by Bram Stoker
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 hav
e 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.
She awoke with the first ray of sunrise which stole into the room, and after praying long and earnestly and having made her toilet, finished the packing of her valise. Then she strapped it ready for travel, so that when Abigail came up herself earlier than had been intended, that there should be nothing left undone which her young mistress should want, she was amazed to find her ready for the journey.
“Dear heart!” she ejaculated, “you never strapped and all, Miss Betty, instead of lettin’ me see to it And I’ll be bound to say that you’ve forgotten something.”
“No, Abigail dear, I think not. I have with me all that I want.” But the old woman was not yet quite satisfied, and would have unstrapped the valise and gone through it all afresh had not Betty diverted her attention by asking her to brew for her a dish of tea before she started on her journey. Abigail hurried off to attend herself to such an unwonted order as a dish of tea in the early morning. In 1717 tea. was not a common luxury, and its preparation was not to be lightly entrusted to any one of minor importance in the household. Then for awhile Betty was idle, but the idleness did not distress her at all. She seemed to take the necessary waiting as a part of the work which she had in hand and to be quite content to exercise her patience. By and by Aunt Priscilla joined her, and, as she had an infinity of questions to ask and directions to give, the time flew till breakfast.
It was still early when Robin, with his mistress’s valise strapped behind his saddle, stood ready at the gate. He was not kept long waiting, for very shortly Betty with a last hug and kiss to her aunt and her old nurse, was swung into her saddle, ready to depart. Abigail hung round her to the last, adjusting the folds of her habit, seeing that her foot was well, in the stirrup, and in every little act of thoughtfulness manifesting her love.
At last she was off, and presently turning in her saddle, as the road debouched at Swan Walk, looked back with one last lingering look at the old house where so much of her life had been passed, and which had held for her so much hope and joy. The last wrench is not usually the least, and into those few moments was gathered half a lifetime of pain. But this too passed by; she was now in truth fully embarked on her enterprise, whether for good or ill.
In due time she reached Finsbury Square, and filled Hester with surprise and consternation at her unexpected movement Miss Fenton was old-fashioned to the last degree, and looked upon such a journey as Betty contemplated as little less than a tempting of Providence. She was, however, delighted to see her, and, as usual, made her welcome and tried forthwith to persuade her to prolong her stay for at least a few days. She was more surprised than ever, when, after a short rest, Betty announced her wish to go out into the town to make some purchases, and on volunteering to come with her was gently told that the business she was concerned in was of a very special nature, connected, with a wish expressed Jong before by her great-grandfather. Hester, as Betty had reason to believe, knew nothing of the existence of the trust-money, and the latter thought that such a real excuse for privacy was better than any fictitious reason which she could invent. So Betty went forth alone, and, having made previous inquiries, found her way at last to the banking house of Mr. Child. She had been there before on various occasions with the Alderman, but had always been driven in a coach or carried in a chair, so that she did not know the various streets and the turnings necessary to take. It was a long walk from Finsbury Square, and she was well tired with both the exercise and the unaccustomed bustle of the streets when she arrived at the house. Having asked to see Mr. Child himself, she was shown into a private room and sat down to wait. The day was intensely hot and the chair soft and enticing, and gradually, as she leaned back, the hum of the city life which floated in through the open windows died away, her eyes closed and she sank into gentle sleep. She suddenly wakened to find Mr. Child standing in front of her, and with him a grave clerk who was concealing behind his extended hand the remains of a surreptitious smile. She was filled with confusion, and her pale face became aglow as she stammered out an apology. The kindly banker, however, at once set her at ease and asked if she were really tired, and would she not rest awhile with his daughters who had just returned from a row upon the river. Betty thanked him gratefully but declined, and asked him to be so good as not to make mention of the fact of her visit, as she had come in all privacy to withdraw the trust-money in accordance with the wish expressed to her by her great-grandfather. The banker at once fell into her views, and having obtained her formal signature, handed over to her, in notes of the Bank of England, the sum of a thousand guineas. He offered to have the money sent for her where she would by a trusty messenger, but as this would have at once betrayed her plans she refused; whereupon Mr. Child said that he would have her conveyed in his own chair to what place she wished, so that she could regain the Alderman’s house, where she told him she was stopping, without any unnecessary fatigue. And so, not late in the afternoon, Betty, having been set down in Finsbury Circus, re-entered the house of the Alderman. Going straight to her room she deposited in her valise the sum of money which she had received, and then went downstairs to sit with Hester. During her absence the Alderman had been at home, and hearing that she had gone out on a matter of private business at once guessed that it was connected with the trust-money. Without taking Hester into his confidence he hastened away to Temple Bar to try to find her. As he went up Fleet Street she came down it, but neither saw the other. In the evening when he came home he tried to find out indirectly from Betty if his suspicion was correct, but she was on her guard and took care not to betray herself; after a little friendly skirmishing he gave up the contest, for the time, and decided to await the development of circumstances.
Betty retired early, as she was to be ready to start in the morning betimes. She bade an affectionate good-night to both Hester and the Alderman, and again thanked them very tenderly for all their manifold k
indnesses to her. When securely locked and bolted in her bedchamber, she opened her valise and took from it the white dress which she had exchanged for the one placed there by Abigail, and also the case with the golden buttons. Then taking her housewife, she proceeded to sew down the front of the dress the set of buttons. She then packed in the valise the dress which she had hitherto worn, and laid out ready to wear in the morning the white dress now so richly adorned, and also the grey dust-wrap which was to cover it Lastly, she placed the case of the buttons back in the valise, and taking from the same the old dagger hid it in the pocket of the white dress. This having been done she said her prayers — long and earnest they were — and betook herself to bed and to sleep.
At early morn she was awake, and rising, dressed herself even to the dust-wrap. Having completed her packing and strapped her valise, she sat and waited patiently hour by hour till some of the family should seek her. In the city household the hours were fairly early, and Hester was with her a little after seven. She was once more astonished to see her dressed and ready for the road, and at first rallied her on her hurry, speaking as though she was going to meet her betrothed, and as though the time could not run fast enough to satisfy her. Seeing, however, that she did not blush or become in any way embarrassed, she gave over this pleasantry and asked many questions to make sure of the perfection of all preparation. When she examined the dust-wrap to see that Betty was properly attired for travel, she expressed her amazement at the way in which her cousin had dressed herself for the journey.
“Law, child!” she said, “you never surely put on a white dress to ride through the dusty roads; for what with the drought, they say that out of London the roads be inches deep in dust. And as to wearing your beautiful buttons, it’s simply a tempting of Providence, and of highwaymen; that it is! But there, child, I know it’s no use my scolding you, for what your mind’s set on that you will do, though I argued and barged myself hoarse. But do ‘ee be careful and keep yourself well covered, or folk will think you are going to a bridal all unknown to your own kin.”
