Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  Then Betty bent over his great, wrinkled hands and kissed them and raised her eyes to his. He saw the dark marks come round them; and then she too bursts out crying. And so without further words these two great hearts understood all, and they found much comfort in the silent sympathy.

  They never spoke of the matter again, either of money or of Rafe, but from that day the old merchant had many inquiries made secretly, and kept watch for any sign of the missing man.

  No one ever mentioned Rafe to Betty, or directly or indirectly alluded to marriage. Would-be suitors there were many, for the greatness of her fortune was known; but, living retired equally at Much Hadam or Chelsea, Miss Pole gave no opportunity of wooing. Now and again there came from the wars, which, here and there, ever convulsed some part of Europe, rumours of some gallant deed wrought by some unknown soldier; and Betty’s hopes grew high. The age was one when soldiers of fortune were not uncommon; and when the tales of the camp-fire had found their way to the hearth and men’s blood quickened and women’s tears fell fast at the recounting of some heroic deed, Betty’s heart would beat at the thought: “That might be my Rafe! ‘Twere surely like him;” and there would rise before her inner eye the image of that gallant horseman whom for her Time had purified from his base surroundings. But alas! these gallant heroes either fought their way to fame and the knowledge of the world, or else they perished and were heard of no more; and Betty’s hopes grew colder and colder still, though her faith was as warm as ever.

  One day — it was the fifth anniversary of the dayshehadmade the journey to Much Hadam — Betty went into the city to pay a visit to her Cousin Fenton. It was not altogether that she wished to see her friends, but she had a hungry longing to go over once again at least a part of that journey which had such dire and sweet results. In the hot afternoon she left Mr. Child’s bank, and sending her carriage to the stables of the “Saracen’s Head,” walked all the way to Finsbury Square. She intended to surprise her cousin, and so took her way into the garden by the wicket at the back.

  The garden was fresh and delicious, for the Alderman loved flowers, and his were well kept and constantly watered. Even on this burning afternoon they all looked sweet and bright; the turf plot was green as emerald with long grass studded with sweet summer flowers, and from the tiny beds rose beautiful turncap lilies and great, heavy-hearted roses, bending from the stakes round which they were twined. Here she wandered for a while, and then climbing the steps, without seeing any of the maids, entered the Alderman’s cosy room which looked out on the garden. The room was darkened by the summer blinds; and the heavy Turkey curtains which shut the room off from the great diningroom beyond were drawn. The windows were open, and into the room stole the sweetness of the flowers and the muffled roar of the city without. Betty sat down in a great leather-covered chair, half as big as a sofa, and made up her mind to wait and rest until her cousin should appear. The hum of the bees in the garden and the roar of the city merged in one — and Betty fell asleep.

  She was partially awakened by the opening of a door in the room beyond and the Alderman’s heavy footfall. She was just making up her mind to become fully awake and speak to him when there was a knocking at the outer door. Presently the door was opened again and the voice of a maid said —

  “It is a gentleman to see you, sir.”

  “What name did he give?”

  “He asked to be excused giving his name, sir. He said he was wishful to see you alone if he might; that he had waited till he had seen you enter, and that you would know him if you saw him.”

  What was it that brought up Betty sitting in the great armchair with extended hands tightly grasping the arms and her eyes glowing? She was all awake now, and though at the first her impulse had been to depart on hearing the stranger’s message, she did not now think of moving. She heard the old Alderman say —

  “Wishful to see me alone — would know him if I see him; strange! Show him in, Hannah! and if your mistress comes whilst he is here simply tell her that I am engaged.”

  The seconds that passed were agony to Betty. She thought — she did not know what; she hoped — she did not know what. She caught sight of herself in a great mirror and saw the white frock, which she always wore on this day of the year, and noted the gaps left where two of the gold buttons were gone.

  The door opened, closed again, and there was a pause. Betty sat like one in a dream and waited, her heart standing still in expectancy. Then came a voice which went through Betty’s heart like sunshine, or a note of celestial music. She wondered how any one in the wide world who had ever heard it could fail to know it again. She would have liked to cry out — to sing — to spring to her feet and rush through the curtains and throw herself into the loving arms that she knew would be stretched out to her. But, as people usually are in moments of supreme emotion, she was self-contained and sat silent, though in an ecstasy. She did not go away now; she did not mean to go. She would wait, for wherever Rafe’s voice was, she had a right to be there. She had won that right out of her love and patience and belief; and there was none in all the wide world, she was sure, who would wish her to go. Rafe had simply said —

  “Mr. Fenton, I would like a word with you if I may be so privileged.”

  The Alderman’s tone as he answered was noncommittal; Betty knew by it that he had not recognised his-visitor, and a wild thrill shot through her as to how Rafe could have become so changed that Cousin Fenton did not know him.

  “I shall be pleased, sir. Pray be seated.” When Rafe spoke there was a sweet humility in the tone of the answer which brought a quick thought to Betty that the years had not passed in vain —

  “I thank you, sir, for your courtesy; but there are reasons why I may not be seated in this house, or in your presence, until you are aware of who I am.”

  “Of who you are! Sir, the room is dark and my eyes are not young!”

  There was the sound of a drawn curtain, and then an exclamation —

  “Rafe! Mr. Otwell! Sir, this is strange indeed. You have not hurried in your coming!” Betty could not but be glad that he had pronounced the Christian name first, as though the young man had been in his thoughts; but it made her wince to hear the later words. Rafe’s answer went straight to her heart.

  “Ah, sir, you are justified in any words you may use to me. But I fain would ask you not to judge me altogether too hardly for that fault. See here!”

  The Alderman’s answer explained his reason, as it came in horrified tones —

  “The marks on your wrists! Are they of chains?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause, then came the Alderman’s remark in a constrained voice —

  “When a man comes from prison, there is need to explain ”

  “You need not fear, sir. God knows that I have much to answer for; but though I well merited chains and prison, it was not my demerits that set these marks upon my wrists.” Betty listened with a sickening heart, and her one idea was to kiss those maimed wrists; but her eyes flashed as he went on: “They were won for me in battle against the Turks, for Faith and Freedom. For a whole year I wrought in a Turkish. galley. But this is not to the point; I deserved to suffer, and I do not dare to repine. I only mention this old pain because I would fain beg a little forbearance, if not a little sympathy. Oh sir, yours is the first face that I have seen of all that I knew in the life here that seems so long ago. Yours is the first of the old voices that I have heard; and it may be the last, for I have come unknown to any, and I may depart the same. I know how little I deserve from any man, and least of all from you, to whom of old I showed so little courtesy, not knowing then your worth, or perhaps being jealous of it. But there is a hunger in my very soul. I would not forget my manhood — But! — It is in such moments that we remember it.”

  Betty longed to fly to him to comfort him, but she waited she knew not how. She had her reward, for they were tears of joy which burst from her eyes as heir old cousin said, with a sob in his voice —

>   “Nay, sir; God forbid that I should be harsh with one who has suffered. There is my hand if you will, and glad I shall be if I can do good to you — for another’s sake if not for your own.”

  The clasp of the men’s hands appeared to draw them together, for the voices of both seemed more at ease as they went on. Rafe was the first to speak —

  “I have much to say, but a certain duty comes the first. Sir, do you know my sad story — or must I tell all my shame afresh?”

  “Go on, sir! Go on! I think I know enough to understand.”

  “I have been so long away, and have had no means of knowing aught that has happened.

  The long suspense has been a part of my punishment. I have made some gain in the wars, and I have to make some restitution. No man can undo altogether such wrongs as mine, but he can search out and restore.”

  Here the Alderman interrupted —

  “That has been done long ago — I daresay you can guess by whom.”

  In the silence that followed Betty seemed in her inner eye to see the grave bowing of that erect head. Then Rafe went on, though from the broken voice Betty could tell how much his heart had been troubled —

  “Beyond this I wish to place ten times the sum in good hands for the use and benefit of others. I thought that you would accept the trust — for charity’s sake, not for mine. I feel it ill to ask even such a thing from you whose hands have always wrought in honour; but with so upright a career as yours you can well afford to minister a charity, though the hands are not clean which entrust it to you.”

  “I accept it, sir,” said the old man, “and with a joy unspeakable.”

  “And now, sir,” said Rafe, with a choking in his voice, “you may perhaps answer me two questions. Is Betty — is Miss Pole alive?”

  “She is! Thank Almighty God, she is!”

  “God be thanked! And — and — is she married; or has she kept single?”

  “She is single still.”

  Again there was a long pause, and Betty, looking out straight in front of her, saw her image in the tall mirror. She dared not stir; she might not venture even to put a sheltering hand before her burning face lest the rustle of her dress should betray her presence. It seemed to her that, listening as she was in secret, it was almost immodest to behold even her own image in the glass, and so closed her eyes — and listened. She heard Rafe sob, and each word went beating through her heart like the throb of a giant pulse. With ears strained to every sound she heard the Alderman step close to him and the sound of his laying his hand on his shoulder. And then came his voice full of kindliness —

  “Nay, lad, don’t cry. Heart, man! There is hope for us all.”

  “Thank God for hope! Oh, sir, in the years that have gone by I have found hope such a bitter pleasure that not seldom have I realised what the men of old meant when they said it was the last evil in Pandora’s box. Many a starlit night, when I lay out on the plains or up the mountain slopes, have I thought and thought that a time might come when I should set foot on this dear English soil again, and that life might begin afresh for me here. But with the hope came dread thoughts that all might come too late. But still God be thanked for hope, for without it many a poor soul — and mine among them — would long ago have succumbed. And now, dear sir, I have one more thing to ask. I ask it as a favour from one man to another, in no wise to take after-responsibility, but only to advise me out of your greater knowledge.”

  There was a conscious stiffening of the old man’s manner, and a hardening of his voice as he replied —

  “Go on, young sir. Let me hear what it is that you wish; then I shall be better able to judge’how far I may further your desires.” Again a long pause; and then Rafe spoke, but this time his voice had a new charm for Betty. It was the old voice, strong and full and mellow; but oh, how refined! Even amid her joy at such a change, Betty’s heart was wrung with the thought that so much pain to him must have gone to the refining —

  “I come back as poor as I went, for all that I have won is but to restore that which belonged to others, and to make some reparation through the poor. There is one other sum, a thousand guineas, which has been a trust, and which has done no unworthy work whilst I have been its guardian. Of this I can speak freely and frankly, for it is not from myself but from that sweet saint who sent me out to try to purge my sin and to win honour again. It has freed captives and saved men’s bodies, and I humbly trust their souls too. Beyond these monies I have nothing but my personal belongings, and I come to my own land as naked as a babe, to try to win something of the place I lost. Now I want you to tell me something according to your best judgment. I have come to you of all men because I know you to be unflinchingly upright in all ways, and because I know that you are, first of all, a firm and true friend of Betty Pole; that you will not let anything in the wide world come between her and what is most for her good. I know well, sir — as well as any man can know anything — that it would not be for the best, were all things starting from to-day, that such a pure, sweet, noble young thing as Betty should mate with such a stained and sinful man as I am. But I cannot shut out from my reasoning any more than I can from my memory, all the sweet moments when she was pledged to me. She herself might not wish all the past obliterated; and hers is the right to choose if she so wills it — most certainly in so far as I am concerned. How, then, should I act so as to deny her no happiness, or to cause her the least pain? To me she is a living truth, and I cannot take from her acts or her words one little thing and believe that in that she was untruthful when all else was so crystal bright. I believe, as I live, that I am man enough to go away and make no sign, so that she may deem, me dead, and so leave her life more free. Nay more, I can go away and have set on foot a rumour of my death, so that she may not be tortured with any hope. You are her friend, her wise and constant friend; and I shall be deeply grateful if you will aid me with your counsel on her behalf.” He paused, and the rapture of Betty’s face was a joy to the angels.

  The Alderman blew his nose violently, and said in a choky voice —

  “Young sir, your words are brave; and on my soul and honour I believe them. But they should be spoken in a young maid’s ear — nay, in the very ear of our young maid herself — rather than to an old loveless and childless man, as I am.”

  Then Betty stood up. Her heart had beat heavily all through Rafe’s saying, and, though in her secret heart her mind was made up as to what she should do, she wanted the endorsement of others as to its wisdom in order to complete her happiness. She was only a young maid, after all, and the care of choosing between good and bad is not rightly for young heads and hearts that are not steeled to the ways of the world. But she waited, covering her eyes with her hot hands, and listened a little longer. Rafe’s voice came now more eagerly, the hope in his heart was growing; his long penance had done its work in purging his soul, and he spoke now more like a free man — more like the old Rafe —

  “Nay, but, sir, will you not help me? — not for my sake, but for Betty’s. It is of her that I think, and it is for her that I would act. Will you give me a hint as to what is for her good, or rather for her happiness?”

  The old man was evidently troubled in his mind, for he paused. Betty waited in an agony of expectation. But when the Alderman spoke her heart leaped, for he answered in tones that she had seldom heard from him — “God forbid that I, or such a poor opinion as mine, should stand in the way when the Lord has been doing His own work and leading back a lost sheep to the fold. But oh! sir, search your own heart. Think of what a terrible responsibility you take upon yourself if you win the right to guard the happiness of that young life. Think what it would be — what it must be — if you were to take even the smallest step backward from the way that you have won. Think of the harrowing anxiety that for many a long year would be in her heart regarding your every step, no matter how well intentioned or well ordered it might be.

  “Ah! sir, I see you are moved. That is good. Then let me tell you more —
more than I ever dreamed of telling you till now. In my heart I feel — nay, I know — that our dear Betty loves you still. That for all these years.she has been watching the hands of the clock as they crawled round the dial. That her thoughts have been of you and for you. And then think how every act or word of yours, if not of the highest, would shatter that high ideal in her mind — nay, would even reveal to her that you are only a man like the rest of us, with a man’s failings, and compact of clay. It would break that tender, loving, patient heart. This is a battle, sir, that a man must fight out alone. Judge for yourself, sir, and may the good God aid you in the task of judging wisely! Ah! that is right. You can never be wrong, sir, whilst you take counsel like that. Would that Betty might be here to see you on your knees in such a cause!”

  Betty, with her eyes still shut, put out her arms instinctively as though to embrace — she did not know which, her lover or the old friend who so comforted him in his trouble. Then Rafe spoke again —

  “I shall take your kindly warning, sir, and spend the night in thought. I have looked at the matter hitherto perhaps selfishly and in too great self-belief. To-morrow, if I see that my duty is to go without seeing Betty, I shall send you word; and, if this be the sad result of my thought, then I charge you on your faith and honour that never-by word or deed shall you even hint of this day, for its end may be that I shall simply pass away. If I think I am justified in staying, that I have learned sufficiently to trust myself, then I shall go to Chelsea. Whatever be the result, let me say that to the last hour of my life I shall be grateful to you for your attitude to me to-day — you from whom I deserve so little, and on whose loved one I have brought such trouble and such pain.”

  “Stay, sir! you must not go without some assurance that I shall see you again. You may miscalculate your own strength in this matter, and be driven to some desperate act.” “No, sir; be not alarmed on that score. I have, since we met last, been through too many bitter experiences to do aught rashly. And if it be that you fear that some time I may foredo my own life, again I say, be not alarmed. It is true that I do not fear death. In the years that have gone, I have seen too many souls take flight; I have looked too often into the eyes of Death to fear them. I have come to regard dying only as a means to an end; and with that new insight that end is too holy to be tampered with by any fell act of mine. But if it will give you ease, I promise that I shall not leave England without coming to see you again, without taking hope from your kindness, without bearing comfort and fortitude from the grasp of your honest hand.” “Then when may I expect you, if, indeed, we are to lose you? — and I pray that such may not be.”