for she realised the intense earnestness which lay behind
the girl's words and her immediate purpose. Her voice and manner were
both softened:
'But, my dear, surely it is not necessary to go into the Court to know
these things. The results of each case become known.' 'That is just it, Auntie,' she answered quickly. 'The magistrates have
to hear the two sides of the case before even they can make up their
minds. I want to hear both sides, too! If people are guilty, I want to
know the cause of their guilt. If they are innocent, I want to know what
the circumstances can be which make innocence look like guilt. In my own
daily life I may be in the way of just such judgments; and surely it is
only right that judgment should be just!' Again she paused; there rose before her mind that conversation in the
churchyard when Harold had said that it was difficult for women to be
just. Miss Rowly reflected too. She was becoming convinced that in principle
the girl was right. But the details were repugnant as ever to her;
concentrating her mind on the point where she felt the ground firm under
her, she made her objection:
'But, Stephen dear, there are so many cases that are sordid and painful!' 'The more need to know of sordid things; if sordidness plays so important
a part in the tragedy of their lives!' 'But there are cases which are not within a woman's province. Cases that
touch sin . . . ' 'What kind of sin do you mean? Surely all wrong-doing is sin!' The old
lady was embarrassed. Not by the fact, for she had been for too many
years the mistress of a great household not to know something of the
subject on which she spoke, but that she had to speak of such a matter to
the young girl whom she so loved. 'The sin, my dear, of . . . of woman's wrong-doing . . . as woman . . . of motherhood, without marriage!' All Stephen's nature seemed to rise in
revolt. 'Why, Auntie,' she spoke out at once, 'you yourself show the want of the
very experience I look for!' 'How? what?' asked the old lady amazed and bristling. Stephen took her
hand and held it affectionately as she spoke:
'You speak of a woman's wrong-doing, when surely it is a man's as well. There does not seem to be blame for him who is the more guilty. Only for
poor women! . . . And, Auntie dear, it is such poor women that I should
like to help . . . Not when it is too late, but before! But how can I
help unless I know? Good girls cannot tell me, and good women won't! You
yourself, Auntie, didn't want to speak on the subject; even to me!' 'But, my dear child, these are not things for unmarried women. I never
speak of them myself except with matrons.' Stephen's answer flashed out
like a sword; and cut like one:
'And yet you are unmarried! Oh, Auntie dear, I did not and I do not mean
to be offensive, or to hurt you in any way. I know, dear, your goodness
and your kindness to all. But you limit yourself to one side!' The
elder lady interrupted:
'How do you mean? one side! which side?' 'The punishment side. I want to know the cause of that which brings the
punishment. There surely is some cross road in a girl's life where the
ways part. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
I want to stand there if I can, with warning in one hand and
help in the other. Oh! Auntie, Auntie, can't you see that my heart is in
this . . . These are our people; Daddy says they are to be my people; and
I want to know their lives right through; to understand their wants, and
their temptations, and their weakness. Bad and good, whatever it be, I
must know it all; or I shall be working in the dark, and may injure or
crush where I had looked to help and raise.' As she spoke she looked glorified. The afternoon autumn sun shone full
through the great window and lighted her up till she looked like a
spirit. Lighted her white diaphanous dress till it seemed to take shape
as an ethereal robe; lighted her red hair till it looked like a celestial
crown; lighted her great dark eyes till their black beauty became swept
in the tide of glory. The heart of the old woman who loved her best heaved, and her bosom
swelled with pride. Instinctively she spoke:
'Oh, you noble, beautiful creature! Of course you are right, and your
way is God's way!' With tears that rained down her furrowed cheeks, she
put her arms round the girl and kissed her fondly. Still holding her in
her arms she gave her the gentle counsel which was the aftermath of her
moment of inspiration. 'But Stephen dear, do be careful! Knowledge is a two-edged sword, and it
is apt to side with pride. Remember what was the last temptation of the
serpent to Eve: "Your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods,
knowing good and evil."' 'I shall be very careful,' she said gravely; and then added as if by an
afterthought, 'of course you understand that my motive is the acquisition
of knowledge?' 'Yes?' the answer was given interrogatively. 'Don't you think, dear, that Eve's object was not so much the acquisition
of knowledge as the gratification of curiosity.' 'That may be,' said the elder lady in a doubtful tone; 'but my dear, who
is to enlighten us as to which is which? We are apt in such matters to
deceive ourselves. The more we know, the better are we able to deceive
others; and the better we are able to deceive others the better we are
able to deceive ourselves. As I tell you, dear, knowledge is two-edged
and needs extra carefulness in its use!' 'True!' said Stephen reflectively. Long after her aunt had gone she sat
thinking. * * * * *
Once again did Miss Rowly try to restrain Stephen from a project. This
was when a little later she wished to go for a few days to the University
Mission House in the East end of London. Ever since her visit to Oxford
she had kept up a correspondence with her mother's old friend. It was
this lady's habit to spend a part of vacation in the Mission; and Stephen
had had much correspondence with her regarding the work. At last she
wrote that if she might, she would like to come and see for herself. The
answer was a cordial invitation, armed with which she asked her father to
allow her to go. He at once assented. He had been watching keenly the
development of her character, and had seen with pride and satisfaction
that as time went on she seemed to acquire greater resolution, larger
self-dependence. She was becoming more and more of his ideal. Without
losing any of her womanhood, she was beginning to look at things more
from a man's point of view than is usually done by, or possible to,
women. When she returned at the end of a week she was full of new gravity. After
a while this so far changed that her old lighter moods began to have
their place, but it seemed that she never lost, and that she never would
lose, the effect of that week of bitter experience amongst the 'submerged
tenth.' The effect of the mental working was shown by a remark made by Harold
when home on his next college vacation. He had been entering with her on
a discussion of an episode on the estate:
'Stephen, you are learning to be just!' At the moment she was chagrined by the remark, though she accepted it in
silence; but later, when she had thought the matter over, she took from
it infinite pleasure. This was indeed to share man's ideas and to think
with the workings of man's mind. It encouraged her to further and larger
ideas, and to a greater toleration than she had hitherto dreamed of. Of all those who loved her, none seemed to understand so fully as
Laetitia Rowly the change in her mental attitude, or rather the
development of it. Now and again she tried to deflect or modify certain
coming forces, so that the educational process in which she had always
had a part would continue in the right direction. But she generally
found that the girl had been over the ground so thoroughly that she was
able to defend her position. Once, when she had ventured to remonstrate
with her regarding her attitude of woman's equality with man, she felt as
if Stephen's barque was indeed entering on dangerous seas. The occasion
had arisen thus: Stephen had been what her aunt had stigmatised as
'laying down the law' with regard to the position a married woman, and
Miss Rowly, seeing a good argumentative opening, remarked:
'But what if a woman does not get the opportunity of being married?' Stephen looked at her a moment before saying with conviction:
'It is a woman's fault if she does not get the opportunity!' The old
lady smiled as she answered:
'Her fault? My dear, what if no man asks her?' This seemed to her own
mind a poser. 'Still her own fault! Why doesn't she ask him?' Her aunt's lorgnon was
dropped in horrified amazement. Stephen went on impassively. 'Certainly! Why shouldn't she? Marriage is a union. As it is in the
eye of the law a civil contract, either party to it should be at liberty
to originate the matter. If a woman is not free to think of a man in all
ways, how is she to judge of the suitability of their union? And if she
is free in theory, why not free to undertake if necessary the initiative
in a matter so momentous to herself?' The old lady actually groaned and
wrung her hands; she was horrified at such sentiments. They were daring
enough to think; but to put them in words! . . . 'Oh, my dear, my dear!' she moaned, 'be careful what you say. Some one
might hear you who would not understand, as I do, that you are talking
theory.' Stephen's habit of thought stood to her here. She saw that her
aunt was distressed, and as she did not wish to pain her unduly, was
willing to divert the immediate channel of her fear. She took the hand
which lay in her lap and held it firmly whilst she smiled in the loving
old eyes. 'Of course, Auntie dear, it is theory. But still it is a theory which I
hold very strongly!' . . . Here a thought struck her and she said
suddenly:
'Did you ever . . . How many proposals did you have, Auntie?' The old
lady smiled; her thoughts were already diverted. 'Several, my dear! It is so long ago that I don't remember!' 'Oh yes, you do, Auntie! No woman ever forgets that, no matter what else
she may or may not remember! Tell me, won't you?' | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
The old lady blushed
slightly as she answered:
'There is no need to specify, my dear. Let it be at this, that there
were more than you could count on your right hand!' 'And why did you refuse them?' The tone was wheedling, and the elder
woman loved to hear it. Wheedling is the courtship, by the young of the
old. 'Because, my dear, I didn't love them.' 'But tell me, Auntie, was there never any one that you did love?' 'Ah! my dear, that is a different matter. That is the real tragedy of a
woman's life.' In flooding reminiscent thought she forgot her
remonstrating; her voice became full of natural pathos:
'To love; and be helpless! To wait, and wait, and wait; with your heart
all aflame! To hope, and hope; till time seems to have passed away, and
all the world to stand still on your hopeless misery! To know that a
word might open up Heaven; and yet to have to remain mute! To keep back
the glances that could enlighten; to modulate the tones that might
betray! To see all you hoped for passing away . . . to another! . . . ' Stephen bent over and kissed her, then standing up said:
'I understand! Isn't it wrong, Auntie, that there should be such
tragedies? Should not that glance be given? Why should that tone be
checked? Why should one be mute when a single word might, would, avert
the tragedy? Is it not possible, Auntie, that there is something wrong
in our social system when such things can happen; and can happen so
often?' She looked remorseless as well as irresistible in the pride of her
youthful strength as with eyes that blazed, not flashing as in passion
but with a steady light that seemed to burn, she continued:
'Some day women must learn their own strength, as well as they have
learned their own weakness. They are taught this latter from their
cradles up; but no one ever seems to teach them wherein their power lies. They have to learn this for themselves; and the process and the result of
the self-teaching are not good. In the University Settlement I learned
much that made my heart ache; but out of it there seemed some lesson for
good.' She paused; and her aunt, wishing to keep the subject towards
higher things, asked:
'And that lesson, Stephen dear?' The blazing eyes turned to her so that
she was stirred by them as the answer came:
'It is bad women who seem to know men best, and to be able to influence
them most. They can make men come and go at will. They can turn and
twist and mould them as they choose. And _they_ never hesitate to speak
their own wishes; to ask for what they want. There are no tragedies, of
the negative kind, in _their_ lives. Their tragedies have come and gone
already; and their power remains. Why should good women leave power to
such as they? Why should good women's lives be wrecked for a convention? Why in the blind following of some society fetish should life lose its
charm, its possibilities? Why should love eat its heart out, in vain? The time will come when women will not be afraid to speak to men, as they
should speak, as free and equal. Surely if a woman is to be the equal
and lifelong companion of a man, the closest to him--nay, the only one
really close to him: the mother of his children--she should be free at
the very outset to show her inclination to him just as he would to her. Don't be frightened, Auntie dear; your eyes are paining me! . . . There! perhaps I said too much. But after all it is only theory. Take for your
comfort, Auntie dear, that I am free an heart-whole. You need not fear
for me; I can see what your dear eyes tell me. Yes! I am very young;
perhaps too young to think such things. But I have thought of them. Thought them all over in every way and phase I can imagine.' She stopped suddenly; bending over, she took the old lady in her arms and
kissed her fondly several times, holding her tight. Then, as suddenly
releasing her, she ran away before she could say a word. CHAPTER VIII--THE T-CART
When Harold took his degree, Stephen's father took her to Cambridge. She
enjoyed the trip very much; indeed, it seemed under conditions that were
absolutely happy. When they had returned to Normanstand, the Squire took an early
opportunity of bringing Harold alone into his study. He spoke to him
with what in a very young man would have seemed diffidence:
'I have been thinking, Harold, that the time has come when you should be
altogether your own master. I am more than pleased, my boy, with the way
you have gone through college; it is, I am sure, just as your dear father
would have wished it, and as it would have pleased him best.' He paused,
and Harold said in a low voice:
'I tried hard, sir, to do what I thought he would like; and what you
would.' The Squire went on more cheerfully:
'I know that, my boy! I know that well. And I can tell you that it is
not the least of the pleasures we have all had in your success, how you
have justified yourself. You have won many honours in the schools, and
you have kept the reputation as an athlete which your father was so proud
of. Well, I suppose in the natural order of things you would go into a
profession; and of course if you so desire you can do that. But if you
can see your way to it I would rather that you stayed here. My house is
your home as long as I live; but I don't wish you to feel in any way
dependent. I want you to stay here if you will; but to do it just
because you wish to. To this end I have made over to you the estate at
Camp which was my father's gift to me when I came of age. It is not a
very large one; but it will give you a nice position of your own, and a
comfortable income. And with it goes my blessing, my dear boy. Take it
as a gift from your father and myself!' Harold was much moved, not only by the act itself but by the gracious way
of doing it. There were tears in his eyes as he wrung the Squire's hand;
his voice thrilled with feeling as he said:
'Your many goodnesses to my father's son, sir, will, I hope, be justified
by his love and loyalty. If I don't say much it is because I do not feel
quite master of myself. I shall try to show in time, as I cannot say it
all at once, all that I feel.' Harold continued to live at Normanstand. The house at Camp was in
reality a charming cottage. A couple of servants were installed, and now
and again he stayed there for a few days as he wished to get accustomed
to the place. In a couple of months every one accepted the order of
things; and life at Normanstand went on much as it had done before Harold
had gone to college. There was a man in the house now instead of a boy:
that was all. Stephen too was beginning to be a young woman, but the
relative positions were the same as they had been. Her growth did not
seem to make an ostensible difference to any one. The one who might have
noticed it most, Mrs. Jarrold, had died during the last year of Harold's
life at college. When the day came for the quarterly meeting of the magistrates of the
county of Norcester, Squire Rowly arranged as usual to drive Squire
Norman. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
This had been their habit for good many years. The two men
usually liked to talk over the meeting as they returned home together. It
was a beautiful morning for a drive, and when Rowly came flying up the
avenue in his T-cart with three magnificent bays, Stephen ran out on the
top of the steps to see him draw up. Rowly was a fine whip, and his
horses felt it. Squire Norman was ready, and, after a kiss from Stephen,
climbed into the high cart. The men raised their hats and waved good-
bye. A word from Rowly; with a bound the horses were off. Stephen stood
looking at them delighted; all was so sunny, so bright, so happy. The
world was so full of life and happiness to-day that it seemed as if it
would never end; that nothing except good could befall. Harold, later on that morning, was to go into Norcester also; so Stephen
with a lonely day before her set herself to take up loose-ends of all
sorts of little personal matters. They would all meet at dinner as Rowly
was to stop the night at Normanstand. Harold left the club in good time to ride home to dinner. As he passed
the County Hotel he stopped to ask if Squire Norman had left; and was
told that he had started only a short time before with Squire Rowly in
his T-cart. He rode on fast, thinking that perhaps he might overtake
them and ride on with them. But the bays knew their work, and did it. They kept their start; it was only at the top of the North hill, five
miles out of Norcester, that he saw them in the distance, flying along
the level road. He knew he would not now overtake them, and so rode on
somewhat more leisurely. The Norcester highroad, when it has passed the village of Brackling,
turns away to the right behind the great clump of oaks. From this the
road twists to the left again, making a double curve, and then runs to
Norling Parva in a clear stretch of some miles before reaching the sharp
turn down the hill which is marked 'Dangerous to Cyclists.' From the
latter village branches the by-road over the hill which is the short cut
to Normanstand. When Harold turned the corner under the shadow of the oaks he saw a
belated road-mender, surrounded by some gaping peasants, pointing
excitedly in the distance. The man, who of course knew him, called to
him to stop. 'What is it?' he asked, reining up. 'It be Squire Rowly's bays which have run away with him. Three on 'em,
all in a row and comin' like the wind. Squire he had his reins all
right, but they 'osses didn't seem to mind 'un. They was fair mad and
bolted. The leader he had got frightened at the heap o' stones theer,
an' the others took scare from him.' Without a word Harold shook his reins and touched the horse with his
whip. The animal seemed to understand and sprang forward, covering the
ground at a terrific pace. Harold was not given to alarms, but here
might be serious danger. Three spirited horses in a light cart made for
pace, all bolting in fright, might end any moment in calamity. Never in
his life did he ride faster than on the road to Norling Parva. Far ahead
of him he could see at the turn, now and again, a figure running. Something had happened. His heart grew cold: he knew as well as though
he had seen it, the high cart swaying on one wheel round the corner as
the maddened horses tore on their way; the one jerk too much, and the
momentary reaction in the crash! . . . With beating heart and eyes aflame in his white face he dashed on. It was all too true. By the side of the roadway on the inner curve lay
the cart on its side with broken shafts. The horses were prancing and
stamping about along the roadway not recovered from their fright. Each
was held by several men. And on the grass two figures were still lying where they had been thrown
out. Rowly, who had of course been on the off-side, had been thrown
furthest. His head had struck the milestone that stood back on the waste
ground before the ditch. There was no need for any one to tell that his
neck had been broken. The way his head lay on one side, and the twisted,
inert limbs, all told their story plainly enough. Squire Norman lay on his back stretched out. Some one had raised him to
a sitting posture and then lowered him again, straightening his limbs. He
did not therefore look so dreadful as Rowly, but there were signs of
coming death in the stertorous breathing, the ooze of blood from nostrils
and ears as well as mouth. Harold knelt down by him at once and examined
him. Those who were round all knew him and stood back. He felt the ribs
and limbs; so far as he could ascertain by touch no bone was broken. Just then the local doctor, for whom some one had run, arrived in his
gig. He, too, knelt beside the injured man, a quick glance having
satisfied him that there was only one patient requiring his care. Harold
stood up and waited. The doctor looked up, shaking his head. Harold
could hardly suppress the groan which was rising in his throat. He
asked:
'Is it immediate? Should his daughter be brought here?' 'How long would it take her to arrive?' 'Perhaps half an hour; she would not lose an instant.' 'Then you had better send for her.' 'I shall go at once!' answered Harold, turning to jump on his horse,
which was held on the road. 'No, no!' said the doctor, 'send some one else. You had better stay here
yourself. He may become conscious just before the end; and he may want
to say something!' It seemed to Harold that a great bell was sounding in
his ears.--'Before the end! Good God! Poor Stephen!' . . . But this was
no time for sorrow, or for thinking of it. That would come later. All
that was possible must be done; and to do it required a cool head. He
called to one of the lads he knew could ride and said to him:
'Get on my horse and ride as fast as you can to Normanstand. Send at
once to Miss Norman and tell her that she is wanted instantly. Tell her
that there has been an accident; that her father is alive, but that she
must come at once without a moment's delay. She had better ride my horse
back as it will save time. She will understand from that the importance
of time. Quick!' The lad sprang to the saddle, and was off in a flash. Whilst Harold was
speaking, the doctor had told the men, who, accustomed to hunting
accidents, had taken a gate from its hinges and held it in readiness, to
bring it closer. Then under his direction the Squire was placed on the
gate. The nearest house was only about a hundred yards away; and thither
they bore him. He was lifted on a bed, and then the doctor made fuller
examination. When he stood up he looked very grave and said to Harold:
'I greatly fear she cannot arrive in time. That bleeding from the ears
means rupture of the brain. It is relieving the pressure, however, and
he may recover consciousness before he dies. You had better be close to
him. There is at present nothing that can be done. If he becomes
conscious at all it will be suddenly. He will relapse and probably die
as quickly.' | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
All at once Norman opened his eyes, and seeing him said quietly, as he
looked around:
'What place is this, Harold?' 'Martin's--James Martin's, sir. You were brought here after the
accident.' 'Yes, I remember! Am I badly hurt? I can feel nothing!' 'I fear so, sir! I have sent for Stephen.' 'Sent for Stephen! Am I about to die?' His voice, though feeble, was
grave and even. 'Alas! sir, I fear so!' He sank on his knees as he spoke and took him,
his second father, in his arms. 'Is it close?' 'Yes.' 'Then listen to me! If I don't see Stephen, give her my love and
blessing! Say that with my last breath I prayed God to keep her and make
her happy! You will tell her this?' 'I will! I will!' He could hardly speak for the emotion which was
choking him. Then the voice went on, but slower and weaker:
'And Harold, my dear boy, you will look after her, will you not? Guard
her and cherish her, as if you were indeed my son and she your sister!' 'I will. So help me God!' There was a pause of a few seconds which
seemed an interminable time. Then in a feebler voice Squire Norman spoke
again:
'And Harold--bend down--I must whisper! If it should be that in time you
and Stephen should find that there is another affection between you,
remember that I sanction it--with my dying breath. But give her time! I
trust that to you! She is young, and the world is all before her. Let
her choose . . . and be loyal to her if it is another! It may be a hard
task, but I trust you, Harold. God bless you, my other son!' He rose
slightly and listened. Harold's heart leaped. The swift hoof-strokes of
a galloping horse were heard . . . The father spoke joyously:
'There she is! That is my brave girl! God grant that she may be in
time. I know what it will mean to her hereafter!' The horse stopped suddenly. A quick patter of feet along the passage and then Stephen half dressed
with a peignoir thrown over her, swept into the room. With the soft
agility of a leopard she threw herself on her knees beside her father and
put her arms round him. The dying man motioned to Harold to raise him. When this had been done he laid his hand tenderly on his daughter's head,
saying:
'Let now, O Lord, Thy servant depart in peace! God bless and keep you,
my dear child! You have been all your life a joy and a delight to me! I
shall tell your mother when I meet her all that you have been to me! Harold, be good to her! Good-bye--Stephen! . . . Margaret! . . . ' His head fell over, and Harold, laying him gently down, knelt beside
Stephen. He put his arm round her; and she, turning to him, laid her
hand on his breast and sobbed as though her heart would break. * * * * *
The bodies of the two squires were brought to Normanstand. Rowly had
long ago said that if he died unmarried he would like to lie beside his
half-sister, and that it was fitting that, as Stephen would be the new
Squire of Norwood, her dust should in time lie by his. When the terrible
news of her nephew's and of Norman's death came to Norwood, Miss Laetitia
hurried off to Normanstand as fast as the horses could bring her. Her coming was an inexpressible comfort to Stephen. After the first
overwhelming burst of grief she had settled into an acute despair. Of
course she had been helped by the fact that Harold had been with her, and
she was grateful for that too. But it did not live in her memory of
gratitude in the same way. Of course Harold was with her in trouble! He
had always been; would always be. But the comfort which Aunt Laetitia could give was of a more positive
kind. From that hour Miss Rowly stayed at Normanstand. Stephen wanted her; and
she wanted to be with Stephen. After the funeral Harold, with an instinctive delicacy of feeling, had
gone to live in his own house; but he came to Normanstand every day. Stephen had so long been accustomed to consulting him about everything
that there was no perceptible change in their relations. Even necessary
business to be done did not come as a new thing. And so things went on outwardly at Normanstand very much as they had done
before the coming of the tragedy. But for a long time Stephen had
occasional bursts of grief which to witness was positive anguish to those
who loved her. Then her duty towards her neighbours became a sort of passion. She did
not spare herself by day or by night. With swift intuition she grasped
the needs of any ill case which came before her, and with swift movement
she took the remedy in hand. Her aunt saw and approved. Stephen, she felt, was in this way truly
fulfilling her duty as a woman. The old lady began to secretly hope, and
almost to believe, that she had laid aside those theories whose carrying
into action she so dreaded. But theories do not die so easily. It is from theory that practice takes
its real strength, as well as its direction. And did the older woman
whose life had been bound under more orderly restraint but know, Stephen
was following out her theories, remorselessly and to the end. CHAPTER IX--IN THE SPRING
The months since her father's death spread into the second year before
Stephen began to realise the loneliness of her life. She had no
companion now but her aunt; and though the old lady adored her, and she
returned her love in full, the mere years between them made impossible
the companionship that youth craves. Miss Rowly's life was in the past. Stephen's was in the future. And loneliness is a feeling which comes
unbidden to a heart. Stephen felt her loneliness all round. In old days Harold was always
within hail, and companionship of equal age and understanding was
available. But now his very reticence in her own interest, and by her
father's wishes, made for her pain. Harold had put his strongest
restraint on himself, and in his own way suffered a sort of silent
martyrdom. He loved Stephen with every fibre of his being. Day by day
he came toward her with eager step; day by day he left her with a pang
that made his heart ache and seemed to turn the brightness of the day to
gloom. Night by night he tossed for hours thinking, thinking, wondering
if the time would ever come when her kisses would be his . . . But the
tortures and terrors of the night had their effect on his days. It
seemed as if the mere act of thinking, of longing, gave him ever renewed
self-control, so that he was able in his bearing to carry out the task he
had undertaken: to give Stephen time to choose a mate for herself. Herein
lay his weakness--a weakness coming from his want of knowledge of the
world of women. Had he ever had a love affair, be it never so mild a
one, he would have known that love requires a positive expression. It is
not sufficient to sigh, and wish, and hope, and long, all to oneself. Stephen felt instinctively that his guarded speech and manner were due to
the coldness--or rather the trusting abated worship--of the brotherhood
to which she had been always accustomed. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
At the time when new forces
were manifesting and expanding themselves within her; when her growing
instincts, cultivated by the senses and the passions of young nature,
made her aware of other forces, new and old, expanding themselves outside
her; at the time when the heart of a girl is eager for new impressions
and new expansions, and the calls of sex are working within her all
unconsciously, Harold, to whom her heart would probably have been the
first to turn, made himself in his effort to best show his love, a
_quantite negligeable_. Thus Stephen, whilst feeling that the vague desires of budding womanhood
were trembling within her, had neither thought nor knowledge of their
character or their ultimate tendency. She would have been shocked,
horrified, had that logical process, which she applied so freely to less
personal matters, been used upon her own intimate nature. In her case
logic would of course act within a certain range; and as logic is a
conscious intellectual process, she became aware that her objective was
man. Man--in the abstract. 'Man,' not 'a man.' Beyond that, she could
not go. It is not too much to say that she did not ever, even in her
most errant thought, apply her reasoning, or even dream of its following
out either the duties, the responsibilities, or the consequences of
having a husband. She had a vague longing for younger companionship, and
of the kind naturally most interesting to her. There thought stopped. One only of her male acquaintances did not at this time appear. Leonard
Everard, who had some time ago finished his course at college, was living
partly in London and partly on the Continent. His very absence made him
of added interest to his old play-fellow. The image of his grace and
comeliness, of his dominance and masculine force, early impressed on her
mind, began to compare favourably with the actualities of her other
friends; those of them at least who were within the circle of her
personal interest. 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder.' In Stephen's
mind had been but a very mustard-seed of fondness. But new lights were
breaking for her; and all of them, in greater or lesser degree, shone in
turn on the memory of the pretty self-willed dominant boy, who now grew
larger and more masculine in stature under the instance of each
successive light. Stephen knew the others fairly well through and
through. The usual mixture of good and evil, of strength and weakness,
of purpose and vacillation, was quite within the scope of her own feeling
and of her observation. But this man was something of a problem to her;
and, as such, had a prominence in her thoughts quite beyond his own
worthiness. In movement of some form is life; and even ideas grow when the pulses
beat and thought quickens. Stephen had long had in her mind the idea of
sexual equality. For a long time, in deference to her aunt's feelings,
she had not spoken of it; for the old lady winced in general under any
suggestion of a breach of convention. But though her outward expression
being thus curbed had helped to suppress or minimise the opportunities of
inward thought, the idea had never left her. Now, when sex was,
consciously or unconsciously, a dominating factor in her thoughts, the
dormant idea woke to new life. She had held that if men and women were
equal the woman should have equal rights and opportunities as the man. It
had been, she believed, an absurd conventional rule that such a thing as
a proposal of marriage should be entirely the prerogative of man. And then came to her, as it ever does to woman, opportunity. Opportunity,
the cruelest, most remorseless, most unsparing, subtlest foe that
womanhood has. Here was an opportunity for her to test her own theory;
to prove to herself, and others, that she was right. They--'they' being
the impersonal opponents of, or unbelievers in, her theory--would see
that a woman could propose as well as a man; and that the result would be
good. It is a part of self-satisfaction, and perhaps not the least dangerous
part of it, that it has an increasing or multiplying power of its own. The desire to do increases the power to do; and desire and power united
find new ways for the exercise of strength. Up to now Stephen's
inclination towards Leonard had been vague, nebulous; but now that theory
showed a way to its utilisation it forthwith began to become, first
definite, then concrete, then substantial. When once the idea had become
a possibility, the mere passing of time did the rest. Her aunt saw--and misunderstood. The lesson of her own youth had not
been applied; not even of those long hours and days and weeks at which
she hinted when she had spoken of the tragedy of life which by inference
was her own tragedy: 'to love and to be helpless. To wait, and wait, and
wait, with your heart all aflame!' Stephen recognised her aunt's concern for her health in time to protect
herself from the curiosity of her loving-kindness. Her youth and
readiness and adaptability, and that power of play-acting which we all
have within us and of which she had her share, stood to her. With but
little effort, based on a seeming acquiescence in her aunt's views, she
succeeded in convincing the old lady that her incipient feverish cold had
already reached its crisis and was passing away. But she had gained
certain knowledge in the playing of her little part. All this
self-protective instinct was new; for good or ill she had advanced one
more step in not only the knowledge but the power of duplicity which is
so necessary in the conventional life of a woman. Oh! did we but see! Could we but see! Here was a woman, dowered in her
youth with all the goods and graces in the power of the gods to bestow,
who fought against convention; and who yet found in convention the
strongest as well as the readiest weapon of defence. For nearly two weeks Stephen's resolution was held motionless, neither
advancing nor receding; it was veritably the slack water of her
resolution. She was afraid to go on. Not afraid in sense of fear as it
is usually understood, but with the opposition of virginal instincts;
those instincts which are natural, but whose uses as well as whose powers
are unknown to us. CHAPTER X--THE RESOLVE
The next few days saw Stephen abnormally restless. She had fairly well
made up her mind to test her theory of equality of the sexes by asking
Leonard Everard to marry her; but her difficulty was as to the doing it. She knew well that it would not do to depend on a chance meeting for an
opportunity. After all, the matter was too serious to allow of the
possibility of levity. There were times when she thought she would write
to him and make her proffer of affection in this way; but on every
occasion when such thought recurred it was forthwith instantly abandoned. During the last few days, however, she became more reconciled to even
this method of procedure. The fever of growth was unabated. At last
came an evening which she had all to herself. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Miss Laetitia was going
over to Norwood to look after matters there, and would remain the night. Stephen saw in her absence an opportunity for thought and action, and
said that, having a headache, she would remain at home. Her aunt offered
to postpone her visit. But she would not hear of it; and so she had the
evening to herself. After dinner in her boudoir she set herself to the composition of a
letter to Leonard which would convey at least something of her feelings
and wishes towards him. In the depths of her heart, which now and again
beat furiously, she had a secret hope that when once the idea was
broached Leonard would do the rest. And as she thought of that 'rest' a
languorous dreaminess came upon her. She thought how he would come to
her full of love, of yearning passion; how she would try to keep towards
him, at first, an independent front which would preserve her secret
anxiety until the time should come when she might yield herself to his
arms and tell him all. For hours she wrote letter after letter,
destroying them as quickly as she wrote, as she found that she had but
swayed pendulum fashion between overtness and coldness. Some of the
letters were so chilly in tone that she felt they would defeat their own
object. Others were so frankly warm in the expression of--regard she
called it, that with burning blushes she destroyed them at once at the
candle before her. At last she made up her mind. Just as she had done when a baby she
realised that the opposing forces were too strong for her; she gave in
gracefully. It would not do to deal directly in a letter with the matter
in hand. She would write to Leonard merely asking him to see her. Then,
when they were together without fear of interruption, she would tell him
her views. She got as far as 'Dear Mr. Leonard,' when she stood up, saying to
herself:
'I shall not be in a hurry. I must sleep on it before I write!' She
took up the novel she had been reading in the afternoon, and read on at
it steadily till her bedtime. That night she did not sleep. It was not that she was agitated. Indeed,
she was more at ease than she had been for days; she had after much
anxious thought made up her mind to a definite course of action. Therefore her sleeplessness was not painful. It was rather that she did
not want to sleep, than that she could not. She lay still, thinking,
thinking; dreaming such dreams as are the occasions of sanctified privacy
to her age and sex. In the morning she was no worse for her vigil. When at luncheon-time
Aunt Laetitia had returned she went into all the little matters of which
she had to report. It was after tea-time when she found herself alone,
and with leisure to attend to what was, she felt, directly her own
affair. During the night she had made up her mind exactly what to say to
Leonard; and as her specific resolution bore the test of daylight she was
satisfied. The opening words had in their inception caused her some
concern; but after hours of thought she had come to the conclusion that
to address, under the circumstance, the recipient of the letter as 'Dear
Mr. Everard' would hardly do. The only possible justification of her
unconventional act was that there existed already a friendship, an
intimacy of years, since childhood; that there were already between them
knowledge and understanding of each other; that what she was doing, and
about to do, was but a further step in a series of events long ago
undertaken. She thought it better to send by post rather than messenger, as the
latter did away with all privacy with regard to the act. The letter was as follows:
'DEAR LEONARD,--Would it be convenient for you to meet me to-morrow,
Tuesday, at half-past twelve o'clock on the top of Caester Hill? I
want to speak about a matter that may have some interest to you, and
it will be more private there than in the house. Also it will be
cooler in the shade on the hilltop.--
Yours sincerely, STEPHEN NORMAN.' Having posted the letter she went about the usual routine of her life at
Normanstand, and no occasion of suspicion or remark regarding her came to
her aunt. In her room that night when she had sent away her maid, she sat down to
think, and all the misgivings of the day came back. One by one they were
conquered by one protective argument:
'I am free to do as I like. I am my own mistress; and I am doing nothing
that is wrong. Even if it is unconventional, what of that? God knows
there are enough conventions in the world that are wrong, hopelessly,
unalterably wrong. After all, who are the people who are most bound by
convention? Those who call themselves "smart!" If Convention is the god
of the smart set, then it is about time that honest people chose
another!' * * * * *
Leonard received the letter at breakfast-time. He did not give it any
special attention, as he had other letters at the same time, some of
which were, if less pleasant, of more immediate importance. He had of
late been bombarded with dunning letters from tradesmen; for during his
University life, and ever since, he had run into debt. The moderate
allowance his father made him he had treated as cash for incidental
expenses, but everything else had been on credit. Indeed he was
beginning to get seriously alarmed about the future, for his father, who
had paid his debts once, and at a time when they were by comparison
inconsiderable, had said that he would not under any circumstances pay
others. He was not sorry, therefore, for an opportunity of getting away
for a few hours from home; from himself--from anxieties, possibilities. The morning was a sweltering one, and he grumbled to himself as he set
out on his journey through the woods. * * * * *
Stephen rose fresh and in good spirits, despite her sleepless night. When
youth and strength are to the fore, a night's sleep is not of much
account, for the system once braced up is not allowed to slacken. It was
a notable sign of her strong nature that she was not even impatient, but
waited with calm fixity the hour at which she had asked Leonard Everard
to meet her. It is true that as the time grew closer her nerve was less
marked. And just before it she was a girl--and nothing more; with all
girl's diffidence, a girl's self-distrust, a girl's abnegation, a girl's
plasticity. In the more purely personal aspect of her enterprise Stephen's effort was
more conscious. It is hardly possible for a pretty woman to seek in her
study of perfection the aid of her mirror and to be unconscious of her
aims. There must certainly be at least one dominant purpose: the
achievement of success. Stephen did not attempt to deny her own beauty;
on the contrary she gave it the fullest scope. There was a certain
triumph in her glance as she took her last look in her mirror; a
gratification of her wish to show herself in the best way possible. It
was a very charming picture which the mirror reflected. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
It may be that there is a companionship in a mirror, especially to a
woman; that the reflection of oneself is an emboldening presence, a
personality which is better than the actuality of an unvalued stranger. Certainly, when Stephen closed the door and stood in the wainscoted
passage, which was only dimly lit by the high window at either end, her
courage seemed at once to ooze away. Probably for the first time in her life, as she left the shade of the
long passage and came out on the staircase flooded with the light of the
noonday sun, Stephen felt that she was a girl--'girl' standing as some
sort of synonym for weakness, pretended or actual. Fear, in whatever
form or degree it may come, is a vital quality and must move. It cannot
stand at a fixed point; if it be not sent backward it must progress. Stephen felt this, and, though her whole nature was repugnant to the
task, forced herself to the effort of repression. It would, she felt,
have been to her a delicious pleasure to have abandoned all effort; to
have sunk in the lassitude of self-surrender. The woman in her was working; her sex had found her out! She turned and looked around her, as though conscious of being watched. Then, seeing that she was alone, she went her way with settled purpose;
with flashing eyes and glowing cheeks--and a beating heart. A heart all
woman's since it throbbed the most with apprehension when the enemy, Man,
was the objective of her most resolute attack. She knew that she must
keep moving; that she must not stop or pause; or her whole resolution
must collapse. And so she hurried on, fearful lest a chance meeting with
any one might imperil her purpose. On she went through the faint moss-green paths; through meadows rich with
flowering grasses and the many reds of the summer wild-flowers. And so
up through the path cut in the natural dipping of the rock that rose over
Caester Hill and formed a strong base for the clump of great trees that
made a landmark for many a mile around. During the first part of her
journey between the house and the hilltop, she tried to hold her purpose
at arm's length; it would be sufficient to face its terrors when the time
had come. In the meantime the matter was of such overwhelming importance
that nothing else could take its place; all she could do was to suspend
the active part of the thinking faculties and leave the mind only
receptive. But when she had passed through the thin belt of stunted oak and beech
which hedged in the last of the lush meadows, and caught sight of the
clump of trees on the hilltop, she unconsciously braced herself as a
young regiment loses its tremors when the sight of the enemy breaks upon
it. No longer her eyes fell earthward; they were raised, and raised
proudly. Stephen Norman was fixed in her intention. Like the woman of
old, her feet were on the ploughshares and she would not hesitate. As she drew near the appointed place her pace grew slower and slower; the
woman in her was unconsciously manifesting itself. She would not be
first in her tryst with a man. Unconsciousness, however, is not a
working quality which can be relied upon for staying power; the approach
to the trysting-place brought once more home to her the strange nature of
her enterprise. She had made up her mind to it; there was no use in
deceiving herself. What she had undertaken to do was much more
unconventional than being first at a meeting. It was foolish and weak to
delay. The last thought braced her up; and it was with a hurried gait,
which alone would have betrayed her to an intelligent observer, that she
entered the grove. CHAPTER XI--THE MEETING
Had Stephen been better acquainted with men and women, she would have
been more satisfied with herself for being the first at the tryst. The
conventional idea, in the minds of most women and of all men, is that a
woman should never be the first. But real women, those in whom the heart
beats strong, and whose blood can leap, know better. These are the
commanders of men. In them sex calls to sex, all unconsciously at first;
and men answer to their call, as they to men's. Two opposite feelings strove for dominance as Stephen found herself on
the hilltop, alone. One a feeling natural enough to any one, and
especially to a girl, of relief that a dreaded hour had been postponed;
the other of chagrin that she was the first. After a few moments, however, one of the two militant thoughts became
dominant: the feeling of chagrin. With a pang she thought if she had
been a man and summoned for such a purpose, how she would have hurried to
the trysting-place; how the flying of her feet would have vied with the
quick rapturous beating of her heart! With a little sigh and a blush,
she remembered that Leonard did not know the purpose of the meeting; that
he was a friend almost brought up with her since boy and girl times; that
he had often been summoned in similar terms and for the most trivial of
social purposes. For nearly half an hour Stephen sat on the rustic seat under the shadow
of the great oak, looking, half unconscious of its beauty and yet
influenced by it, over the wide landscape stretched at her feet. In spite of her disregard of conventions, she was no fool; the instinct
of wisdom was strong within her, so strong that in many ways it ruled her
conscious efforts. Had any one told her that her preparations for this
interview were made deliberately with some of the astuteness that
dominated the Devil when he took Jesus to the top of a high mountain and
showed him all the kingdoms of the earth at His feet, she would have, and
with truth, denied it with indignation. Nevertheless it was a fact that
she had, in all unconsciousness, chosen for the meeting a spot which
would evidence to a man, consciously or unconsciously, the desirability
for his own sake of acquiescence in her views and wishes. For all this
spreading landscape was her possession, which her husband would share. As
far as the eye could reach was within the estate which she had inherited
from her father and her uncle. The half-hour passed in waiting had in one way its advantages to the
girl: though she was still as high strung as ever, she acquired a larger
measure of control over herself. The nervous tension, however, was so
complete physically that all her faculties were acutely awake; very early
she became conscious of a distant footstep. To Stephen's straining ears the footsteps seemed wondrous slow, and more
wondrous regular; she felt instinctively that she would have liked to
have listened to a more hurried succession of less evenly-marked sounds. But notwithstanding these thoughts, and the qualms which came in their
turn, the sound of the coming feet brought great joy. For, after all,
they were coming; and coming just in time to prevent the sense of
disappointment at their delay gaining firm foothold. It was only when
the coming was assured that she felt how strong had been the undercurrent
of her apprehension lest they should not come at all. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Very sweet and tender and beautiful Stephen looked at this moment. The
strong lines of her face were softened by the dark fire in her eyes and
the feeling which glowed in the deep blushes which mantled her cheeks. The proudness of her bearing was no less marked than ever, but in the
willowy sway of her body there was a yielding of mere sorry pride. In
all the many moods which the gods allow to good women there is none so
dear or so alluring, consciously as well as instinctively, to true men as
this self-surrender. As Leonard drew near, Stephen sank softly into a
seat, doing so with a guilty feeling of acting a part. When he actually
came into the grove he found her seemingly lost in a reverie as she gazed
out over the wide expanse in front of her. He was hot after his walk,
and with something very like petulance threw himself into a cane
armchair, exclaiming as he did so with the easy insolence of old
familiarity:
'What a girl you are, Stephen! dragging a fellow all the way up here. Couldn't you have fixed it down below somewhere if you wanted to see me?' Strangely enough, as it seemed to her, Stephen did not dislike his tone
of mastery. There was something in it which satisfied her. The
unconscious recognition of his manhood, as opposed to her womanhood,
soothed her in a peaceful way. It was easy to yield to a dominant man. She was never more womanly than when she answered him softly:
'It was rather unfair; but I thought you would not mind coming so far. It
is so cool and delightful here; and we can talk without being disturbed.' Leonard was lying back in his chair fanning himself with his wide-brimmed
straw hat, with outstretched legs wide apart and resting on the back of
his heels. He replied with grudging condescension:
'Yes, it's cool enough after the hot tramp over the fields and through
the wood. It's not so good as the house, though, in one way: a man can't
get a drink here. I say, Stephen, it wouldn't be half bad if there were
a shanty put up here like those at the Grands Mulets or on the
Matterhorn. There could be a tap laid on where a fellow could quench his
thirst on a day like this!' Before Stephen's eyes floated a momentary vision of a romantic chalet
with wide verandah and big windows looking over the landscape; a great
wide stone hearth; quaint furniture made from the gnarled branches of
trees; skins on the floor; and the walls adorned with antlers, great
horns, and various trophies of the chase. And amongst them Leonard, in a
picturesque suit, lolling back just as at present and smiling with a
loving look in his eyes as she handed him a great blue-and-white Munich
beer mug topped with cool foam. There was a soft mystery in her voice as
she answered:
'Perhaps, Leonard, there will some day be such a place here!' He seemed
to grumble as he replied:
'I wish it was here now. Some day seems a long way off!' This seemed a good opening for Stephen; for the fear of the situation was
again beginning to assail her, and she felt that if she did not enter on
her task at once, its difficulty might overwhelm her. She felt angry
with herself that there was a change in her voice as she said:
'Some day may mean--can mean everything. Things needn't be a longer way
off than we choose ourselves, sometimes!' 'I say, that's a good one! Do you mean to say that because I am some day
to own Brindehow I can do as I like with it at once, whilst the
governor's all there, and a better life than I am any day? Unless you
want me to shoot the old man by accident when we go out on the First.' He
laughed a short, unmeaning masculine laugh which jarred somewhat on her. She did not, however, mean to be diverted from her main purpose, so she
went on quickly:
'You know quite well, Leonard, that I don't mean anything of the kind. But there was something I wanted to say to you, and I wished that we
should be alone. Can you not guess what it is?' 'No, I'll be hanged if I can!' was his response, lazily given. Despite her resolution she turned her head; she could not meet his eyes. It cut her with a sharp pain to notice when she turned again that he was
not looking at her. He continued fanning himself with his hat as he
gazed out at the view. She felt that the critical moment of her life had
come, that it was now or never as to her fulfilling her settled
intention. So with a rush she went on her way:
'Leonard, you and I have been friends a long time. You know my views on
some points, and that I think a woman should be as free to act as a man!' She paused; words and ideas did not seem to flow with the readiness she
expected. Leonard's arrogant assurance completed the dragging her back
to earth which her own self-consciousness began:
'Drive on, old girl! I know you're a crank from Crankville on some
subjects. Let us have it for all you're worth. I'm on the grass and
listening.' Stephen paused. 'A crank from Crankville!' --this after her nights of
sleepless anxiety; after the making of the resolution which had cost her
so much, and which was now actually in process of realisation. Was it
all worth so much? why not abandon it now? . . . Abandon it! Abandon a
resolution! All the obstinacy of her nature--she classed it herself as
firmness--rose in revolt. She shook her head angrily, pulled herself
together, and went on:
'That may be! though it's not what I call myself, or what I am usually
called, so far as I know. At any rate my convictions are honest, and I
am sure you will respect them as such, even if you do not share them.' She did not see the ready response in his face which she expected, and so
hurried on:
'It has always seemed to me that a--when a woman has to speak to a man
she should do so as frankly as she would like him to speak to her, and as
freely. Leonard, I--I,' as she halted, a sudden idea, winged with
possibilities of rescuing procrastination came to her. She went on more
easily:
'I know you are in trouble about money matters. Why not let me help
you?' He sat up and looked at her and said genially:
'Well, Stephen, you are a good old sort! No mistake about it. Do you
mean to say you would help me to pay my debts, when the governor has
refused to do so any more?' 'It would be a great pleasure to me, Leonard, to do anything for your
good or your pleasure.' There was a long pause; they both sat looking down at the ground. The
woman's heart beat loud; she feared that the man must hear it. She was
consumed with anxiety, and with a desolating wish to be relieved from the
strain of saying more. Surely, surely Leonard could not be so blind as
not to see the state of things! . . . He would surely seize the occasion;
throw aside his diffidence and relieve her! . . . His words made a
momentary music in her ears as he spoke:
'And is this what you asked me to come here for?' The words filled her with a great shame. She felt herself a dilemma. It
had been no part of her purpose to allude his debts. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Viewed in the light
of what was to follow, it would seem to him that she was trying to
foreclose his affection. That could not be allowed to pass; the error
must be rectified. And yet! . . . And yet this very error must be
cleared up before she could make her full wish apparent. She seemed to
find herself compelled by inexorable circumstances into an unlooked-for
bluntness. In any case she must face the situation. Her pluck did not
fail her; it was with a very noble and graceful simplicity that she
turned to her companion and said:
'Leonard, I did not quite mean that. It would be a pleasure to me to be
of that or any other service to you, if I might be so happy! But I never
meant to allude to your debts. Oh! Leonard, can't you understand! If
you were my husband--or--or going to be, all such little troubles would
fall away from you. But I would not for the world have you think . . . ' Her very voice failed her. She could not speak what was in her mind; she
turned away, hiding in her hands her face which fairly seemed to burn. This, she thought, was the time for a true lover's opportunity! Oh, if
she had been a man, and a woman had so appealed, how he would have sprung
to her side and taken her in his arms, and in a wild rapture of declared
affection have swept away all the pain of her shame! But she remained alone. There was no springing to her side; no rapture
of declared affection; no obliteration of her shame. She had to bear it
all alone. There, in the open; under the eyes that she would fain have
seen any other phase of her distress. Her heart beat loud and fast; she
waited to gain her self-control. Leonard Everard had his faults, plenty of them, and he was in truth
composed of an amalgam of far baser metals than Stephen thought; but he
had been born of gentle blood and reared amongst gentlefolk. He did not
quite understand the cause or the amount of his companion's concern; but
he could not but recognise her distress. He realised that it had
followed hard upon her most generous intention towards himself. He could
not, therefore, do less than try to comfort her, and he began his task in
a conventional way, but with a blundering awkwardness which was all
manlike. He took her hand and held it in his; this much at any rate he
had learned in sitting on stairs or in conservatories after extra dances. He said as tenderly as he could, but with an impatient gesture unseen by
her:
'Forgive me, Stephen! I suppose I have said or done something which I
shouldn't. But I don't know what it is; upon my honour I don't. Anyhow,
I am truly sorry for it. Cheer up, old girl! I'm not your husband, you
know; so you needn't be distressed.' Stephen took her courage _a deux mains_. If Leonard would not speak she
must. It was manifestly impossible that the matter could be left in its
present state. 'Leonard,' she said softly and solemnly, 'might not that some day be?' Leonard, in addition to being an egotist and the very incarnation of
selfishness, was a prig of the first water. He had been reared
altogether in convention. Home life and Eton and Christchurch had taught
him many things, wise as well as foolish; but had tended to fix his
conviction that affairs of the heart should proceed on adamantine lines
of conventional decorum. It never even occurred to him that a lady could
so far step from the confines of convention as to take the initiative in
a matter of affection. In his blind ignorance he blundered brutally. He
struck better than he knew, as, meaning only to pass safely by an awkward
conversational corner, he replied:
'No jolly fear of that! You're too much of a boss for me!' The words
and the levity with which they were spoken struck the girl as with a
whip. She turned for an instant as pale as ashes; then the red blood
rushed from her heart, and face and neck were dyed crimson. It was not a
blush, it was a suffusion. In his ignorance Leonard thought it was the
former, and went on with what he considered his teasing. 'Oh yes! You know you always want to engineer a chap your own way and
make him do just as you wish. The man who has the happiness of marrying
you, Stephen, will have a hard row to hoe!' His 'chaff' with its utter
want of refinement seemed to her, in her high-strung earnest condition,
nothing short of brutal, and for a few seconds produced a feeling of
repellence. But it is in the nature of things that opposition of any
kind arouses the fighting instinct of a naturally dominant nature. She
lost sight of her femininity in the pursuit of her purpose; and as this
was to win the man to her way of thinking, she took the logical course of
answering his argument. If Leonard Everard had purposely set himself to
stimulate her efforts in this direction he could hardly have chosen a
better way. It came somewhat as a surprise to Stephen, when she heard
her own words:
'I would make a good wife, Leonard! A husband whom I loved and honoured
would, I think, not be unhappy!' The sound of her own voice speaking
these words, though the tone was low and tender and more self-suppressing
by far than was her wont, seemed to peal like thunder in her own ears. Her last bolt seemed to have sped. The blood rushed to her head, and she
had to hold on to the arms of the rustic chair or she would have fallen
forward. The time seemed long before Leonard spoke again; every second seemed an
age. She seemed to have grown tired of waiting for the sound of his
voice; it was with a kind of surprise that she heard him say:
'You limit yourself wisely, Stephen!' 'How do you mean?' she asked, making a great effort to speak. 'You would promise to love and honour; but there isn't anything about
obeying.' As he spoke Leonard stretched himself again luxuriously, and laughed with
the intellectual arrogance of a man who is satisfied with a joke, however
inferior, of his own manufacture. Stephen looked at him with a long look
which began in anger--that anger which comes from an unwonted sense of
impotence, and ends in tolerance, the intermediate step being admiration. It is the primeval curse that a woman's choice is to her husband; and it
is an important part of the teaching of a British gentlewoman, knit in
the very fibres of her being by the remorseless etiquette of a thousand
years, that she be true to him. The man who has in his person the
necessary powers or graces to evoke admiration in his wife, even for a
passing moment, has a stronghold unconquerable as a rule by all the
deadliest arts of mankind. Leonard Everard was certainly good to look upon as he lolled at his ease
on that summer morning. Tall, straight, supple; a typical British
gentleman of the educated class, with all parts of the body properly
developed and held in some kind of suitable poise. As Stephen looked, the anxiety and chagrin which tormented her seemed to
pass. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
She realised that here was a nature different from her own, and
which should be dealt with in a way unsuitable to herself; and the
conviction seemed to make the action which it necessitated more easy as
well as more natural to her. Perhaps for the first time in her life
Stephen understood that it may be necessary to apply to individuals a
standard of criticism unsuitable to self-judgment. Her recognition might
have been summed up in the thought which ran through her mind:
'One must be a little lenient with a man one loves!' Stephen, when once she had allowed the spirit of toleration to work
within her, felt immediately its calming influence. It was with brighter
thoughts and better humour that she went on with her task. A task only,
it seemed now; a means to an end which she desired. 'Leonard, tell me seriously, why do you think I gave you the trouble of
coming out here?' 'Upon my soul, Stephen, I don't know.' 'You don't seem to care either, lolling like that when I am serious!' The
words were acid, but the tone was soft and friendly, familiar and
genuine, putting quite a meaning of its own on them. Leonard looked at
her indolently:
'I like to loll.' 'But can't you even guess, or try to guess, what I ask you?' 'I can't guess. The day's too hot, and that shanty with the drinks is
not built yet.' 'Or may never be!' Again he looked at her sleepily. 'Never be! Why not?' 'Because, Leonard, it may depend on you.' 'All right then. Drive on! Hurry up the architect and the
jerry-builder!' A quick blush leaped to Stephen's cheeks. The words were full of
meaning, though the tone lacked something; but the news was too good. She
could not accept it at once; she decided to herself to wait a short time. Ere many seconds had passed she rejoiced that she had done so as he went
on:
'I hope you'll give me a say before that husband of yours comes along. He
might be a blue-ribbonite; and it wouldn't do to start such a shanty for
rot-gut!' Again a cold wave swept over her. The absolute difference of feeling
between the man and herself; his levity against her earnestness, his
callous blindness to her purpose, even the commonness of his words
chilled her. For a few seconds she wavered again in her intention; but
once again his comeliness and her own obstinacy joined hands and took her
back to her path. With chagrin she felt that her words almost stuck in
her throat, as summoning up all her resolution she went on:
'It would be for you I would have it built, Leonard!' The man sat up
quickly. 'For me?' he asked in a sort of wonderment. 'Yes, Leonard, for you and me!' She turned away; her blushes so overcame
her that she could not look at him. When she faced round again he was
standing up, his back towards her. She stood up also. He was silent for a while; so long that the silence
became intolerable, and she spoke:
'Leonard, I am waiting!' He turned round and said slowly, the absence of
all emotion from his face chilling her till her face blanched:
'I don't think I would worry about it!' Stephen Norman was plucky, and when she was face to face with any
difficulty she was all herself. Leonard did not look pleasant; his face
was hard and there was just a suspicion of anger. Strangely enough, this
last made the next step easier to the girl; she said slowly:
'All right! I think I understand!' He turned from her and stood looking out on the distant prospect. Then
she felt that the blow which she had all along secretly feared had fallen
on her. But her pride as well as her obstinacy now rebelled. She would
not accept a silent answer. There must be no doubt left to torture her
afterwards. She would take care that there was no mistake. Schooling
herself to her task, and pressing one hand for a moment to her side as
though to repress the beating of her heart, she came behind him and
touched him tenderly on the arm. 'Leonard,' she said softly, 'are you sure there is no mistake? Do you
not see that I am asking you,' she intended to say 'to be my husband,'
but she could not utter the words, they seemed to stick in her mouth, so
she finished the sentence: 'that I be your wife?' The moment the words were spoken--the bare, hard, naked, shameless
words--the revulsion came. As a lightning flash shows up the blackness
of the night the appalling truth of what she had done was forced upon
her. The blood rushed to her head till cheeks and shoulders and neck
seemed to burn. Covering her face with her hands she sank back on the
seat crying silently bitter tears that seemed to scald her eyes and her
cheeks as they ran. Leonard was angry. When it began to dawn upon him what was the purpose
of Stephen's speech, he had been shocked. Young men are so easily
shocked by breaches of convention made by women they respect! And his
pride was hurt. Why should he have been placed in such a ridiculous
position! He did not love Stephen in that way; and she should have known
it. He liked her and all that sort of thing; but what right had she to
assume that he loved her? All the weakness of his moral nature came out
in his petulance. It was boyish that his eyes filled with tears. He
knew it, and that made him more angry than ever. Stephen might well have
been at a loss to understand his anger, as, with manifest intention to
wound, he answered her:
'What a girl you are, Stephen. You are always doing something or other
to put a chap in the wrong and make him ridiculous. I thought you were
joking--not a good joke either! Upon my soul, I don't know what I've
done that you should fix on me! I wish to goodness--'
If Stephen had suffered the red terror before, she suffered the white
terror now. It was not injured pride, it was not humiliation, it was not
fear; it was something vague and terrible that lay far deeper than any of
these. Under ordinary circumstances she would have liked to have spoken
out her mind and given back as good as she got; and even as the thoughts
whirled through her brain they came in a torrent of vague vituperative
eloquence. But now her tongue was tied. Instinctively she knew that she
had put it out of her power to revenge, or even to defend herself. She
was tied to the stake, and must suffer without effort and in silence. Most humiliating of all was the thought that she must propitiate the man
who had so wounded her. All love for him had in the instant passed from
her; or rather she realised fully the blank, bare truth that she had
never really loved him at all. Had she really loved him, even a blow at
his hands would have been acceptable; but now . . . She shook the feelings and thoughts from her as a bird does the water
from its wings; and, with the courage and strength and adaptability of
her nature, addressed herself to the hard task which faced her in the
immediate present. With eloquent, womanly gesture she arrested the
torrent of Leonard's indignation; and, as he paused in surprised
obedience, she said:
'That will do, Leonard! | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
It is not necessary to say any more; and I am
sure you will see, later on, that at least there was no cause for your
indignation! I have done an unconventional thing, I know; and I dare say
I shall have to pay for it in humiliating bitterness of thought later on! But please remember we are all alone! This is a secret between us; no
one else need ever know or suspect it!' She rose as she concluded. The quiet dignity of her speech and bearing
brought back Leonard in some way to his sense of duty as a gentleman. He
began, in a sheepish way, to make an apology:
'I'm sure I beg your pardon, Stephen.' But again she held the warning
hand:
'There is no need for pardon; the fault, if there were any, was mine
alone. It was I, remember, who asked you to come here and who introduced
and conducted this melancholy business. I have asked you several things,
Leonard, and one more I will add--'tis only one: that you will forget!' As she moved away, her dismissal of the subject was that of an empress to
a serf. Leonard would have liked to answer her; to have given vent to
his indignation that, even when he had refused her offer, she should have
the power to treat him if he was the one refused, and to make him feel
small and ridiculous in his own eyes. But somehow he felt constrained to
silence; her simple dignity outclassed him. There was another factor too, in his forming his conclusion of silence. He had never seen Stephen look so well, or so attractive. He had never
respected her so much as when her playfulness had turned to majestic
gravity. All the boy and girl strife of the years that had gone seemed
to have passed away. The girl whom he had played with, and bullied, and
treated as frankly as though she had been a boy, had in an instant become
a woman--and such a woman as demanded respect and admiration even from
such a man. CHAPTER XII--ON THE ROAD HOME
When Leonard Everard parted from Stephen he did so with a feeling of
dissatisfaction: firstly, with Stephen; secondly, with things in general;
thirdly, with himself. The first was definite, concrete, and immediate;
he could give himself chapter and verse for all the girl's misdoing. Everything she had said or done had touched some nerve painfully, or had
offended his feelings; and to a man of his temperament his feelings are
very sacred things, to himself. 'Why had she put him in such a ridiculous position? That was the worst
of women. They were always wanting him to do something he didn't want to
do, or crying . . . there was that girl at Oxford.' Here he turned his head slowly, and looked round in a furtive way, which
was getting almost a habit with him. 'A fellow should go away so that he
wouldn't have to swear lies. Women were always wanting money; or worse:
to be married! Confound women; they all seemed to want him to marry
them! There was the Oxford girl, and then the Spaniard, and now
Stephen!' This put his thoughts in a new channel. He wanted money
himself. Why, Stephen had spoken of it herself; had offered to pay his
debts. Gad! it was a good idea that every one round the countryside
seemed to know his affairs. What a flat he had been not to accept her
offer then and there before matters had gone further. Stephen had lots
of money, more than any girl could want. But she didn't give him time to
get the thing fixed . . . If he had only known beforehand what she wanted
he could have come prepared . . . that was the way with women! Always
thinking of themselves! And now? Of course she wouldn't stump up after
his refusing her. What would his father say if he came to hear of it? And he must speak to him soon, for these chaps were threatening to County
Court him if he didn't pay. Those harpies in Vere Street were quite
nasty . . . ' He wondered if he could work Stephen for a loan. He walked on through the woodland path, his pace slower than before. 'How
pretty she had looked!' Here he touched his little moustache. 'Gad! Stephen was a fine girl anyhow! If it wasn't for all that red hair . . . I like 'em dark better! . . . And her being such an infernal boss!'. . . Then he said unconsciously aloud:
'If I was her husband I'd keep her to rights!' Poor Stephen! 'So that's what the governor meant by telling me that fortune was to be
had, and had easily, if a man wasn't a blind fool. The governor is a
starchy old party. He wouldn't speak out straight and say, "Here's
Stephen Norman, the richest girl you are ever likely to meet; why don't
you make up to her and marry her?" But that would be encouraging his son
to be a fortune-hunter! Rot! . . . And now, just because she didn't tell
me what she wanted to speak about, or the governor didn't give me a hint
so that I might be prepared, I have gone and thrown away the chance. After all it mightn't be so bad. Stephen is a fine girl! . . . But she
mustn't ever look at me as she did when I spoke about her not obeying. I
mean to be master in my own house anyhow! 'A man mustn't be tied down too tight, even if he is married. And if
there's plenty of loose cash about it isn't hard to cover up your tracks
. . . I think I'd better think this thing over calmly and be ready when
Stephen comes at me again. That's the way with women. When a woman like
Stephen fixes her cold grey on a man she does not mean to go asleep over
it. I daresay my best plan will be to sit tight, and let her work
herself up a bit. There's nothing like a little wholesome neglect for
bringing a girl to her bearings!' . . . For a while he walked on in satisfied self-complacency. 'Confound her! why couldn't she have let me know that she was fond of me
in some decent way, without all that formal theatrical proposing? It's a
deuced annoying thing in the long run the way the women get fond of me. Though it's nice enough in some ways while it lasts!' he added, as if in
unwilling recognition of fact. As the path debouched on the highroad he
said to himself half aloud:
'Well, she's a mighty fine girl, anyhow! And if she is red I've had
about enough of the black! . . . That Spanish girl is beginning to kick
too! I wish I had never come across . . . ' 'Shut up, you fool!' he said to himself as he walked on. When he got home he found a letter from his father. He took it to his
room before breaking the seal. It was at least concise and to the point:
'The enclosed has been sent to me. You will have to deal with it
yourself. You know my opinion and also my intention. The items
which I have marked have been incurred since I spoke to you last about
your debts. I shall not pay another farthing for you. So take your
own course! 'JASPER EVERARD.' The enclosed was a jeweller's bill, the length and the total of which
lengthened his face and drew from him a low whistle. He held it in his
hand for a long time, standing quite still and silent. Then drawing a
deep breath he said aloud:
'That settles it! The halter is on me! It's no use squealing. If it's
to be a red head on my pillow! . . . All right! I must only make the
best of it. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Anyhow I'll have a good time to-day, even if it must be the
last!' That day Harold was in Norcester on business. It was late when he went
to the club to dine. Whilst waiting for dinner he met Leonard Everard,
flushed and somewhat at uncertain in his speech. It was something of a
shock to Harold to see him in such a state. Leonard was, however, an old friend, and man is as a rule faithful to
friends in this form of distress. So in his kindly feeling Harold
offered to drive him home, for he knew that he could thus keep him out of
further harm. Leonard thanked him in uncertain speech, and said he would
be ready. In the meantime he would go and play billiards with the marker
whilst Harold was having his dinner. At ten o'clock Harold's dogcart was ready and he went to look for
Leonard, who had not since come near him. He found him half asleep in
the smoking-room, much drunker than he had been earlier in the evening. The drive was fairly long, so Harold made up his mind for a prolonged
term of uneasiness and anxiety. The cool night-air, whose effect was
increased by the rapid motion, soon increased Leonard's somnolence and
for a while he slept soundly, his companion watching carefully lest he
should sway over and fall out of the trap. He even held him up as they
swung round sharp corners. After a time he woke up, and woke in a nasty temper. He began to find
fault in an incoherent way with everything. Harold said little, just
enough to prevent any cause for further grievance. Then Leonard changed
and became affectionate. This mood was a greater bore than the other,
but Harold managed to bear it with stolid indifference. Leonard was this
by time making promises to do things for him, that as he was what he
called a 'goo' fell',' he might count on his help and support in the
future. As Harold knew him to be a wastrel, over head and ears in debt
and with only the succession to a small estate, he did not take much heed
to his maunderings. At last the drunken man said something which
startled him so much that he instinctively drew himself together with
such suddenness as to frighten the horse and almost make him rear up
straight. 'Woa! Woa! Steady, boy. Gently!' he said, quieting him. Then turning
to his companion said in a voice hollow with emotion and vibrant with
suppressed passion:
'What was it you said?' Leonard, half awake, and not half of that half master of himself,
answered:
'I said I will make you agent of Normanstand when I marry Stephen.' Harold grew cold. To hear of any one marrying Stephen was to him like
plunging him in a glacier stream; but to hear her name so lightly spoken,
and by such a man, was a bewildering shock which within a second set his
blood on fire. 'What do you mean?' he thundered. 'You marry Ste . . . Miss Norman! You're not worthy to untie her shoe! You indeed! She wouldn't look on
the same side of the street with a drunken brute like you! How dare you
speak of her in such a way!' 'Brute!' said Leonard angrily, his vanity reaching inward to heart and
brain through all the numbing obstacle of his drunken flesh. 'Who's
brute? Brute yourself! Tell you goin' to marry Stephen, 'cos Stephen
wants it. Stephen loves me. Loves me with all her red head! Wha're you
doin'! Wha!!' His words merged in a lessening gurgle, for Harold had now got him by the
throat. 'Take care what you say about that lady! damn you!' he said, putting his
face close the other's with eyes that blazed. 'Don't you dare to mention
her name in such a way, or you will regret it longer than you can think. Loves you, you swine!' The struggle and the fierce grip on his throat sobered Leonard somewhat. Momentarily sobbed him to that point when he could be coherent and
vindictive, though not to the point where he could think ahead. Caution,
wisdom, discretion, taste, were not for him at such a moment. Guarding
his throat with both hands in an instinctive and spasmodic manner he
answered the challenge:
'Who are you calling swine? I tell you she loves me. She ought to know. Didn't she tell me so this very day!' Harold drew back his arm to strike
him in the face, his anger too great for words. But the other, seeing
the motion and in the sobering recognition of danger, spoke hastily:
'Keep your hair on! You know so jolly much more than I do. I tell you
that she told me this and a lot more this morning when she asked me to
marry her.' Harold's heart grew cold as ice. There is something in the sound of a
voice speaking truthfully which a true man can recognise. Through all
Leonard's half-drunken utterings came such a ring of truth; and Harold
recognised it. He felt that his voice was weak and hollow as he spoke,
thinking it necessary to give at first a sort of official denial to such
a monstrous statement:
'Liar!' 'I'm no liar!' answered Leonard. He would like to have struck him in
answer to such a word had he felt equal to it. 'She asked me to marry
her to-day on the hill above the house, where I went to meet her by
appointment. Here! I'll prove it to you. Read this!' Whilst he was
speaking he had opened the greatcoat and was fumbling in the
breast-pocket of his coat. He produced a letter which he handed to
Harold, who took it with trembling hand. By this time the reins had
fallen slack and the horse was walking quietly. There was moonlight, but
not enough to read by. Harold bent over and lifted the driving-lamp next
to him and turned it so that he could read the envelope. He could hardly
keep either lamp or paper still, his hand trembled so when he saw that
the direction was in Stephen's handwriting. He was handing it back when
Leonard said again:
'Open it! Read it! You must do so; I tell you, you must! You called me
a liar, and now must read the proof that I am not. If you don't I shall
have to ask Stephen to make you!' Before Harold's mind flashed a rapid
thought of what the girl might suffer in being asked to take part in such
a quarrel. He could not himself even act to the best advantage unless he
knew the truth . . . he took the letter from the envelope and held it
before the lamp, the paper fluttering as though in a breeze from the
trembling of his hand. Leonard looked on, the dull glare of his eyes
brightening with malignant pleasure as he beheld the other's concern. He
owed him a grudge, and by God he would pay it. Had he not been
struck--throttled--called a liar! . . . As he read the words Harold's face cleared. 'Why, you infernal young
scoundrel!' he said angrily, 'that letter is nothing but a simple note
from a young girl to an old friend--playmate asking him to come to see
her about some trivial thing. And you construe it into a proposal of
marriage. You hound!' He held the letter whilst he spoke, heedless of
the outstretched hand of the other waiting to take it back. There was a
dangerous glitter in Leonard's eyes. He knew his man and he knew the
truth of what he had himself said, and he felt, with all the strength of
his base soul, how best he could torture him. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
In the very strength of
Harold's anger, in the poignancy of his concern, in the relief to his
soul expressed in his eyes and his voice, his antagonist realised the
jealousy of one who honours--and loves. Second by second Leonard grew
more sober, and more and better able to carry his own idea into act. 'Give me my letter!' he began. 'Wait!' said Harold as he put the lamp back into its socket. 'That will
do presently. Take back what you said just now!' 'What? Take back what?' 'That base lie; that Miss Norman asked you to marry her.' Leonard felt that in a physical struggle for the possession of the letter
he would be outmatched; but his passion grew colder and more malignant,
and in a voice that cut like the hiss of a snake he spoke slowly and
deliberately. He was all sober now; the drunkenness of brain and blood
was lost, for the time, in the strength of his cold passion. 'It is true. By God it is true; every word of it! That letter, which
you want to steal, is only a proof that I went to meet her on Caester
Hill by her own appointment. When I got there, she was waiting for me. She began to talk about a chalet there, and at first I didn't know what
she meant--'
There was such conviction, such a triumphant truth in his voice, that
Harold was convinced. 'Stop!' he thundered; 'stop, don't tell me anything. I don't want to
hear. I don't want to know.' He covered his face with his hands and
groaned. It was not as though the speaker were a stranger, in which case
he would have been by now well on in his death by strangulation; he had
known Leonard all his life, and he was a friend of Stephen's. And he was
speaking truth. The baleful glitter of Leonard's eyes grew brighter still. He was as a
serpent when he goes to strike. In this wise he struck. 'I shall not stop. I shall go on and tell you all I choose. You have
called me liar--twice. You have also called me other names. Now you
shall hear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And if
you won't listen to me some one else will.' Harold groaned again;
Leonard's eyes brightened still more, and the evil smile on his face grew
broader as he began more and more to feel his power. He went on to speak
with a cold deliberate malignancy, but instinctively so sticking to
absolute truth that he could trust himself to hurt most. The other
listened, cold at heart and physically; his veins and arteries seemed
stagnant. 'I won't tell you anything of her pretty embarrassments; how her voice
fell as she pleaded; how she blushed and stammered. Why, even I, who am
used to women and their pretty ways and their passions and their
flushings and their stormy upbraidings, didn't quite know for a while
what she was driving at. So at last she spoke out pretty plainly, and
told me what a fond wife she'd make me if I would only take her!' Harold
said nothing; he only rocked a little as one in pain, and his hands fell. The other went on:
'That is what happened this morning on Caester Hill under the trees where
I met Stephen Norman by her own appointment; honestly what happened. If
you don't believe me now you can ask Stephen. My Stephen!' he added in a
final burst of venom as in a gleam of moonlight through a rift in the
shadowy wood he saw the ghastly pallor of Harold's face. Then he added
abruptly as he held out his hand:
'Now give me my letter!' In the last few seconds Harold had been thinking. And as he had been
thinking for the good, the safety, of Stephen, his thoughts flew swift
and true. This man's very tone, the openness of his malignity, the
underlying scorn when he spoke of her whom others worshipped, showed him
the danger--the terrible immediate danger in which she stood from such a
man. With the instinct of a mind working as truly for the woman he loved
as the needle does to the Pole he spoke quietly, throwing a sneer into
the tone so as to exasperate his companion--it was brain against brain
now, and for Stephen's sake:
'And of course you accepted. You naturally would!' The other fell into
the trap. He could not help giving an extra dig to his opponent by
proving him once more in the wrong. 'Oh no, I didn't! Stephen is a fine girl; but she wants taking down a
bit. She's too high and mighty just at present, and wants to boss a chap
too much. I mean to be master in my own house; and she's got to begin as
she will have to go on. I'll let her wait a bit: and then I'll yield by
degrees to her lovemaking. She's a fine girl, for all her red head; and
she won't be so bad after all!' Harold listened, chilled into still and silent amazement. To hear
Stephen spoken of in such a way appalled him. She of all women! . . . Leonard never knew how near sudden death he was, as he lay back in his
seat, his eyes getting dull again and his chin sinking. The drunkenness
which had been arrested by his passion was reasserting itself. Harold
saw his state in time and arrested his own movement to take him by the
throat and dash him to the ground. Even as he looked at him in scornful
hate, the cart gave a lurch and Leonard fell forward. Instinctively
Harold swept an arm round him and held him up. As he did so the
unconsciousness of arrested sleep came; Leonard's chin sank on his breast
and he breathed stertorously. As he drove on, Harold's thoughts circled in a tumult. Vague ideas of
extreme measures which he ought to take flashed up and paled away. Intention revolved upon itself till its weak side was exposed, and, it
was abandoned. He could not doubt the essential truth of Leonard's
statement regarding the proposal of marriage. He did not understand this
nor did he try to. His own love for the girl and the bitter awaking to
its futility made him so hopeless that in his own desolation all the
mystery of her doing and the cause of it was merged and lost. His only aim and purpose now was her safety. One thing at least he could
do: by fair means or foul stop Leonard's mouth, so that others need not
know her shame! He groaned aloud as the thought came to him. Beyond
this first step he could do nothing, think of nothing as yet. And he
could not take this first step till Leonard had so far sobered that he
could understand. And so waiting for that time to come, he drove on through the silent
night. CHAPTER XIII--HAROLD'S RESOLVE
As they went on their way Harold noticed that Leonard's breathing became
more regular, as in honest sleep. He therefore drove slowly so that the
other might be sane again before they should arrive at the gate of his
father's place; he had something of importance to say before they should
part. Seeing him sleeping so peacefully, Harold passed a strap round him to
prevent him falling from his seat. Then he could let his thoughts run
more freely. Her safety was his immediate concern; again and again he
thought over what he should say to Leonard to ensure his silence. Whilst he was pondering with set brows, he was startled by Leonard's
voice at his side:
'Is that you, Harold? I must have been asleep!' | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Harold remained silent,
amazed at the change. Leonard went on, quite awake and coherent:
'By George! I must have been pretty well cut. I don't remember a thing
after coming down the stairs of the club and you and the hall-porter
helping me up here. I say, old chap, you have strapped me up all safe
and tight. It was good of you to take charge of me. I hope I haven't
been a beastly nuisance!' Harold answered grimly:
'It wasn't exactly what I should have called it!' Then, after looking
keenly at his companion, he said: 'Are you quite awake and sober now?' 'Quite.' The answer came defiantly; there was something in his
questioner's tone which was militant and aggressive. Before speaking
further Harold pulled up the horse. They were now crossing bare
moorland, where anything within a mile could have easily been seen. They
were quite alone, and would be undisturbed. Then he turned to his
companion. 'You talked a good deal in your drunken sleep--if sleep it was. You
appeared to be awake!' Leonard answered:
'I don't remember anything of it. What did I say?' 'I am going to tell you. You said something so strange and so wrong that
you must answer for it. But first I must know its truth.' 'Must! You are pretty dictatorial,' said Leonard angrily. 'Must answer
for it! What do you mean?' 'Were you on Caester Hill to-day?' 'What's that to you?' There was no mistaking the defiant, quarrelsome
intent. 'Answer me! were you?' Harold's voice was strong and calm. 'What if I was? It is none of your affair. Did I say anything in what
you have politely called my drunken sleep?' 'You did.' 'What did I say?' 'I shall tell you in time. But I must know the truth as I proceed. There
is some one else concerned in this, and I must know as I go on. You can
easily judge by what I say if I am right.' 'Then ask away and be damned to you!' Harold's calm voice seemed to
quell the other's turbulence as he went on:
'Were you on Caester Hill this morning?' 'I was.' 'Did you meet Miss --- a lady there?' 'What . . . I did!' 'Was it by appointment?' Some sort of idea or half-recollection seemed
to come to Leonard; he fumbled half consciously in his breast-pocket. Then he broke out angrily:
'You have taken my letter!' 'I know the answer to that question,' said Harold slowly. 'You showed me
the letter yourself, and insisted on my reading it.' Leonard's heart
began to quail. He seemed to have an instinctive dread of what was
coming. Harold went on calmly and remorselessly:
'Did a proposal of marriage pass between you?' 'Yes!' The answer was defiantly given; Leonard began to feel that his
back was against the wall. 'Who made it?' The answer was a sudden attempt at a blow, but Harold
struck down his hand in time and held it. Leonard, though a fairly
strong man, was powerless in that iron grasp. 'You must answer! It is necessary that I know the truth.' 'Why must you? What have you to do with it? You are not my keeper! Nor
Stephen's; though I dare say you would like to be!' The insult cooled
Harold's rising passion, even whilst it wrung his heart. 'I have to do with it because I choose. You may find the answer if you
wish in your last insult! Now, clearly understand me, Leonard Everard. You know me of old; and you know that what I say I shall do. One way or
another, your life or mine may hang on your answers to me--if necessary!' Leonard felt himself pulled up. He knew well the strength and purpose of
the man. With a light laugh, which he felt to be, as it was, hollow, he
answered:
'Well, schoolmaster, as you are asking questions, I suppose I may as well
answer them. Go on! Next!' Harold went on in the same calm, cold
voice:
'Who made the proposal of marriage?' 'She did.' 'Did . . . Was it made at once and directly, or after some preliminary
suggestion?' 'After a bit. I didn't quite understand at first what she was driving
at.' There was a long pause. With an effort Harold went on:
'Did you accept?' Leonard hesitated. With a really wicked scowl he eyed
his big, powerfully-built companion, who still had his hand as in a vice. Then seeing no resource, he answered:
'I did not! That does not mean that I won't, though!' he added
defiantly. To his surprise Harold suddenly released his hand. There was
a grimness in his tone as he said:
'That will do! I know now that you have spoken the truth, sober as well
as drunk. You need say no more. I know the rest. Most men--even brutes
like you, if there are any--would have been ashamed even to think the
things you said, said openly to me, you hound. You vile, traitorous,
mean-souled hound!' 'What did I say?' 'I know what you said; and I shall not forget it.' He went on, his voice
deepening into a stern judicial utterance, as though he were pronouncing
a sentence of death:
'Leonard Everard, you have treated vilely a lady whom I love and honour
more than I love my own soul. You have insulted her to her face and
behind her back. You have made such disloyal reference to her and to her
mad act in so trusting you, and have so shown your intention of causing,
intentionally or unintentionally, woe to her, that I tell you here and
now that you hold henceforth your life in your hand. If you ever mention
to a living soul what you have told me twice to-night, even though you
should be then her husband; if you should cause her harm though she
should then be your wife; if you should cause her dishonour in public or
in private, I shall kill you. So help me God!' Not a word more did he say; but, taking up the reins, drove on in silence
till they arrived at the gate of Brindehow, where he signed to him to
alight. He drove off in silence. When he arrived at his own house he sent the servant to bed, and then
went to his study, where he locked himself in. Then, and then only, did
he permit his thoughts to have full range. For the first time since the
blow had fallen he looked straight in the face the change in his own
life. He had loved Stephen so long and so honestly that it seemed to him
now as if that love had been the very foundation of his life. He could
not remember a time when he had not loved her; away back to the time when
he, a big boy, took her, a little girl, under his care, and devoted
himself to her. He had grown into the belief that so strong and so
consistent an affection, though he had never spoken it or even hinted at
it or inferred it, had become a part of her life as well as of his own. And this was the end of that dreaming! Not only did she not care for
him, but found herself with a heart so empty that she needs must propose
marriage to another man! There was surely something, more than at
present he knew of or could understand, behind such an act done by her. Why should she ask Everard to marry her? Why should she ask any man? Women didn't do such things! . . . Here he paused. 'Women didn't do such
things.' All at once there came back to him fragments of discussions--in
which Stephen had had a part, in which matters of convention had been
dealt with. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |