by Bram Stoker
“Oh, Cousin Hester, surely to wear white is not always to be going to be married!”
“No, child, surely not! It would be foolishness to say so. The dead wear white, so far as that goes; but then you don’t put gold buttons on grave-clothes — and such gold buttons too, and coming from where yours did. Neither do you put on either white or buttons to travel on a lonely road where there have been enough robberies to make one fearsome. Why, my dear, I’d no more put on my gold ornaments for such a journey, and with no more escort than old Robin carrying my valise behind me, than I’d — than I’d dream of going to St. Paul’s to say my prayers alone. Well, anyhow, if you will have things with you that you oughtn’t to have, you ought at least to see that you have with you all that you should have. Are your keys all right? and your housewife? and your purse? and ”
“Oh yes, Hester; I have everything quite right,” interrupted Betty, for she was conscious of that sharp dagger in her pocket as well as the parcel of banknotes, and she feared lest Hester, in her kindly zeal to ascertain that nothing had been forgotten, should make the discovery of either. When they went to breakfast they found the Alderman waiting them. He was full of concern for the journey, and wanted — right or wrong — to send one or two of his apprentices, armed, with Betty, for he said he feared she might have some trouble by the way. The Newmarket road had several times of late been beset by footpads and highwaymen, and it was hardly safe or right for a young lady to go out alone, or with only such attendance as she had. Then Hester spoke of the white dress and the golden buttons; and the Alderman, then and there, announced his intention of going on with her himself rather than see her travel alone on such a journey.
So Betty, beginning to be afraid that some real obstacle to the accomplishment of her purpose might arise out of their solicitude for her, laid herself out to overcome their fears. She protested that there was no danger; that the journey was only a very short one, a few miles at most, and through roads that were much frequented; that she did not fear any highwaymen; and that, after all, she was going to her own place, where she had passed a large portion of her youth; and that it would seem strange and more than ungracious to the people who had always treated her so well to appear to be afraid to come amongst them alone or without escort; and she knew that neither Hester nor her dear, kind Alderman would like such a thing.
And so, though both the old folk knew that the argument was bad, and were not a bit satisfied as to either the safety or the propriety of the journey, they gave in to her winning gentleness and acquiesced in her going. They comforted themselves with the thought that after all, considering the number of people who travelled, there were very few robberies, that the very fact of Betty’s journey being so unusual would disarm their suspicions, and that no man — even a highwayman — could find it in him to rob so sweet and gentle a child as Betty Pole.
As to Betty herself, it was a sore trouble to her to mislead, even to so small an extent, the friends who loved her and whom she loved and trusted. It is one of the penalties of ill-doing, and perhaps not the least, that the innocent that we fain would spare and hold aloof from all evil, suffer and run danger of deterioration, directly or indirectly, for our faults. When the ship goes down, many an atom that else had floated in good time safe to land and survived the wreckage, is sucked into the whirling maelstrom and disappears for ever.
But no matter how prolonged partings may be, the time comes at last; the forenoon had still some time to run when Betty left the house at Finsbury Square, and, turning back at the corner, saw her friends still waving their hands as they stood in the open doorway.
CHAPTER VII
NEAR MUCH HADAM
IN all her life before, Betty had never been so gentle as she was on that journey; and old Robin, jogging along on his stout roadster, watched her with affectionate eyes and marvelled. Her love and tenderness seemed to go out to every living thing. For her the summer pervaded all things, and there was in her heart — in one of her hearts — a joyousness that bubbled up perpetually. For she had two hearts now. One which was full of pain and weariness, for which life had all gone by and which was but like the ash of an extinct fire, with naught remaining but sentience and the power to suffer pain. The other heart was new and fresh — such a heart as might be in the breast of one who had been born again in a new and a higher life.
The roads were dusty, and the sun glared fiercely as the noon drew nigh. The trees and grass were losing the freshness of their green; but there were places of deep shadow where the trees arched over the roadway, and there were many purling rills which made music cool and sweet as the waters gurgled in the chasms of their stony bed or flashed as they fell. In most of these calm, restful places there was ever some life or other to interest the traveller, and she lingered by them so long and so often that Robin began seriously to think it his duty to remonstrate with her on the delay, and to call her attention to the length of the journey still before them. When, however, he saw her look at the cattle or the horses or the very birds so lovingly, and heard her speak to them so prettily — as though they had souls and understandings of their own — he simply admired her innocent sweetness and held his peace. But as the afternoon drew on, and they had still some way to go before reaching Bishop’s Stortford, he made up his mind to speak, and stammeringly advised that they should get on a little faster lest the night should close in before they were at Much Hadam.
Betty thanked him sweetly, and said that she would hurry if he wished it, but that it seemed so nice to be in the real country, and the horses enjoyed it so much more than hurrying on, that she had not the heart to hasten. So Robin made speed to tell his lady that his only dread was that the journey might be so prolonged that some mischance might happen. Then Betty again thanked him for his thoughtfulness, and quickened her pace somewhat, so that before long they arrived at Bishop’s Stortford, where she put up for awhile at “The Rayne-deere” and had dinner. As they had arrived some time after the regular dinner-hour, it was necessary to wait till a fresh meal had been cooked; and then the eating of dinner took some little time — for Betty, though not for Robin who got through a very large dinner in a small space of time.
Betty had much talk with the hostess, Mrs. Unsworth, and with many of the servants; and made much inquiry as to what had of late been going on in the place. She even went into the stables where the horses were being baited, taking herself some crusts for them. Whilst there she had talked with the grooms and postilions, making inquiries as to the various parts of the road between Bishop’s Stortford and Ware, and incidentally touching on the recent robberies. The men were pleased with so much conversation from so great a lady and spoke freely, so that ere she went on her way, Betty had some clear idea of the general method in which the robberies had of late been carried out on the Cambridge road. All this made much, delay, so that when they had well started on their way the afternoon was drawing to a close.
It was not very far to Betty’s house at Much Hadam, and so Robin was not anxious any more, but was content to go as slowly as she wished. One’s faithfulness, however much it be, has but little control over one’s digestion, and it is a wonderful thing what a different complexion affairs assume after a good meal. It would have been hard for a little while to have fixed on any pace which would have been too slow for old Robin.
But the slowest journey must progress somewhat, and at last they turned into the road leading towards Ware, whence the by-road to Betty’s destination took its source. Here Betty suddenly reined up and called Robin who was jogging along a little way behind with his chin sunk on his breast, and evidently more than half asleep. He became fully awake to a great mental confusion, and it took him some few seconds to realise where he was and what was before his mind.
“Lard-a-marcy, Miss Betty,” he finally said, “but ye fairly frightened me! I thought that summat had gone wrong wi’ the saddle, or that some of them ” he paused, for under the circumstance of absence from help, he did not wish to speak disres
pectfully of robbers — ”some of them ” Again he stopped.
“Of what?” said Betty, with a smile.
“Well, Miss, of some of them highway gentlemen.”
“Oh, Robin, what are you thinking of? I do believe you were asleep and dreaming.”
“Belike I was, Miss,” he added simply. “Well, Robin, I hope your dreams were pleasant; or perhaps I ought not to hope that or I should have to be sorry for interrupting them, for I find that I left behind me at the hotel my diamond ring with the cameo. It was on the dressing-table where I washed for dinner. You must ride back to Bishop’s Stortford as fast as you can and get it for me. Mrs. Unsworth will give it to you, for I am sure it will have been found by this time.”
“Lard-a-marcy!” said the old man, “what’s to become of you whilst I should go back? You can’t stay here on these roads alone, and niver a soul nigh ye in case ye wanted help.”
“But I don’t want help, Robin. You will not be long gone, and I shall ride’ slowly on till you overtake me. Remember, I am close to my own house and near my own people.”
“But, Miss Betty dear, I daren’t leave ye all alone. Miss Priscilla told me on no account to let ye out of my sight; and as for Mrs. Abigail, why she’d have my life if I were to dare to do such a thing. That she would, and more!”
“Don’t fear, Robin,” said Betty smiling. “In the first place Abigail will never know, unless you tell her; and I am sure that even Abigail would not say very pretty things to you if I were to lose my beautiful ring because you refused to obey my orders.” At this Robin, manlike, gave in, so she went on —
“Now ride back, my good Robin, and get my ring; and you may come after me as quickly as ever you please. Stay! take off my valise and leave it here, so that you can go quicker.” “What, Miss! leave your trunk on the roadside? Oh no! that would never do. ‘Tis no weight at all, and ‘tis only a little way back. Go slow, Miss Betty, and take care of yourself till I come.” The old man, quite awake now, rode back to Bishop’s Stortford for the ring.
Betty rode slowly along at a foot’s pace till he was out of sight. Then she drew up a ‘ moment in the shadow of a hazel grove and dismounted. She took from her pocket the sharp dagger and laid it bare in her breast where she could grasp it in an instant; then she unbuttoned her grey dust-wrap and threw it back over her shoulders so that her white ‘ dress with the golden buttons showed out. The road here was shady and the ground underfoot somewhat damp, so there was no rising dust to mar the spotless fairness of her dress. She drew close to a bank and climbed to her saddle again, and then went on her way. The hoofs of her horse made but little noise on the sand, and the only sound she could hear, save the myriad voices of nature, was the beating of her’ own heart. For now the two hearts had become one again. The new and joyous heart had somehow ceased to carol, and the fire in the heart of ashes had waked again. The two hearts of this sorely anxious maiden, that spoke jof her past and her future, were merged in the *one great, human, beating heart which the present needs.
As she went slowly along, every beauty of the scene seemed revealed to her in a manner which she had never felt before, and which it seemed to her would henceforth become a part of her memory and her life.
The road now ran through a valley, deep in woods, in whose heart was a full stream with waters which flowed in murmuring rills as the valley fell, or widened into dark brown pools which reached to the roadway and which took their colours from the complementary shadows of the green overhead. The undergrowth of beech and hazel was thick and full of dark shadows, dark in the shade which the great oaks and elms already threw along the valley. The sun was setting; and as it sunk lower and lower on the top of the slope that crowned the valley, the shadows grew larger and larger. And as the shadows grew, so the peace and beauty of the scene won on Betty till her heart ceased its tumult; and she could go on her way with resolution unchecked, and without any disturbance from within.
Before her there was a space where lay a broad stream of light, for there was a dip in the western slope of the valley, and the sunlight blazed, broad and red, across it. Here the trees grew more lofty than elsewhere, and on the eastern side of the road a dense mass of foliage covered a low bank of grass which rose some four feet above the road. As her eyes lit on this, Betty shivered as though some chill wind had blown upon her. She seemed instinctively to realise that here was the place she sought — the one spot which answered all the conditions she expected. For an instant she pressed her hand to her heart, and then with a silent prayer passed on her way.
When pacing slowly along, with the hood of her dust-wrap over her head and her face turned to the glory of the sunset,’ her horse suddenly stopped, so that she almost lost her balance. There was a sudden shout from the copse —
“Stop!” spoken by a ringing voice. On the instant a black horse leaped down the bank to the road, carrying a masked rider who held a pistol at arm’s length.
Then Betty knew that the moment of her life had come. With a sudden spring she _ threw herself from the saddle and caught the rein of the black horse close to the bridle. As she did this there was a cry from the rider, and his hand fell to his side. Betty felt the horse quiver, and knew that in a moment it would try to dart away, and so cried out quickly — “Unmask! unless you wish your horse to trample me down!”
The answer came: “Let go the rein! For God’s sake, let go! I shall not harm you.”
“Unmask!” Her tone was of command, and there was in her voice and bearing never a trace or shadow of fear. The highwayman seemed to recognise it, and, with a groan, drew the velvet mask from his face.
“Rafe!”
“Betty!”
Her tone was full of sad conviction, the simple conclusion of a train of thought: his was of horrified despair. There -was a long pause, which Betty was the first to break.
“Thank God, that it was I, and not another, that came this road to-day!”
Then, seeing that Rafe was still silent, she went on —
“Oh! Rafe, my heart told me all. I feared! I feared! and I have come here all alone that I might save you!”
Rafe leaped from his saddle.
“Save me!”
“Ah yes, Rafe! to save you from this horrible thing. Oh God! to think that you — you of all men — should drop so low as to rob on the highway!”
Rafe was still silent. Instinctively he had taken his horse’s rein through his arm, and the beautiful animal stood patiently in sad contrast — the one, the human animal, in spite of all the high courage of his kind, feeling depraved and degraded more than he had power to express; the other animal, full of its own pride, but harrowed by no moral feaf.
Betty’s brain now began almost to reel. She had so much to say — yet when the moment came she could say nothing. She despised herself for being so overcome — yet she would not have been cold even at the price of the power of coherency.
Little by little, however, the weight which oppressed her seemed to leave her, and the clouds about her brain to pass away. Then all was clear before her, and in a very sweet, grave way she began to tell her lover of her fears for him: how justice was on his track and how his career of crime was likely to be atoned for in a very dreadful way — and here she shuddered. But Rafe did not shudder; on the contrary, the idea of danger of any kind was, in his present condition of overwhelming shame, a restorative. There was something to be fought for, something which he could oppose, some action of the future or the present, rather than the dull, impotent misery of regret; and so the masculinity of him began to awake. As she looked, Betty felt, rather than saw, the change, and so her task became a harder one, though she never faltered in the doing of it It was a more difficult thing to bring home the sense of his guilt to the man of prouder bearing than to the man in the depths of despair, seemingly ready to take any step to escape, from his dreadful position.
There is, however, an adaptability in woman’s nature, intellectual as well as physical or moral, which always answers when c
alled upon. Betty instinctively abandoned any idea which she might have had of alluding to danger; but she still pursued her object unfalteringly. As Rafe’s bearing was proud, she appealed to his honour.
“Oh! Rafe, you told me that a gentleman could not accept gifts; and I would have given you all I had! God knows what a delight and pride it would have been for me to have had the privilege of doing so. I dreaded, somehow, lest want of any kind, or desperation, should drive you to forget yourself. Would to God that you had listened to me, or that I had had the courage to speak!”
Here Rafe interrupted her impetuously —
“Betty, surely you are at least without blame. I have sinned, I know, but it has nothing to do with you.”
Betty raised her eyes wonderingly to his.
“Nothing to do with me, Rafe? and we pledged to be married!”
A sudden joy shot through Rafe when he heard the words “we pledged to be married,” but it was quickly followed by a chill when the sense of his present position flashed across him. It was with a genuine, manly shame that his eyes fell and his head sank upon his breast. His voice was hoarse with an agony of his own as he said —
“To be married, Betty? Alas! that must be all past now. No, no! I am not such a scoundrel as that!”
There was a pathos in his voice as he spoke that had never been there before. He realised his great loss. That was the penalty he had to pay for his wrong-doing.
Betty’s face was serene ^s she looked at him, so straightly and so earnestly that, as if by some mesmeric influence, he raised his eyes to meet hers.
“We are promised to each other, Rafe,” she said simply. “God heard our promise, and it is not for us to go back from it, if He so wills it in His good time.”
