Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  Here Betty interrupted a moment by an eloquent, grateful look and a squeeze of her hand; the old man smiled and spoke more cheerfully as he went on —

  “At the first, my dear, I did think that he was grateful, for there was a look in his face that you would have loved to see there; but an instant after it was lost in a very sad look — a white, sad look, my dear, that made me think that he has some trouble that he is bearing all by himself. My heart opened to him as though he was a boy of my own. It was partly for your sake, Betty, and I was in hopes that hereafter he and I might be more to each other. But in an instant after he broke out into a hard laugh that dried me up like a touch of the east wind and he said, as coolly and as insolently as ever I heard words spoke, but, my dear, with all his own elegance of word and manner:

  ‘Thank you much, good sir, but when I want advice or money I shall not fail to apprise you of the fact.’ I suppose he saw my disappointment in my face, for after a pause he said: ‘ Do not think me rude or ungrateful, dear sir, but in such matters I am apt to be proud and hard. I have so long had to advise myself and to provide for my wants in my own way, that I am perhaps too wishful to stand alone and to continue in my own course.’ And so, Betty, sure I am that the young man has some trouble that he wraps up in his pride away from the eyes of others; and so I am come to advise with you.”

  Both were silent for a little while. Betty had now taken the old gentleman’s arm and was leaning on it heavily enough. Poor child! her knees seemed to have grown weak, and it was a comfort to her to have something to lean on in her distress. Presently she said —

  “What can I do, cousin? What can I do?”

  “I thought that so gay and gallant a young gentleman would listen with more patience to so sweet a young lady as you are, and whom he loves so fondly” — Betty was grateful for this, though she doubted the Alderman’s sincerity in making the statement, and smiled at him as he went on — ”than he did to an old merchant like myself. These young bloods seem to forget that we are men like themselves, and that we feel passion even if we do not show it, or wear swords with the intention of using them on our kind.”

  Betty could not but feel that the successful man of business had a little class jealousy rankling in his mind, and somehow it raised Rafe in her esteem. She did not, of course, show any of the feeling; indeed, she was too distressed to show any feeling but the one — her concern regarding Rafe. Alderman Fenton went on —

  “You know, my dear, that when your engagement was told us, we trustees made inquiries, and found that Mr. Otwell had realised his patrimony and had come into the Temple; so now when he spends money in the way he does I cannot but think that there is something wrong. There is so much gambling nowadays, and so many young men like him fling away their fortunes over the dice that maybe he picks up some of what their folly loses. In any case it is but a poor thing; and if it be so, we had better look to it lest the happiness of your life be thrown away. A gambler, my dear, is but a sorry mate for such a girl as you.”

  Again Betty’s heart seemed to stop. Here was almost a’ confirmation of her worst fears, but, hoping against hope, she pleaded once more for her lover —

  “Oh! I trust this is not so. It cannot be! May not there be some other way, cousin, by which Rafe can get such money as he spends?”

  “There may,” said the merchant. “He can borrow money. There are sharks who prey on the needs of youngsters like him, and lend a little that they may take back a deal. But the debtors’ prison lies that way. Nay! Betty, my dear, do not be frightened! Sit ye down awhile. There, dear heart, you are all right now. Why, rather than see him in a prison I would for your sake pay away half my fortune. I fear, my dear, that I have done wrong to tell you so much; but, truth to tell, I did not know which way to turn.” Before Betty’s eyes had all along been the face of her lover as he had refused her offer of help: “I cannot take a gift; I am a gentleman!” She thought that she understood Rafe’s pride, and how it dominated him in his interview with the Alderman, in whose eyes he wished, of course, for her sake, to appear at his best; and’ in her eyes his pride was his best. So she answered the old man very tenderly —

  “Indeed, cousin, you have done quite right. I will find out thesis things direct on the next occasion that may be; and then I will consult with you. You will forgive me being so — so weak, will you not? I do not feel very strong lately. I think I want change of air, and shall presently go to Much Hadam and rest awhile. The air there always seems to do me good.”

  “My dear girl, I am sure you want a change. But you must be careful how you go; these quiet times seem to have grown a new crop of highwaymen, and but few of our roads are safe. Indeed, the Cambridge road seems infested, for of late there have been many daring robberies; and when you go through Essex and Hertford you must be more than careful.”

  “Oh, I don’t fear highwaymen, cousin. It is not people like me whom they stop; they prefer your rich city folk whose purses are like those of the Fortunate Prince!”

  Thus they talked and rallied each other, and came back to the house in a somewhat less unhappy frame of mind; but Betty’s face was still white and drawn.

  It was nearly a week after this evening that Rafe paid Betty a visit; and then he was in one of his most aggressive moods. His under eyelids looked somewhat swollen, and with a pang Betty came to the conclusion that he had taken a part in some drinking bout. Drunkenness did not in those days inspire such disgust in refined womankind as it did later on; but still the change in Rafe seemed all downward and not upward. Betty, however, was very resolute when her mind was made up, and notwithstanding that Rafe’s mood was not one she would have chosen in which to attack him upon the subject of his faults, she steadfastly adhered to her intention. At the earliest moment when they were alone she began her task —

  “Rafe, I want you to tell me something. You must not make light of it, for I am very serious and have of late had much unquiet in my mind about you.”

  Rafe’s face turned a sort of livid green; he answered, however, boldly enough, although the ring of his voice was loud rather than true: “All right, Betty dear! Go on; I am all attention.”

  Face to face with the difficulty, Betty’s hardihood began to melt away. Her heart beat fast, and she had that trembling of the knees that had of late come to her on such occasions. Nevertheless she did not falter, but went on with outward calm —

  “It is because I love you, Rafe! Remember, dear, that we are soon to be married, and I shall then have a right to ask you such questions. You will let me forestall that time, won’t you?”

  “What questions?” Rafe’s voice was rather hollow.

  “I want you to tell me, dear, two things. I know you have recently been spending much money, and I know you had lately but very little. Do you gamble, Rafe? or are you in debt?”

  The words were spoken with a shy, sweet sincerity that should have melted the heart of any man. It was all out now, and the hardihood was quite gone. Betty felt it was well she was sitting down and could lean back, or else she might have fallen to the floor. To her surprise and joy Rafe laughed, though she did not quite like the tone of the laugh, and said heartily and with a sort of boisterous buoyancy —

  “Neither the one nor the other, little one. See here! that for my owing money!” and he opened a pocket-book and showed her quite a handful of gold and bankers’ orders. “And as for gambling, I swear I have not touched the dice since I knew you.”

  Betty drew a long breath, and was just beginning to follow up these answers with another question as to where he got the money he spent; but he saw it coming and stopped it with an irritated protest —

  “More questions! Why, what can have come over you, Betty? You used not to be like this. Come! you think too much of my affairs, and the thinking has robbed the roses from your cheeks. As a punishment I here promise and vow that I shall not answer you any more questions concerning money till I can hold you in my arms and call you mine.”

  “I am yo
urs already, Rafe!”” said Betty simply; but she turned the conversation and asked no more questions.

  When Rafe was going away that night he told Betty that it would be some days before he could come again as he had to await certain dispatches coming through Portsmouth. “A private affair,” he added, seeing new questions in her eyes. So Betty said good-night and went to bed, hoping that some day Rafe would give her all his confidence.

  A few days after this the Alderman paid a visit to Cheyne Walk. He was concerned about Betty’s health, and wanted to cheer her up a bit. So he paid a long visit, staying for supper, and told her all the news of the town. How the new waterworks of the New River and the Lea were progressing, and how good this was for her, since her trustee held for her some adventurers’ shares in the under- taking, and of the great moneys being spent on the works and the many men employed. He explained to her how every Saturday a great sum had to be sent down from London to pay the men; but as they feared the paymaster might be traced and robbed the Board had determined to send the next consignment of money on the Friday evening to Ware, and to send it by a roundabout way through Bishop’s Stortford so as to avoid the danger, and by a messenger who could not be suspected. In fact he hinted that the messenger would be disguised as a woman. Then seeing that such talk upset her a little he turned the conversation, and, so well as he could, he told her of the new fashions; for he had made it his business to have a chat with the Lady Mayoress only the day before, so that he would be properly learned in such matters. And then he told her of all the Court gossip that had reached the city, and of the great marriages arranged, and all the presents given; of the quarrels amongst the bloods, and who had fought whom, and the thousand and one little pieces of everyday gossip which were so much to quiet folk in the days before newspapers. Finally he told her of the great robbery two days before, when the coach from Ports- mouth was stopped at Ockham with great treasure being brought up to London from my Lord Baltimore for the Southern Department. That it was a most daring robbery, for the highwayman was alone and rode so boldly and carried himself so fearlessly that all in the coach were awed and yielded to him without firing a shot. Then he went on to tell her how the robber had left the coachman and the guard and all the passengers bound, so that it was not until many hours afterwards that they were discovered and released by the down mail. That the authorities were on the alert, and that the hue and cry was out for the robber, and that if he were caught it would be a sorry case for him. And as he told her the story Betty’s heart went out in thankfulness that no lives were lost; and above all one life most dear to her, for it might have been that Rafe was in that very coach. Had it so been, then for sure the robber had not got off full-handed or without a fight for it. And as she thought of her lover’s peril she grew so pale, and as she thought of his courage — for could she ever forget that day on the river! — she grew so rosy again that her elderly cousin rubbed his hands with delight at his success as a story-teller, and said to her —

  “Hey Betty, my lass, but you’ve got white and red like the apple and the candle twirling at Halloween. You take such things too much to heart, my dear. It can’t be good for you to be so earnest over things that don’t touch you or yours.”

  So Betty, she being a little shamefaced about her great love which made such fears, was silent about Rafe, and thanked her cousin for all his kind interest in her and for all his entertaining conversation, and bade him come again soon. The stern old Alderman, when his carriage came round for him, rode back to town again, pleased that he had come, but sad at heart that he had not just such another daughter to gladden his hearth and to keep his heart and memory green.

  When next Rafe came he was in great spirits, and spoke of the time, drawing closer, when he was to call Betty his own. There was a jubilation about him which was infectious, and Betty’s spirits rose with his; when they were alone she sat at the spinet and played and sang the sweet old airs that she loved; but he sat very silent the while. The dusk came on, and the shadows of the evening fell heavier and heavier. At the spinet Betty still sat, with her white dress showing through the gathering gloom; Rafe, on a low chair, bent his head down on his knees and lost himself in thought, so that when Betty’s hands moved slower and slower over the keys and her voice died away in a deep, low chord in which spoke the happiness and the hope of her heart, he never stirred. Then Betty came closer to him and laid her hand on his head. He started up suddenly, like one who is hunted and stands at his defence, with an oath on his lips and his hand instinctively seeking his sword-hilt. Betty was somewhat afraid, but her fears were laid when she saw that his cheeks were wet with tears. She would like to have said something very tender and sweet to him, but he brushed the tears aside so angrily and seemed so savage with himself — though not with her — for his forgetfulness, that she thought it better not to take notice of his emotion. But he was not the same Rafe any more that evening. His buoyancy became boisterous, though of an indifferent kind, and Betty closed the spinet; she sang no more that night. Before he left Rafe told her that he would come again in four days — that he could not come before as he had an engagement that must take him towards Cambridge, but that when this engagement was over he hoped to come oftener; every day, till the time would come when they should part no more. Altogether the evening, despite its unpleasant episode, was a very, very happy one for Betty, and when going to bed she remained a long time on her knees in thankfulness and prayer, and fell asleep thinking of Rafe and the coming time.

  What Betty dreamed that night she could never remember. It seemed to be that her sleeping thoughts had at first been happy enough, but that such dreams as she had were not all about Rafe. Suddenly, however, she found herself broad awake, sitting up in bed with her hair damp with terror and a scream frozen on her lips. It was as though all her vague thoughts of months past had suddenly become clear — that her fears had found their source, and that henceforth there was nothing more left in the world that could give her new pain. And that source — Rafe!

  “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 count
erpane 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.”