Complete Works of Bram Stoker (370 page)

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 recognised 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 organised guard all round the Castle ever since the abducting of the Voivodin.  As both Your Honour and the Voivode were away at Plazac, the guard had for the time been doubled.  When the steward came and stood in the doorway, the servants stood off somewhat, and the mountaineers drew back to the farther sides and angles of the courtyard.  The Voivodin had, of course, been informed of the guest’s (your cousin) coming, and came to meet him in the old custom of the Blue Mountains.  As Your Honour only came to the Blue Mountains recently, and as no occasion has been since then of illustrating the custom since the Voivode was away, and the Voivodin then believed to be dead, perhaps I, who have lived here so long, may explain:

When to an old Blue Mountain house a guest comes whom it is wished to do honour, the Lady, as in the vernacular the mistress of the house is called, comes herself to meet the guest at the door  —  or, rather,
outside
the door  —  so that she can herself conduct him within.  It is a pretty ceremony, and it is said that of old in kingly days the monarch always set much store by it.  The custom is that, when she approaches the honoured guest (he need not be royal), she bends  —  or more properly kneels  —  before him and kisses his hand.  It has been explained by historians that the symbolism is that the woman, showing obedience to her husband, as the married woman of the Blue Mountains always does, emphasises that obedience to her husband’s guest.  The custom is always observed in its largest formality when a young wife receives for the first time a guest, and especially one whom her husband wishes to honour.  The Voivodin was, of course, aware that Mr. Melton was your kinsman, and naturally wished to make the ceremony of honour as marked as possible, so as to show overtly her sense of her husband’s worth.

When we came into the courtyard, I held back, of course, for the honour is entirely individual, and is never extended to any other, no matter how worthy he may be.  Naturally Mr. Melton did not know the etiquette of the situation, and so for that is not to be blamed.  He took his valet with him when, seeing someone coming to the door, he went forward.  I thought he was going to rush to his welcomer.  Such, though not in the ritual, would have been natural in a young kinsman wishing to do honour to the bride of his host, and would to anyone have been both understandable and forgivable.  It did not occur to me at the time, but I have since thought that perhaps he had not then heard of Your Honour’s marriage, which I trust you will, in justice to the young gentleman, bear in mind when considering the matter.  Unhappily, however, he did not show any such eagerness.  On the contrary, he seemed to make a point of showing indifference.  It seemed to me myself that he, seeing somebody wishing to make much of him, took what he considered a safe opportunity of restoring to himself his own good opinion, which must have been considerably lowered in the episode of the Wine Master’s wife.

The Voivodin, thinking, doubtless, Your Honour, to add a fresh lustre to her welcome, had donned the costume which all her nation has now come to love and to accept as a dress of ceremonial honour.  She wore her shroud.  It moved the hearts of all of us who looked on to see it, and we appreciated its being worn for such a cause.  But Mr. Melton did not seem to care.  As he had been approaching she had begun to kneel, and was already on her knees whilst he was several yards away.  There he stopped and turned to speak to his valet, put a glass in his eye, and looked all round him and up and down  —  indeed, everywhere except at the Great Lady, who was on her knees before him, waiting to bid him welcome.  I could see in the eyes of such of the mountaineers as were within my range of vision a growing animosity; so, hoping to keep down any such expression, which I knew would cause harm to Your Honour and the Voivodin, I looked all round them straight in their faces with a fixed frown, which, indeed, they seemed to understand, for they regained, and for the time maintained, their usual dignified calm.  The Voivodin, may I say, bore the trial wonderfully.  No human being could see that she was in any degree pained or even surprised.  Mr. Melton stood looking round him so long that I had full time to regain my own attitude of calm.  At last he seemed to come back to the knowledge that someone was waiting for him, and sauntered leisurely forward.  There was so much insolence  —  mind you, not insolence that was intended to appear as such  —  in his movement that the mountaineers began to steal forward.  When he was close up to the Voivodin, and she put out her hand to take his, he put forward
one finger
!  I could hear the intake of the breath of the men, now close around, for I had moved forward, too.  I thought it would be as well to be close to your guest, lest something should happen to him.  The Voivodin still kept her splendid self-control.  Raising the finger put forward by the guest with the same deference as though it had been the hand of a King, she bent her head down and kissed it.  Her duty of courtesy now done, she was preparing to rise, when he put his hand into his pocket, and, pulling out a sovereign, offered it to her.  His valet moved his hand forward, as if to pull back his arm, but it was too late.  I am sure, Your Honour, that no affront was intended.  He doubtless thought that he was doing a kindness of the sort usual in England when one “tips” a housekeeper.  But all the same, to one in her position, it was an affront, an insult, open and unmistakable.  So it was received by the mountaineers, whose handjars flashed out as one.  For a second it was so received even by the Voivodin, who, with face flushing scarlet, and the stars in her eves flaming red, sprang to her feet.  But in that second she had regained herself, and to all appearances her righteous anger passed away.  Stooping, she took the hand of her guest and raised it  —  you know how strong she is  —  and, holding it in hers, led him into the doorway, saying:

“You are welcome, kinsman of my husband, to the house of my father, which is presently my husband’s also.  Both are grieved that, duty having called them away for the time, they are unable to be here to help me to greet you.”

I tell you, Your Honour, that it was a lesson in self-respect which anyone who saw it can never forget.  As to me, it makes my flesh quiver, old as I am, with delight, and my heart leap.

May I, as a faithful servant who has had many years of experience, suggest that Your Honour should seem  —  for the present, at any rate  —  not to know any of these things which I have reported, as you wished me to do.  Be sure that the Voivodin will tell you her gracious self aught that she would wish you to know.  And such reticence on your part must make for her happiness, even if it did not for your own.

So that you may know all, as you desired, and that you may have time to school yourself to whatever attitude you think best to adopt, I send this off to you at once by fleet messenger.  Were the aeroplane here, I should take it myself.  I leave here shortly to await the arrival of Sir Colin at Otranto.

Your Honour’s faithful servant,
Rooke.

JANET MACKELPIE’S NOTES.

August
9, 1907.

To me it seems very providential that Rupert was not at home when that dreadful young man Ernest Melton arrived, though it is possible that if Rupert had been present he would not have dared to conduct himself so badly.  Of course, I heard all about it from the maids; Teuta never opened her lips to me on the subject.  It was bad enough and stupid enough for him to try to kiss a decent young woman like Julia, who is really as good as gold and as modest as one of our own Highland lassies; but to think of him insulting Teuta!  The little beast!  One would think that a champion idiot out of an Equatorial asylum would know better!  If Michael, the Wine Master, wanted to kill him, I wonder what my Rupert and hers would have done?  I am truly thankful that he was not present.  And I am thankful, too, that I was not present either, for I should have made an exhibition of myself, and Rupert would not have liked that.  He  —  the little beast! might have seen from the very dress that the dear girl wore that there was something exceptional about her.  But on one account I should have liked to see her.  They tell me that she was, in her true dignity, like a Queen, and that her humility in receiving her husband’s kinsman was a lesson to every woman in the Land.  I must be careful not to let Rupert know that I have heard of the incident.  Later on, when it is all blown over and the young man has been got safely away, I shall tell him of it.  Mr. Rooke  —  Lord High Admiral Rooke, I should say  —  must be a really wonderful man to have so held himself in check; for, from what I have heard of him, he must in his younger days have been worse than Old Morgan of Panama.  Mr. Ernest Roger Halbard Melton, of Humcroft, Salop, little knows how near he was to being “cleft to the chine” also.

Fortunately, I had heard of his meeting with Teuta before he came to see me, for I did not get back from my walk till after he had arrived.  Teuta’s noble example was before me, and I determined that I, too, would show good manners under any circumstances.  But I didn’t know how mean he is.  Think of his saying to me that Rupert’s position here must be a great source of pride to me, who had been his nursery governess.  He said “nursemaid” first, but then stumbled in his words, seeming to remember something.  I did not turn a hair, I am glad to say.  It is a mercy Uncle Colin was not here, for I honestly believe that, if he had been, he would have done the “cleaving to the chine” himself.  It has been a narrow escape for Master Ernest, for only this morning Rupert had a message, sent on from Gibraltar, saying that he was arriving with his clansmen, and that they would not be far behind his letter.  He would call at Otranto in case someone should come across to pilot him to Vissarion.  Uncle told me all about that young cad having offered him one finger in Mr. Trent’s office, though, of course, he didn’t let the cad see that he noticed it.  I have no doubt that, when he does arrive, that young man, if he is here still, will find that he will have to behave himself, if it be only on Sir Colin’s account alone.

THE SAME (LATER).