Complete Works of Bram Stoker (133 page)

“Rafe!”

She understood now his determination; his growing restlessness; whence came the money he lavished so freely. She pieced together the fragments of her fears on each occasion when her lover had gone away, and when he had returned. She understood now the motive of that visit to the North, and of that “private affair” which had taken him along the Portsmouth road at such a fatal time; and with a terror and pain unspeakable she realised the import of that coming journey towards Cambridge when the treasure of the New River Company was to be taken to Ware by way of Bishop’s Stortford which was on the Cambridge road. All had come to,her as if revealed in a moment, as one sees through after years of blindness the figures standing stark in the last-seen terrible glare of the lightning-flash. She wondered how she could ever have been so blind as not to have seen all long ago; for there was no doubt now, and it seemed to her, in the anguish of her excited mind, that there never had been any.

She would have given worlds to have been able to confide her troubles to any one; but such a thing was impossible  —  no human being must ever know. The horror and the shame must be hers alone; and further evil must be averted at all cost. There was no doubt in her mind; no flickering ash of a hope. No voice of the unseen could persuade her that her conclusion was untrue. “Would to God it were!” she thought, in a blind anguish. Ah no! it was all so clear, as though written in fire on the wall by that same hand which of old had swept the gaiety from Belshazzar’s feast.

Betty rose and knelt beside her bed. She threw her white arms stretched out in front of her and hid her face in the snowy napery. She prayed till her eyes seemed full of fire and she thought that her heart would break with anguish. Clasping her hands above her head she looked up as though her vision could pierce through the roof and the sky beyond so that God Himself might see her anguish and have pity on her and send her help. But these wild bursts of passionate prayer gave no sensible relief; her arms fell by her side, and her sweet face lay on the white counterpane like snow on snow, till the light of the morning stealing in through the curtains of her chamber window caught the beautiful Greek lines of her profile and lit the deep, earnest eyes with the resolve of action that comes with the waking day.

Betty did not realise it then, but perhaps for all she knew her silent cry of anguish did pierce through the roof and sky and come as a sweeter gift than any burnt offering before the Throne of the Most High. The burnt offering of charred flesh is poor indeed before the renunciation of the soul that pain has burned and purified and made a worthy gift to the Creator of mankind!

“Thou delightest not in burnt offerings. The sacrifice of God is a troubled spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, shalt Thou not despise.”

CHAPTER VI

PREPARATIONS FOR THE JOURNEY

IN the long vigil of that night Betty’s course was resolved upon. She seemed to see her duty clear before her. She would go forth herself and reclaim the man she loved  —  the man whose heart seemed to beat in her own breast and who carried with him all her love. Unworthy though he had proved, she loved him still; and as even he had given her life to her, so if need be should that life be given for him in return. She thought over the whole matter; and as she thought, the, way seemed to open to her. Every detail of the coming trial rose before her mind, so that ultimately she was satisfied as to where she should go, what she should do, and how she should bear herself so as to keep her purpose hidden.

It was now the morning of Wednesday, and no time was to be lost. When she came down to breakfast her aunt noticed how pale she was and was much concerned for her. As a rule Betty did not yield to small ills but turned them aside and battled through them in her own quiet way; but to-day she acquiesced in the alarm of her aunt. The latter said presently  — 

“You must have change of air, Betty. I will write to my sister at Much Hadam and tell her to prepare for us; and next week we will go there to stay for a month or two.”

To which Betty replied  — 

“Oh! Aunt Priscilla, I have been longing to see the dear old house and the trees and all.

I know it will do me so much good. I want to go at once; let us go to-day.”

“Lord-a-mercy child!” said the elder lady, “how can we go at once, when I have arranged for Monday to have the painters here to choose the colours for the repainting?”

“Then let me go, aunt! I am sick to go.” “How could you go alone, child?”

“Why, aunt,”  —  and Betty smiled  —  ”it is only a part of a day’s ride. I shall take Robin with with me, and shall stay the night with Cousin Hester at Finsbury Square. I can then do some shopping, and go in the morning to Much Hadam.”

“I fear to let you go all alone, ‘my child. Remember all these terrible things of footpads and highwaymen, that have been going on of late.”

“Not more than usual, aunt! Those wicked folk have never ceased their ways that I have heard tell of. But I have no fear of footpads or highwaymen, and we go an open way with many travellers to Bishop’s Stortford. Thence it is only a step, and through byways where it is never worth a highwayman’s while to stop. He would starve for all the travellers there!” Aunt Priscilla was not convinced; but she saw no way to an effective answer, so she said  —  “Well, as you will, child! But when would you go?”

“I thought in the morning.”

“Dear me! dear me! but that leaves little time to prepare.”

“But, aunt, I want to go! My mind is made up, and it will fret me if I am disappointed.” This settled the matter. Aunt Priscilla looked at the sweet, pale face, and came over and kissed her, and said  — 

“Please God, dear, the change will do you good. You shall have your wish, and go in the morning,” and she hurried off to consult with Abigail as to the preparation of Betty’s valise.

Though she had conciliated her aunt, Betty was not yet free from domestic obstruction  —  Abigail had still to be reckoned with; but this she expected and was prepared for. With the freedom and directness of an old servant, Abigail entered on her task. She burst into the room, almost at the charge, and began  — 

“What’s all this nonsense, Miss, that Miss Priscilla tells me about your going to Much Hadam all by yourself, and all at once, like this, without a stitch of clothes to your back ready, and not so much as a valise even aired! What are things coming to, I wonder?  —  though why should I wonder, when young ladies nowadays do just as they like and as their mothers wouldn’t have ventured to have done in my time? and why should you keep such a thing in your mind away from the nurse that loved and reared you and took you from the arms of your dear dead mother and did for you ever since? And now you put this on her that she don’t know no more of your movements and intentions than the maids themselves. I’m astonished at you, Miss Betty! That I am, sure and true; and sorry I am this day!” and the good soul burst out into tears, refusing for a while to be comforted. Betty had let her run on till she had said her say, for this she knew to be not merely the wisest but the only plan. Now she made her answer in her own way. The beginning was purely pacific. She went over to Abigail and put her arms round her and nestled close to her, and with her own pocket-handkerchief wiped away her tears. This Abigail resented at the first, and then wouldn’t allow, saying sobbingly that she wasn’t worthy to have her eyes dried by her young mistress  —  a young lady that was so great that she couldn’t see any differ betwixt the maids and them that had to keep them in order. But Betty persevered, and the summer shower was soon past. Then Betty made her sit down, and sat on her knee and asked her if she remembered when she, Betty, was a little child and used to come and sit on her, Abigail’s, knee and be comforted. So what could the old woman do but hug her close to her, and tell her again how well she recalled those days? And then, remembering to be depressed at something, she added that such times were all past now, and that young children had grown up to be fine ladies, and made as though to put her off her knees and to rise respectfully  —  but all the time holding her tighter than ever. So Betty put her face against hers and said  — 

“Abigail, I am a little child again, and I want to go away in the morning. Long ago, when I wanted anything and was denied it, I came to you; and you never denied me. And now when I want to go in the morning, and to go peacefully, for I am feeling ill and in low spirits, and will be miserable if I leave you all discontented behind me, I ask you, Abigail, to help me again! You must help me, dear, and cheer me up. Look at me, Abigail, and let my old nurse say if I am not ill and do not want a change.” So Abigail looked, and suddenly caught her in her arms and told her how her poor, pale face made her miserable; and that she should go away that very hour if she wished it, if she, Abigail, had to work her fingers to the very bone to enable her to do so. And so the old accord was established, and one more willing heart and two more willing hands aided in all love in furthering Betty’s wishes.

All that day Betty went as one in a dream  —  that is, so far as her own conscious thought was concerned, for to all the others she was as usual, only that there was an added sweetness in her every act and thought. To-day everything with her was an impulse, a spontaneous carrying out of a settled purpose  —  something already ordained and quite outside herself. Part of the day she spent in the drawing-room busy at her escretoire, reading old letters and tearing up many of them, the pieces of which she afterwards burned. Now and then she sat at the spinet and sang over some of the old songs that she loved, and that Rafe said he liked to hear; but they gave her no pain now, and though she sang all the most touching of them she did not shed a tear. Last of all her work in the drawing-room, she wrote out a paper, very short and evidently the result of much thought. This she sealed carefully and put away in an interior drawer which had a lock of its own. In her bedroom she went through her dresses with Abigail and chose out a few, a very few, to carry in her valise; the rest she said were to follow when Aunt Priscilla and Abigail came on to Much Hadam. In the afternoon she laid down for awhile and slept; in the cool of the evening she went out for a walk by herself on the river bank. One by one she visited all the spots associated in her mind with Rafe; the place above the Swan Inn where he had saved her life, and then where he had helped her on shore; the little peninsula where the great trees grew, where they had walked and sat and exchanged thoughts and silences; and the grove of trees near the marshes where he had given her the gold buttons with the legend that she so loved wrought on them. Here she remained for a long time, standing still as if carved out of stone. The red glare of the sunset fell full upon her smiting her pale face and snowy garments till from head to foot she looked as if dipped in blood. Her thoughts were very peaceful; her mind was made up, and all that remained to her was the doing of her task.

And so once again the sun dropped into the far reaches of the river beyond the marshes, and the silver and gold of the stream and pools grew grey in the shadows of the evening, and the chill of the coming night crept over the river and its banks; and Betty went home.

Abigail had tested for supper that evening all the powers of the kitchen. She had determined that Miss Betty should not lack choice of such things as she generally liked, so that there was a rare display of tasty dishes on the table. Betty tried to acknowledge her thoughtfulness, and took from many of the dishes; and so, although feeling no relish for her food, made in the end a hearty meal. Then she said goodnight to her aunt and thanked her for all her goodness, and also Abigail, till the two elderly women thought that she was getting afraid of the journey before her, and once more urged her to wait or to have a proper escort. But she laughed their doubts aside and told them she had no fear; that she only said goodbye at all because she was going on a journey and should have to leave them even for a short time. All at once Abigail asked  — 

“But when Master Rafe comes, Miss Betty, what am I to tell him?”

To which she answered  — 

“Of course you will tell him that I have gone to Much Hadam to rest awhile and have change of air, and that if he should see well to ride down, my Aunt Edith will be most delighted  —  and that I shall be glad too!” and Betty slipped away to her room and locked her door.

Then she opened the valise that Abigail had so carefully packed, and took out one of the dresses that was ready in it  —  a beautiful dress of figured Italian silk. This she put away in one of the wardrobes, under some other clothes, so that Abigail’s sharp eyes should not notice it at once, and in its stead she packed the white lawn dress which she had worn that day on the river when Rafe had rescued her. It had been so carefully washed that it was just as it had been and as fair as then. She made two other additions to the mail, hiding them amongst the things already packed lest some chance should reveal them. One was the box containing the gold buttons, and the other a short, sharp dagger in a shagreen sheath which had always used to lie on the dressing-table of her great-grandfather to serve, if required, as an arm against thieves. Lastly, she made the packing complete so that only a few toilet articles used in the morning would have to be added before the time for strapping up came. Then having undressed, she knelt and prayed for a long, long time, and arose and went to bed, where she at once fell asleep and slept well all through the night.

All this time she appeared to have no concern, no mental disturbance or perturbation of any kind, and there never seemed to come into her mind even the shadow of a doubt as to Rafe. Truly the intuition of a woman is a divine thing, and complete with the calm perfection of things beyond earth. Each act of the day seemed to have its definite and fore-appointed plan  —  to be part of a scheme of things already arranged. When she slept she lay with her hands meekly folded over her breast, just as a saint or a martyr  —  who is the best of saints  —  is represented in stone. Very sweet and very pure she looked, and the pallor and repose of her face seemed like peaceful death; the white drapery of her bed lay in classic folds to suit the antique beauty of her profile. Only the golden brown hair, which Praxiteles himself could not have chiselled, the eyelids drooped in sleep, and the gently heaving bosom, showed her to belong to the real world and not already to the land of dreams.