The Lady of the Shroud - Bram Stoker (phonics reader txt) 📗

in my death and his own at the

hands of the mountaineers, who are beyond everything loyal, and were

jealous to the last degree. An attack by Turkey was feared, and new

armaments were required; and the patriotic Voivode was sacrificing

his own great fortune for the public good. What a sacrifice this was

he well knew, for in all discussions regarding a possible change in

the Constitution of the Blue Mountains it was always taken for

granted that if the principles of the Constitution should change to a

more personal rule, his own family should be regarded as the Most

Noble. It had ever been on the side of freedom in olden time; before

the establishment of the Council, or even during the rule of the

Voivodes, the Vissarion had every now and again stood out against the

King or challenged the Princedom. The very name stood for freedom,

for nationality, against foreign oppression; and the bold

mountaineers were devoted to it, as in other free countries men

follow the flag.

 

Such loyalty was a power and a help in the land, for it knew danger

in every form; and anything which aided the cohesion of its integers

was a natural asset. On every side other powers, great and small,

pressed the land, anxious to acquire its suzerainty by any means—

fraud or force. Greece, Turkey, Austria, Russia, Italy, France, had

all tried in vain. Russia, often hurled back, was waiting an

opportunity to attack. Austria and Greece, although united by no

common purpose or design, were ready to throw in their forces with

whomsoever might seem most likely to be victor. Other Balkan States,

too, were not lacking in desire to add the little territory of the

Blue Mountains to their more ample possessions. Albania, Dalmatia,

Herzegovina, Servia, Bulgaria, looked with lustful eyes on the land,

which was in itself a vast natural fortress, having close under its

shelter perhaps the finest harbour between Gibraltar and the

Dardanelles.

 

But the fierce, hardy mountaineers were unconquerable. For centuries

they had fought, with a fervour and fury that nothing could withstand

or abate, attacks on their independence. Time after time, century

after century, they had opposed with dauntless front invading armies

sent against them. This unquenchable fire of freedom had had its

effect. One and all, the great Powers knew that to conquer that

little nation would be no mean task, but rather that of a tireless

giant. Over and over again had they fought with units against

hundreds, never ceasing until they had either wiped out their foes

entirely or seen them retreat across the frontier in diminished

numbers.

 

For many years past, however, the Land of the Blue Mountains had

remained unassailable, for all the Powers and States had feared lest

the others should unite against the one who should begin the attack.

 

At the time I speak of there was a feeling throughout the Blue

Mountains—and, indeed, elsewhere—that Turkey was preparing for a

war of offence. The objective of her attack was not known anywhere,

but here there was evidence that the Turkish “Bureau of Spies” was in

active exercise towards their sturdy little neighbour. To prepare

for this, the Voivode Peter Vissarion approached me in order to

obtain the necessary “sinews of war.”

 

The situation was complicated by the fact that the Elective Council

was at present largely held together by the old Greek Church, which

was the religion of the people, and which had had since the beginning

its destinies linked in a large degree with theirs. Thus it was

possible that if a war should break out, it might easily become—

whatever might have been its cause or beginnings—a war of creeds.

This in the Balkans must be largely one of races, the end of which no

mind could diagnose or even guess at.

 

I had now for some time had knowledge of the country and its people,

and had come to love them both. The nobility of Vissarion’s self-sacrifice at once appealed to me, and I felt that I, too, should like

to have a hand in the upholding of such a land and such a people.

They both deserved freedom. When Vissarion handed me the completed

deed of sale I was going to tear it up; but he somehow recognized my

intention, and forestalled it. He held up his hand arrestingly as he

said:

 

“I recognize your purpose, and, believe me, I honour you for it from

the very depths of my soul. But, my friend, it must not be. Our

mountaineers are proud beyond belief. Though they would allow me—

who am one of themselves, and whose fathers have been in some way

leaders and spokesmen amongst them for many centuries—to do all that

is in my power to do—and what, each and all, they would be glad to

do were the call to them—they would not accept aid from one outside

themselves. My good friend, they would resent it, and might show to

you, who wish us all so well, active hostility, which might end in

danger, or even death. That was why, my friend, I asked to put a

clause in our agreement, that I might have right to repurchase my

estate, regarding which you would fain act so generously.”

 

Thus it is, my dear nephew Rupert, only son of my dear sister, that I

hereby charge you solemnly as you value me—as you value yourself—as

you value honour, that, should it ever become known that that noble

Voivode, Peter Vissarion, imperilled himself for his country’s good,

and if it be of danger or evil repute to him that even for such a

purpose he sold his heritage, you shall at once and to the knowledge

of the mountaineers—though not necessarily to others—reconvey to

him or his heirs the freehold that he was willing to part with—and

that he has de facto parted with by the effluxion of the time during

which his right of repurchase existed. This is a secret trust and

duty which is between thee and me alone in the first instance; a duty

which I have undertaken on behalf of my heirs, and which must be

carried out, at whatsoever cost may ensue. You must not take it that

it is from any mistrust of you or belief that you will fail that I

have taken another measure to insure that this my cherished idea is

borne out. Indeed, it is that the law may, in case of need—for no

man can know what may happen after his own hand be taken from the

plough—be complied with, that I have in another letter written for

the guidance of others, directed that in case of any failure to carry

out this trust—death or other—the direction become a clause or

codicil to my Will. But in the meantime I wish that this be kept a

secret between us two. To show you the full extent of my confidence,

let me here tell you that the letter alluded to above is marked “C,”

and directed to my solicitor and co-executor, Edward Bingham Trent,

which is finally to be regarded as clause eleven of my Will. To

which end he has my instructions and also a copy of this letter,

which is, in case of need, and that only, to be opened, and is to be

a guide to my wishes as to the carrying out by you of the conditions

on which you inherit.

 

And now, my dear nephew, let me change to another subject more dear

to me—yourself. When you read this I shall have passed away, so

that I need not be hampered now by that reserve which I feel has

grown upon me through a long and self-contained life. Your mother

was very dear to me. As you know, she was twenty years younger than

her youngest brother, who was two years younger than me. So we were

all young men when she was a baby, and, I need not say, a pet amongst

us—almost like our own child to each of us, as well as our sister.

You knew her sweetness and high quality, so I need say nothing of

these; but I should like you to understand that she was very dear to

me. When she and your father came to know and love each other I was

far away, opening up a new branch of business in the interior of

China, and it was not for several months that I got home news. When

I first heard of him they had already been married. I was delighted

to find that they were very happy. They needed nothing that I could

give. When he died so suddenly I tried to comfort her, and all I had

was at her disposal, did she want it. She was a proud woman—though

not with me. She had come to understand that, though I seemed cold

and hard (and perhaps was so generally), I was not so to her. But

she would not have help of any kind. When I pressed her, she told me

that she had enough for your keep and education and her own

sustenance for the time she must still live; that your father and she

had agreed that you should be brought up to a healthy and strenuous

life rather than to one of luxury; and she thought that it would be

better for the development of your character that you should learn to

be self-reliant and to be content with what your dear father had left

you. She had always been a wise and thoughtful girl, and now all her

wisdom and thought were for you, your father’s and her child. When

she spoke of you and your future, she said many things which I

thought memorable. One of them I remember to this day. It was

apropos of my saying that there is a danger of its own kind in

extreme poverty. A young man might know too much want. She answered

me: “True! That is so! But there is a danger that overrides it;”

and after a time went on:

 

“It is better not to know wants than not to know want!” I tell you,

boy, that is a great truth, and I hope you will remember it for

yourself as well as a part of the wisdom of your mother. And here

let me say something else which is a sort of corollary of that wise

utterance:

 

I dare say you thought me very hard and unsympathetic that time I

would not, as one of your trustees, agree to your transferring your

little fortune to Miss MacKelpie. I dare say you bear a grudge

towards me about it up to this day. Well, if you have any of that

remaining, put it aside when you know the truth. That request of

yours was an unspeakable delight to me. It was like your mother

coming back from the dead. That little letter of yours made me wish

for the first time that I had a son—and that he should be like you.

I fell into a sort of reverie, thinking if I were yet too old to

marry, so that a son might be with me in my declining years—if such

were to ever be for me. But I concluded that this might not be.

There was no woman whom I knew or had ever met with that I could love

as your mother loved your father and as he loved her. So I resigned

myself to my fate. I must go my lonely road on to the end. And then

came a ray of light into my darkness: there was you. Though you

might not feel like a son to me—I could not expect it when the

memory of that sweet relationship was more worthily filled. But I

could feel like a father to you. Nothing could