Complete Works of Bram Stoker (342 page)

January
4, 1907.

I asked Mr. Rupert Sent Leger to dine with me at my office alone, as I wished to have a chat with him.  To-morrow Sir Colin and I will have a formal meeting with him for the settlement of affairs, but I thought it best to have an informal talk with him alone first, as I wished to tell him certain matters which will make our meeting to-morrow more productive of utility, as he can now have more full understanding of the subjects which we have to discuss.  Sir Colin is all that can be in manhood, and I could wish no better colleague in the executorship of this phenomenal Will; but he has not had the privilege of a lifelong friendship with the testator as I have had.  And as Rupert Sent Leger had to learn intimate details regarding his uncle, I could best make my confidences alone.  To-morrow we shall have plenty of formality.  I was delighted with Rupert.  He is just what I could have wished his mother’s boy to be  —  or a son of my own to be, had I had the good-fortune to have been a father.  But this is not for me.  I remember long, long ago reading a passage in Lamb’s Essays which hangs in my mind: “The children of Alice call Bartrum father.”  Some of my old friends would laugh to see
me
write this, but these memoranda are for my eyes alone, and no one shall see them till after my death, unless by my own permission.  The boy takes some qualities after his father; he has a daring that is disturbing to an old dryasdust lawyer like me.  But somehow I like him more than I ever liked anyone  —  any man  —  in my life  —  more even than his uncle, my old friend, Roger Melton; and Lord knows I had much cause to like him.  I have more than ever now.  It was quite delightful to see the way the young adventurer was touched by his uncle’s thought of him.  He is a truly gallant fellow, but venturesome exploits have not affected the goodness of heart.  It is a pleasure to me to think that Roger and Colin came together apropos of the boy’s thoughtful generosity towards Miss MacKelpie.  The old soldier will be a good friend to him, or I am much mistaken.  With an old lawyer like me, and an old soldier like him, and a real old gentlewoman like Miss MacKelpie, who loves the very ground he walks on, to look after him, together with all his own fine qualities and his marvellous experience of the world, and the gigantic wealth that will surely be his, that young man will go far.

Letter from Rupert Sent Leger to Miss Janet MacKelpie
,
Croom
.

January
5, 1907.

My dearest Aunt Janet,

It is all over  —  the first stage of it; and that is as far as I can get at present.  I shall have to wait for a few days  —  or it may be weeks  —  in London for the doing of certain things now necessitated by my acceptance of Uncle Roger’s bequest.  But as soon as I can, dear, I shall come down to Croom and spend with you as many days as possible.  I shall then tell you all I am at liberty to tell, and I shall thank you personally for your consent to come with me to Vissarion.  Oh, how I wish my dear mother had lived to be with us!  It would have made her happy, I know, to have come; and then we three who shared together the old dear, hard days would have shared in the same way the new splendour.  I would try to show all my love and gratitude to you both . . . You must take the whole burden of it now, dear, for you and I are alone.  No, not alone, as we used to be, for I have now two old friends who are already dear to me.  One is so to you already.  Sir Colin is simply splendid, and so, in his own way, is Mr. Trent.  I am lucky, Aunt Janet, to have two such men to think of affairs for me.  Am I not?  I shall send you a wire as soon as ever I can see my way to get through my work; and I want you to think over all the things you ever wished for in your life, so that I may  —  if there is any mortal way of doing so  —  get them for you.  You will not stand in the way of my having this great pleasure, will you, dear?  Good-bye.

Your loving
Rupert.

E. B. Trent’s Memoranda
.

January
6, 1907.

The formal meeting of Sir Colin and myself with Rupert Sent Leger went off quite satisfactorily.  From what he had said yesterday, and again last night, I had almost come to expect an unreserved acceptance of everything stated or implied in Roger Melton’s Will; but when we had sat round the table  —  this appeared, by the way, to be a formality for which we were all prepared, for we sat down as if by instinct  —  the very first words he said were:

“As I suppose I must go through this formality, I may as well say at once that I accept every possible condition which was in the mind of Uncle Roger; and to this end I am prepared to sign, seal, and deliver  —  or whatever is the ritual  —  whatever document you, sir”  —  turning to me  —  “may think necessary or advisable, and of which you both approve.”  He stood up and walked about the room for a few moments, Sir Colin and I sitting quite still, silent.  He came back to his seat, and after a few seconds of nervousness  —  a rare thing with him, I fancy  —  said: “I hope you both understand  —  of course, I know you do; I only speak because this is an occasion for formality  —  that I am willing to accept, and at once!  I do so, believe me, not to get possession of this vast fortune, but because of him who has given it.  The man who was fond of me, and who trusted me, and yet had strength to keep his own feelings in check  —  who followed me in spirit to far lands and desperate adventures, and who, though he might be across the world from me, was ready to put out a hand to save or help me, was no common man; and his care of my mother’s son meant no common love for my dear mother.  And so she and I together accept his trust, come of it what may.  I have been thinking it over all night, and all the time I could not get out of the idea that mother was somewhere near me.  The only thought that could debar me from doing as I wished to do  —  and intend to do  —  would be that she would not approve.  Now that I am satisfied she would approve, I accept.  Whatever may result or happen, I shall go on following the course that he has set for me.  So help me, God!”  Sir Colin stood up, and I must say a more martial figure I never saw.  He was in full uniform, for he was going on to the King’s levee after our business.  He drew his sword from the scabbard and laid it naked on the table before Rupert, and said:

“You are going, sir, into a strange and danger country  —  I have been reading about it since we met  —  and you will be largely alone amongst fierce mountaineers who resent the very presence of a stranger, and to whom you are, and must be, one.  If you should ever be in any trouble and want a man to stand back to back with you, I hope you will give me the honour!”  As he said this pointed to his sword.  Rupert and I were also standing now  —  one cannot sit down in the presence of such an act as that.  “You are, I am proud to say, allied with my family: and I only wish to God it was closer to myself.”  Rupert took him by the hand and bent his head before him as answered:

“The honour is mine, Sir Colin; and no greater can come to any man than that which you have just done me.  The best way I can show how I value it will be to call on you if I am ever in such a tight place.  By Jove, sir, this is history repeating itself.  Aunt Janet used to tell me when I was a youngster how MacKelpie of Croom laid his sword before Prince Charlie.  I hope I may tell her of this; it would make her so proud and happy.  Don’t imagine, sir, that I am thinking myself a Charles Edward.  It is only that Aunt Janet is so good to me that I might well think I was.”

Sir Colin bowed grandly:

“Rupert Sent Leger, my dear niece is a woman of great discretion and discernment.  And, moreover, I am thinking she has in her some of the gift of Second Sight that has been a heritage of our blood.  And I am one with my niece  —  in everything!”  The whole thing was quite regal in manner; it seemed to take me back to the days of the Pretender.

It was not, however, a time for sentiment, but for action  —  we had met regarding the future, not the past; so I produced the short document I had already prepared.  On the strength of his steadfast declaration that he would accept the terms of the Will and the secret letters, I had got ready a formal acceptance.  When I had once again formally asked Mr. Sent Leger’s wishes, and he had declared his wish to accept, I got in a couple of my clerks as witnesses.

Then, having again asked him in their presence if it was his wish to declare acceptance of the conditions, the document was signed and witnessed, Sir Colin and I both appending our signatures to the Attestation.

And so the first stage of Rupert Sent Leger’s inheritance is completed.  The next step will not have to be undertaken on my part until the expiration of six months from his entry on his estate at Vissarion.  As he announces his intention of going within a fortnight, this will mean practically a little over six months from now.

BOOK II: VISSARION

Letter from Rupert Sent Leger
,
Castle of Vissarion
,
the Spear of Ivan
,
Land of the Blue Mountains
,
to Miss Janet MacKelpie
,
Croom Castle
,
Ross-shire
,
N.B.

January
23, 1907.

My dearest Aunt Janet,

As you see, I am here at last.  Having got my formal duty done, as you made me promise  —  my letters reporting arrival to Sir Colin and Mr. Trent are lying sealed in front of me ready to post (for nothing shall go before yours)  —  I am free to speak to you.

This is a most lovely place, and I hope you will like it.  I am quite sure you will.  We passed it in the steamer coming from Trieste to Durazzo.  I knew the locality from the chart, and it was pointed out to me by one of the officers with whom I had become quite friendly, and who kindly showed me interesting places whenever we got within sight of shore.  The Spear of Ivan, on which the Castle stands, is a headland running well out into the sea.  It is quite a peculiar place  —  a sort of headland on a headland, jutting out into a deep, wide bay, so that, though it is a promontory, it is as far away from the traffic of coast life as anything you can conceive.  The main promontory is the end of a range of mountains, and looms up vast, towering over everything, a mass of sapphire blue.  I can well understand how the country came to be called the “Land of the Blue Mountains,” for it is all mountains, and they are all blue!  The coast-line is magnificent  —  what is called “iron-bound”  —  being all rocky; sometimes great frowning precipices; sometimes jutting spurs of rock; again little rocky islets, now and again clad with trees and verdure, at other places stark and bare.  Elsewhere are little rocky bays and indentations  —  always rock, and often with long, interesting caves.  Some of the shores of the bays are sandy, or else ridges of beautiful pebbles, where the waves make endless murmur.

But of all the places I have seen  —  in this land or any other  —  the most absolutely beautiful is Vissarion.  It stands at the ultimate point of the promontory  —  I mean the little, or, rather, lesser promontory  —  that continues on the spur of the mountain range.  For the lesser promontory or extension of the mountain is in reality vast; the lowest bit of cliff along the sea-front is not less than a couple of hundred feet high.  That point of rock is really very peculiar.  I think Dame Nature must, in the early days of her housekeeping  —  or, rather, house-
building
  —  have intended to give her little child, man, a rudimentary lesson in self-protection.  It is just a natural bastion such as a titanic Vauban might have designed in primeval times.  So far as the Castle is concerned, it is alone visible from the sea.  Any enemy approaching could see only that frowning wall of black rock, of vast height and perpendicular steepness.  Even the old fortifications which crown it are not built, but cut in the solid rock.  A long narrow creek of very deep water, walled in by high, steep cliffs, runs in behind the Castle, bending north and west, making safe and secret anchorage.  Into the creek falls over a precipice a mountain-stream, which never fails in volume of water.  On the western shore of that creek is the Castle, a huge pile of buildings of every style of architecture, from the Twelfth century to where such things seemed to stop in this dear old-world land  —  about the time of Queen Elizabeth.  So it is pretty picturesque.  I can tell you.  When we got the first glimpse of the place from the steamer the officer, with whom I was on the bridge, pointed towards it and said:

“That is where we saw the dead woman floating in a coffin.”  That was rather interesting, so I asked him all about it.  He took from his pocket-book a cutting from an Italian paper, which he handed to me.  As I can read and speak Italian fairly well, it was all right; but as you, my dear Aunt Janet, are not skilled in languages, and as I doubt if there is any assistance of the kind to be had at Croom, I do not send it.  But as I have heard that the item has been produced in the last number of
The Journal of Occultism
, you will be easily able to get it.  As he handed me the cutting he said: “I am Destilia!”  His story was so strange that I asked him a good many questions about it.  He answered me quite frankly on every point, but always adhering stoutly to the main point  —  namely, that it was no phantom or mirage, no dream or imperfect vision in a fog.  “We were four in all who saw it,” he said  —  “three from the bridge and the Englishman, Caulfield  —  from the bows  —  whose account exactly agreed with what we saw.  Captain Mirolani and Falamano and I were all awake and in good trim.  We looked with our night-glasses, which are more than usually powerful.  You know, we need good glasses for the east shore of the Adriatic and for among the islands to the south.  There was a full moon and a brilliant light.  Of course we were a little way off, for though the Spear of Ivan is in deep water, one has to be careful of currents, for it is in just such places that the dangerous currents run.”  The agent of Lloyd’s told me only a few weeks ago that it was only after a prolonged investigation of the tidal and sea currents that the house decided to except from ordinary sea risks losses due to a too close course by the Spear of Ivan.  When I tried to get a little more definite account of the coffin-boat and the dead lady that is given in
The Journal of Occultism
he simply shrugged his shoulders.  “Signor, it is all,” he said.  “That Englishman wrote everything after endless questioning.”