The Lady of the Shroud, Bram Stoker [most life changing books .txt] 📗
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THE LADY OF THE SHROUD
by Bram Stoker
FROM “THE JOURNAL OF OCCULTISM”
MID-JANUARY, 1907.
A strange story comes from the Adriatic. It appears that on the
night of the 9th, as the Italia Steamship Company’s vessel
“Victorine” was passing a little before midnight the point known as
“the Spear of Ivan,” on the coast of the Blue Mountains, the
attention of the Captain, then on the bridge, was called by the lookout man to a tiny floating light close inshore. It is the custom of
some South-going ships to run close to the Spear of Ivan in fine
weather, as the water is deep, and there is no settled current; also
there are no outlying rocks. Indeed, some years ago the local
steamers had become accustomed to hug the shore here so closely that
an intimation was sent from Lloyd’s that any mischance under the
circumstances would not be included in ordinary sea risks. Captain
Mirolani is one of those who insist on a wholesome distance from the
promontory being kept; but on his attention having been called to the
circumstance reported, he thought it well to investigate it, as it
might be some case of personal distress. Accordingly, he had the
engines slowed down, and edged cautiously in towards shore. He was
joined on the bridge by two of his officers, Signori Falamano and
Destilia, and by one passenger on board, Mr. Peter Caulfield, whose
reports of Spiritual Phenomena in remote places are well known to the
readers of “The Journal of Occultism.” The following account of the
strange occurrence written by him, and attested by the signatures of
Captain Mirolani and the other gentleman named, has been sent to us.
” … It was eleven minutes before twelve midnight on Saturday, the
9th day of January, 1907, when I saw the strange sight off the
headland known as the Spear of Ivan on the coast of the Land of the
Blue Mountains. It was a fine night, and I stood right on the bows
of the ship, where there was nothing to obstruct my view. We were
some distance from the Spear of Ivan, passing from northern to
southern point of the wide bay into which it projects. Captain
Mirolani, the Master, is a very careful seaman, and gives on his
journeys a wide berth to the bay which is tabooed by Lloyd’s. But
when he saw in the moonlight, though far off, a tiny white figure of
a woman drifting on some strange current in a small boat, on the prow
of which rested a faint light (to me it looked like a corpse-candle!), he thought it might be some person in distress, and began
to cautiously edge towards it. Two of his officers were with him on
the bridge—Signori Falamano and Destilia. All these three, as well
as myself, saw It. The rest of the crew and passengers were below.
As we got close the true inwardness of It became apparent to me; but
the mariners did not seem to realize till the very last. This is,
after all, not strange, for none of them had either knowledge or
experience in Occult matters, whereas for over thirty years I have
made a special study of this subject, and have gone to and fro over
the earth investigating to the nth all records of Spiritual
Phenomena. As I could see from their movements that the officers did
not comprehend that which was so apparent to myself, I took care not
to enlighten them, lest such should result in the changing of the
vessel’s course before I should be near enough to make accurate
observation. All turned out as I wished—at least, nearly so—as
shall be seen. Being in the bow, I had, of course, a better view
than from the bridge. Presently I made out that the boat, which had
all along seemed to be of a queer shape, was none other than a
Coffin, and that the woman standing up in it was clothed in a shroud.
Her back was towards us, and she had evidently not heard our
approach. As we were creeping along slowly, the engines were almost
noiseless, and there was hardly a ripple as our fore-foot cut the
dark water. Suddenly there was a wild cry from the bridge—Italians
are certainly very excitable; hoarse commands were given to the
Quartermaster at the wheel; the engine-room bell clanged. On the
instant, as it seemed, the ship’s head began to swing round to
starboard; full steam ahead was in action, and before one could
understand, the Apparition was fading in the distance. The last
thing I saw was the flash of a white face with dark, burning eyes as
the figure sank down into the coffin—just as mist or smoke
disappears under a breeze.”
BOOK I: THE WILL OF ROGER MELTON
THE READING OF THE WILL OF ROGER MELTON AND ALL THAT FOLLOWED
Record made by Ernest Roger Halbard Melton, law-student of the Inner
Temple, eldest son of Ernest Halbard Melton, eldest son of Ernest
Melton, elder brother of the said Roger Melton and his next of kin.
I consider it at least useful—perhaps necessary—to have a complete
and accurate record of all pertaining to the Will of my late grand-uncle Roger Melton.
To which end let me put down the various members of his family, and
explain some of their occupations and idiosyncrasies. My father,
Ernest Halbard Melton, was the only son of Ernest Melton, eldest son
of Sir Geoffrey Halbard Melton of Humcroft, in the shire of Salop, a
Justice of the Peace, and at one time Sheriff. My great-grandfather,
Sir Geoffrey, had inherited a small estate from his father, Roger
Melton. In his time, by the way, the name was spelled Milton; but my
great-great-grandfather changed the spelling to the later form, as he
was a practical man not given to sentiment, and feared lest he should
in the public eye be confused with others belonging to the family of
a Radical person called Milton, who wrote poetry and was some sort of
official in the time of Cromwell, whilst we are Conservatives. The
same practical spirit which originated the change in the spelling of
the family name inclined him to go into business. So he became,
whilst still young, a tanner and leather-dresser. He utilized for
the purpose the ponds and streams, and also the oak-woods on his
estate—Torraby in Suffolk. He made a fine business, and accumulated
a considerable fortune, with a part of which he purchased the
Shropshire estate, which he entailed, and to which I am therefore
heir-apparent.
Sir Geoffrey had, in addition to my grandfather, three sons and a
daughter, the latter being born twenty years after her youngest
brother. These sons were: Geoffrey, who died without issue, having
been killed in the Indian Mutiny at Meerut in 1857, at which he took
up a sword, though a civilian, to fight for his life; Roger (to whom
I shall refer presently); and John—the latter, like Geoffrey, dying
unmarried. Out of Sir Geoffrey’s family of five, therefore, only
three have to be considered: My grandfather, who had three children,
two of whom, a son and a daughter, died young, leaving only my
father, Roger and Patience. Patience, who was born in 1858, married
an Irishman of the name of Sellenger—which was the usual way of
pronouncing the name of St. Leger, or, as they spelled it, Sent
Leger—restored by later generations to the still older form. He was
a reckless, dare-devil sort of fellow, then a Captain in the Lancers,
a man not without the quality of bravery—he won the Victoria Cross
at the Battle of Amoaful in the Ashantee Campaign. But I fear he
lacked the seriousness and steadfast strenuous purpose which my
father always says marks the character of our own family. He ran
through nearly all of his patrimony—never a very large one; and had
it not been for my grand-aunt’s little fortune, his days, had he
lived, must have ended in comparative poverty. Comparative, not
actual; for the Meltons, who are persons of considerable pride, would
not have tolerated a poverty-stricken branch of the family. We don’t
think much of that lot—any of us.
Fortunately, my great-aunt Patience had only one child, and the
premature decease of Captain St. Leger (as I prefer to call the name)
did not allow of the possibility of her having more. She did not
marry again, though my grandmother tried several times to arrange an
alliance for her. She was, I am told, always a stiff, uppish person,
who would not yield herself to the wisdom of her superiors. Her own
child was a son, who seemed to take his character rather from his
father’s family than from my own. He was a wastrel and a rolling
stone, always in scrapes at school, and always wanting to do
ridiculous things. My father, as Head of the House and his own
senior by eighteen years, tried often to admonish him; but his
perversity of spirit and his truculence were such that he had to
desist. Indeed, I have heard my father say that he sometimes
threatened his life. A desperate character he was, and almost devoid
of reverence. No one, not even my father, had any influence—good
influence, of course, I mean—over him, except his mother, who was of
my family; and also a woman who lived with her—a sort of governess—
aunt, he called her. The way of it was this: Captain St. Leger had
a younger brother, who made an improvident marriage with a Scotch
girl when they were both very young. They had nothing to live on
except what the reckless Lancer gave them, for he had next to nothing
himself, and she was “bare”—which is, I understand, the indelicate
Scottish way of expressing lack of fortune. She was, however, I
understand, of an old and somewhat good family, though broken in
fortune—to use an expression which, however, could hardly be used
precisely in regard to a family or a person who never had fortune to
be broken in! It was so far well that the MacKelpies—that was the
maiden name of Mrs. St. Leger—were reputable—so far as fighting was
concerned. It would have been too humiliating to have allied to our
family, even on the distaff side, a family both poor and of no
account. Fighting alone does not make a family, I think. Soldiers
are not everything, though they think they are. We have had in our
family men who fought; but I never heard of any of them who fought
because they WANTED to. Mrs. St. Leger had a sister; fortunately
there were only those two children in the family, or else they would
all have had to be supported by the money of my family.
Mr. St. Leger, who was only a subaltern, was killed at Maiwand; and
his wife was left a beggar. Fortunately, however, she died—her
sister spread a story that it was from the shock and grief—before
the child which she expected was born. This all happened when my
cousin—or, rather, my father’s cousin, my first-cousin-once-removed,
to be accurate—was still a very small child. His mother then sent
for Miss MacKelpie, her brother-in-law’s sister-in-law, to come and
live with her, which she did—beggars can’t be choosers; and she
helped to bring up young St. Leger.
I remember once my father giving me a sovereign for making a witty
remark
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