JANET MACKELPIE'S NOTES.
_July_ 8, 1907.
I used to think that whenever Rupert should get married or start on theway to it by getting engaged--I would meet his future wife with somethingof the same affection that I have always had for himself. But I know nowthat what was really in my mind was _jealousy_, and that I was reallyfighting against my own instincts, and pretending to myself that I wasnot jealous. Had I ever had the faintest idea that she would be anythingthe least like Teuta, that sort of feeling should never have had even afoothold. 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--awoman creature, of course, I mean--with so many splendid qualities. Ialmost fear to say it, lest it should seem to myself wrong; but I thinkshe is as good as a woman as Rupert is as a man. And what more than thatcan I say? I thought I loved her and trusted her, and knew her all Icould, until this morning.
I was in my own room, as it is still called. For, though Rupert tells mein confidence that under his uncle's will the whole estate of Vissarion,Castle and all, really belongs to the Voivode, and though the Voivode hasbeen persuaded to accept the position, he (the Voivode) will not allowanything to be changed. He will not even hear a word of my going, orchanging my room, or anything. And Rupert backs him up in it, and Teutatoo. 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 theNational Council in the Great Hall, Teuta came to me, and (after closingthe door and bolting it, which surprised me a little) came and knelt downbeside me, and put her face in my lap. I stroked her beautiful blackhair, and said:
"What is it, Teuta darling? Is there any trouble? And why did you boltthe door? Has anything happened to Rupert?" When she looked up I sawthat her beautiful black eyes, with the stars in them, were overflowingwith tears not yet shed. But she smiled through them, and the tears didnot fall. When I saw her smile my heart was eased, and I said withoutthinking: "Thank God, darling, Rupert is all right."
"I thank God, too, dear Aunt Janet!" she said softly; and I took her inmy arms and laid her head on my breast.
"Go on, dear," I said; "tell me what it is that troubles you?" This timeI 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 willnot--cannot--forgive me."
"Lord save you, child!" I said, "there's nothing that you could do that Icould not and would not forgive. Not that you would ever do anythingbase, for that is the only thing that is hard to forgive. Tell me nowwhat troubles you."
She looked up in my eyes fearlessly, this time with only the signs oftears that had been, and said proudly:
"Nothing base, Aunt Janet. My father's daughter would not willingly bebase. I do not think she could. Moreover, had I ever done anything baseI 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 mewith 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 anEnglishman, and a good subject of our noble King."
"Yes, Aunt Janet," she said, "I am that, and proud to be it--prouder thanI would be were I my namesake, who was Queen in the old days. But howand where did I see Rupert first?" I did not know, and frankly told herso. So she answered her question herself:
"I saw him first in his own room at night." I knew in my heart that inwhatever she did had been nothing wrong, so I sat silent waiting for herto go on:
"I was in danger, and in deadly fear. I was afraid I might die--not thatI fear death--and I wanted help and warmth. I was not dressed as I amnow!"
On the instant it came to me how I knew her face, even the first time Ihad seen it. I wished to help her out of the embarrassing part of herconfidence, so I said:
"Dearie, I think I know. Tell me, child, will you put on the frock . . .the dress . . . costume you wore that night, and let me see you in it?It is not mere idle curiosity, my child, but something far, far abovesuch idle folly."
"Wait for me a minute, Aunt Janet," she said, as she rose up; "I shallnot be long." Then she left the room.
In a very few minutes she was back. Her appearance might have frightenedsome people, for she was clad only in a shroud. Her feet were bare, andshe walked across the room with the gait of an empress, and stood beforeme with her eyes modestly cast down. But when presently she looked upand caught my eyes, a smile rippled over her face. She threw herselfonce more before me on her knees, and embraced me as she said:
"I was afraid I might frighten you, dear." I knew I could truthfullyreassure 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 afighting stock which has sent out heroes, and I belong to a familywherein 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 Rupertmarried!" 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 answeredsadly:
"I do not know. Alas! I lost count of the days as I lay in the tomb inthat 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 thechurch was flooded. I had to seek help--warmth--for I feared I mightdie. Oh, I was not, as I have told you, afraid of death. But I hadundertaken a terrible task to which I had pledged myself. It was for myfather's sake, and the sake of the Land, and I felt that it was a part ofmy 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. Buthow 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 beentroubled in uncanny dreaming, I came to see if Rupert was a'richt, I lostremembrance o' my dreaming, for the floor was all wet, and that took offmy attention. But later, the morn after Rupert used his fire in his roomfor the first time, I told him what I had dreamt; for, lassie, my dear, Isaw ye as bride at that weddin' in fine lace o'er yer shrood, andorange-flowers and ithers in yer black hair; an' I saw the stars in yerbonny een--the een I love. But oh, my dear, when I saw the shrood, andkent what it might mean, I expeckit to see the worms crawl round yerfeet. 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. Hashe ever tellt ye aught o' this?"
"No, dear," she said simply. "I think that perhaps he was afraid thatone or other of us, if not both, might be upset by it if he did. Yousee, he did not tell you anything at all of our meeting, though I am surethat he will be glad when he knows that we both know all about it, andhave told each other everything."
That was very sweet of her, and very thoughtful in all ways, so I saidthat 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_, _toRupert Sent Leger_, _Vissarion_, _Land of the Blue Mountains_.
_July_ 29, 1907.
MY DEAR COUSIN RUPERT,
We have heard such glowing accounts of Vissarion that I am coming out to see you. As you are yourself now a landowner, you will understand that my coming is not altogether a pleasure
. Indeed, it is a duty first. When my father dies I shall be head of the family--the family of which Uncle Roger, to whom we were related, was a member. It is therefore meet and fitting that I should know something of our family branches and of their Seats. I am not giving you time for much warning, so am coming on immediately--in fact, I shall arrive almost as soon as this letter. But I want to catch you in the middle of your tricks. I hear that the Blue Mountaineer girls are peaches, so don't send them _all_ away when you hear I'm coming!
Do send a yacht up to Fiume to meet me. I hear you have all sorts of craft at Vissarion. The MacSkelpie, I hear, said you received her as a Queen; so I hope you will do the decent by one of your own flesh and blood, and the future Head of the House at that. I shan't bring much of a retinue with me. _I_ wasn't made a billionaire by old Roger, so can only take my modest "man Friday"--whose name is Jenkinson, and a Cockney at that. So don't have too much gold lace and diamond-hilted scimitars about, like a good chap, or else he'll want the very worst--his wyges ryzed. That old image Rooke that came over for Miss McS., and whom by chance I saw at the attorney man's, might pilot me down from Fiume. The old gentleman-by-Act-of-Parliament Mr. Bingham Trent (I suppose he has hyphened it by this time) told me that Miss McS. said he "did her proud" when she went over under his charge. I shall be at Fiume on the evening of Wednesday, and shall stay at the Europa, which is, I am told, the least indecent hotel in the place. So you know where to find me, or any of your attendant demons can know, in case I am to suffer "substituted service."
Your affectionate Cousin, ERNEST ROGER HALBARD MELTON.
_Letter from Admiral Rooke to the Gospodar Rupert_.
_August_ 1, 1907.
SIR,
In obedience to your explicit direction that I should meet Mr. Ernest R. H. Melton at Fiume, and report to you exactly what occurred, "without keeping anything back,"--as you will remember you said, I beg to report.
I brought the steam-yacht _Trent_ to Fiume, arriving there on the morning of Thursday. At 11.30 p.m. I went to meet the train from St. Peter, due 11.40. It was something late, arriving just as the clock was beginning to strike midnight. Mr. Melton was on board, and with him his valet Jenkinson. I am bound to say that he did not seem very pleased with his journey, and expressed much disappointment at not seeing Your Honour awaiting him. I explained, as you directed, that you had to attend with the Voivode Vissarion and the Vladika the National Council, which met at Plazac, or that otherwise you would have done yourself the pleasure of coming to meet him. I had, of course, reserved rooms (the Prince of Wales's suite), for him at the Re d'Ungheria, and had waiting the carriage which the proprietor had provided for the Prince of Wales when he stayed there. Mr. Melton took his valet with him (on the box-seat), and I followed in a _Stadtwagen_ with the luggage. When I arrived, I found the _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, an
d saluted with their handjars, even Michael amongst the number. Half turning his head, the little man said in a fierce whisper:
"Buck up, guv'nor! Get up, or they'll slice ye! 'Ere's Mr. Rooke; 'e'll see ye through it."
By this time the men were amenable to reason, and when I reminded them that Mr. Melton was Your Honour's cousin, they put aside their handjars and went about their work. I asked Mr. Melton to follow, and led the way to the Castle.
When we got close to the great entrance within the walled courtyard, we found a large number of the servants gathered, and with them many of the mountaineers, who have kept an organized guard all round the Castle ever since the abducting of the Voivodin. As both Your Honour and the Voivode were away at Plazac, the guard had for the time been doubled. When the steward came and stood in the doorway, the servants stood off somewhat, and the mountaineers drew back to the farther sides and angles of the courtyard. The Voivodin had, of course, been informed of the guest's (your cousin) coming, and came to meet him in the old custom of the Blue Mountains. As Your Honour only came to the Blue Mountains recently, and as no occasion has been since then of illustrating the custom since the Voivode was away, and the Voivodin then believed to be dead, perhaps I, who have lived here so long, may explain:
When to an old Blue Mountain house a guest comes whom it is wished to do honour, the Lady, as in the vernacular the mistress of the house is called, comes herself to meet the guest at the door--or, rather, _outside_ the door--so that she can herself conduct him within. It is a pretty ceremony, and it is said that of old in kingly days the monarch always set much store by it. The custom is that, when she approaches the honoured guest (he need not be royal), she bends--or more properly kneels--before him and kisses his hand. It has been explained by historians that the symbolism is that the woman, showing obedience to her husband, as the married woman of the Blue Mountains always does, emphasizes that obedience to her husband's guest. The custom is always observed in its largest formality when a young wife receives for the first time a guest, and especially one whom her husband wishes to honour. The Voivodin was, of course, aware that Mr. Melton was your kinsman, and naturally wished to make the ceremony of honour as marked as possible, so as to show overtly her sense of her husband's worth.
When we came into the courtyard, I held back, of course, for the honour is entirely individual, and is never extended to any other, no matter how worthy he may be. Naturally Mr. Melton did not know the etiquette of the situation, and so for that is not to be blamed. He took his valet with him when, seeing someone coming to the door, he went forward. I thought he was going to rush to his welcomer. Such, though not in the ritual, would have been natural in a young kinsman wishing to do honour to the bride of his host, and would to anyone have been both understandable and forgivable. It did not occur to me at the time, but I have since thought that perhaps he had not then heard of Your Honour's marriage, which I trust you will, in justice to the young gentleman, bear in mind when considering the matter. Unhappily, however, he did not show any such eagerness. On the contrary, he seemed to make a point of showing indifference. It seemed to me myself that he, seeing somebody wishing to make much of him, took what he considered a safe opportunity of restoring to himself his own good opinion, which must have been considerably lowered in the episode of the Wine Master's wife.
The Voivodin, thinking, doubtless, Your Honour, to add a fresh lustre to her welcome, had donned the costume which all her nation has now come to love and to accept as a dress of ceremonial honour. She wore her shroud. It moved the hearts of all of us who looked on to see it, and we appreciated its being worn for such a cause. But Mr. Melton did not seem to care. As he had been approaching she had begun to kneel, and was already on her knees whilst he was several yards away. There he stopped and turned to speak to his valet, put a glass in his eye, and looked all round him and up and down--indeed, everywhere except at the Great Lady, who was on her knees before him, waiting to bid him welcome. I could see in the eyes of such of the mountaineers as were within my range of vision a growing animosity; so, hoping to keep down any such expression, which I knew would cause harm to Your Honour and the Voivodin, I looked all round them straight in their faces with a fixed frown, which, indeed, they seemed to understand, for they regained, and for the time maintained, their usual dignified calm. The Voivodin, may I say, bore the trial wonderfully. No human being could see that she was in any degree pained or even surprised. Mr. Melton stood looking round him so long that I had full time to regain my own attitude of calm. At last he seemed to come back to the knowledge that someone was waiting for him, and sauntered leisurely forward. There was so much insolence--mind you, not insolence that was intended to appear as such--in his movement that the mountaineers began to steal forward. When he was close up to the Voivodin, and she put out her hand to take his, he put forward _one finger_! I could hear the intake of the breath of the men, now close around, for I had moved forward, too. I thought it would be as well to be close to your guest, lest something should happen to him. The Voivodin still kept her splendid self-control. Raising the finger put forward by the guest with the same deference as though it had been the hand of a King, she bent her head down and kissed it. Her duty of courtesy now done, she was preparing to rise, when he put his hand into his pocket, and, pulling out a sovereign, offered it to her. His valet moved his hand forward, as if to pull back his arm, but it was too late. I am sure, Your Honour, that no affront was intended. He doubtless thought that he was doing a kindness of the sort usual in England when one "tips" a housekeeper. But all the same, to one in her position, it was an affront, an insult, open and unmistakable. So it was received by the mountaineers, whose handjars flashed out as one. For a second it was so received even by the Voivodin, who, with face flushing scarlet, and the stars in her eves flaming red, sprang to her feet. But in that second she had regained herself, and to all appearances her righteous anger passed away. Stooping, she took the hand of her guest and raised it--you know how strong she is--and, holding it in hers, led him into the doorway, saying:
"You are welcome, kinsman of my husband, to the house of my father, which is presently my husband's also. Both are grieved that, duty having called them away for the time, they are unable to be here to help me to greet you."
I tell you, Your Honour, that it was a lesson in self-respect which anyone who saw it can never forget. As to me, it makes my flesh quiver, old as I am, with delight, and my heart leap.
May I, as a faithful servant who has had many years of experience, suggest that Your Honour should seem--for the present, at any rate--not to know any of these things which I have reported, as you wished me to do. Be sure that the Voivodin will tell you her gracious self aught that she would wish you to know. And such reticence on your part must make for her happiness, even if it did not for your own.
So that you may know all, as you desired, and that you may have time to school yourself to whatever attitude you think best to adopt, I send this off to you at once by fleet messenger. Were the aeroplane here, I should take it myself. I leave here shortly to await the arrival of Sir Colin at Otranto.
Your Honour's faithful servant, ROOKE.