by Bram Stoker
“At this hour the day after to-morrow. If I feel that I may see Betty and learn her wishes’ from her own true lips, I shall go to Chelsea in the afternoon of to-morrow. If not, or, if, as it may be, Betty will not or cannot let all things be as they were before I shut the gates of that Paradise on myself, then I shall see you, as I said, at this hour of the day following; and shall then beg you of your goodness to be my almoner for that sum for charity of which I spoke.”
Betty here could stand no more. She felt, now that the torturing fears of her heart were stilled, that she had no right to be an unknown confidant of such secrets. It came upon her with a rush that she had been an eavesdropper, though sure it was that the angels themselves could not have blamed one in her plight. She wished to be away — away anywhere — where she could hide her joy and, in its vastness, this little shame; where she could sink,, unchallenged, to her, knees and unburden her glad soul to God. In the midst of all the thought was one fixed and dominant idea — that she must not interfere with Rafe’s project. This was the struggle, the final struggle and test of his own soul; and it must be wrought out alone. Well she knew that if he failed to know her glad and perfect happiness to take all risks with him, she would herself come to him and tell him to be of good cheer. She knew now where to find him, if there should be need. The doubt was a very small one, for she seemed to know that the morrow afternoon would see him at Cheyne Walk.
And so she stole away out of the room, trembling lest a rustle of her dress should betray her. Down the steps she went, and out into the garden. The shrubs hid her from the house, and, not stopping to notice the new beauty which had come upon the flowers, she stole, feeling like a guilty thing, through the garden and out noiselessly through the wicket into the quiet lane-way behind the house.
Before long she was at the “Saracen’s Head,” and having ordered her carriage with all speed, was on her way to Chelsea before the sun began to set.
CHAPTER IX
AT CHEYNE WALK
IN the twilight that night Betty stole out alone, and walked by herself up the path by the river where Rafe had given her the golden buttons. Here, all hidden by the trees, turning to the west where the afterglow was like the rosy blush on her own face, she let out her soul in thankfulness to God. Then she went home. That night she slept like a tired child, and never woke till the glad sun, peering in at her windows, recalled her to what the day might bring forth.
All that morning she moved with the ordered routine of her life, and no one in the household saw enough change to cause a thought.
When, however, the noon had turned, Betty went to her room and made her toilet most carefully, The time since Rafe had seen her seemed so long that she feared it might have left some stamp upon her, and anxiously she used her glass as every good woman does; for a good woman is a true woman, and her glass — next to her Bible — is ever her help in self-respect. She put on once again the white dress in which she had parted from Rafe, and the gaps where the two buttons were missing were unmistakable. Then she stole down to the drawing-room and sat in her old place on the sofa where she had used to sit with Rafe. It was many a day since she had sat in the spot, for she had felt that to sit there was to hope too much, and if she hoped too much some tinge of blame might rest on Rafe. But now she was assured, and she need no longer deny herself the sweet luxury.
After a while Abigail came into the room and looked around, but not seeing her mistress in her accustomed seat by the window, turned to go out. Betty called to her —
“I am here, Abigail!”
“Dear heart alive! Miss Betty, I never looked for you in that seat. I did but want to ask if you will walk or ride after dinner.” “Neither, Abigail. I think I shall sit quiet this afternoon. I had a long day in London yesterday, and I daresay it tired me.”
“‘Deed, then, Miss Betty, I feared so at first; but when I saw you come home I thought you never looked less tired in your life. But it’s the way with young maids — they’re not tired when they are, and when they are they’re not!” with which seemingly incomprehensible piece of wisdom she withdrew.
The time seemed to Betty to fly with leaden wings that afternoon. She would not let herself come to any definite conclusion as to what she even hoped, but held surmise, of joy and pain alike, at arm’s length. Of one thing she was certain — that she knew what she intended as to the result. The manner of it and the means were all that were left open. After dinner she took her seat in the window, ostensibly reading the last part of Mr. Pope’s “Homer”; but the pages were unturned. From her seat she could watch the roadway for some little distance; no one could come near the house without being seen by her, though the screen of flowers which grew in their pots on the window-ledge hid her from strange eyes.
The clock had just struck four when her heart leaped, for her eyes, raised from her book, had lighted on the form she looked for. There was no fear of her mistaking that upright carriage, that swinging gait. She peered between the leaves of the plants, and her hungry eyes lit on Rafe’s face. And then, oh! the tumult of joy in her heart! He was unchanged save in all manly and noble ways. The pain, and suffering, and responsibility, and high endeavour of the years that had passed had only purified and ennobled his face. Her glance well justified the opinion she had formed the evening before from his voice and words. She did not dare to look long, but with a light bound and with noiseless foot flew back to her old seat on the sofa, and waited with the throbbing of her heart stilled by the magnitude of her expectancy. Then came the knock, and Abigail herself flew to open the door. The old woman may have taken some hint from seeing Betty in her old seat, and her intuition grasped the rest; or it may simply have been that she recognised the knock. None ever knew, not even she herself, for none ever asked; but she threw open the door, and recoiled with a halfsmothered cry —
“Master Rafe! oh my dear young master!” She threw her arms impulsively round him, and instantly drew back. “Forgive me,” she said, “I forgot my duty.” Then in a louder and more ceremonious voice, and with a certain ominous stiffening of her back which of old the children had come to recognise as a sort of storm signal, she went on: “The mistress has been looking out for you, sir. She was much distressed that you had not called sooner.”
“Looking out for me!” said Rafe, in amazement, for in his new simplicity of thought, and with his mind concentrated on the last twenty-four hours, he overlooked the longer time. “Looking for me! Since when?”
“Only for the last five years, sir!” said the old nurse, with mingled dignity and sarcasm. A sweet smile broke over Rafe’s face as he took her by the hand:’
“You are right, my dear, good soul. The time has been long; but be assured it has not gone quickly with me. I can only hope that you who so love Miss Betty will in time forgive me.”
“Dear heart! but I must go break it to the child that you are come.” She retired demurely as far as the foot of the staircase, and then ran with what speed her old legs could make to the drawing-room. Her method of breaking it was her own. She darted into the door and called in a fierce, joyous whisper — “He is here, Miss Betty! He is here! and looking finer than ever. Let me see, darling, that you are looking your best!” and she eyed her mistress critically for an instant.
Then she retired, seemingly satisfied, as Betty said in grand simplicity —
“Tell him to come up, Abigail dear. You need not announce!”
Abigail flew to the stair-head; and thence coming down with sedateness and decorum, gave her message —
“My mistress will receive you, sir, in the drawing-room. You will excuse me accompanying you, but my orders are that I am not to announce you!”
Rafe smiled at her so sweetly that in her secret heart she forgave him on the spot. Then she stayed silent, keeping a jealous watch lest any of the maids should by any bungling accident make interruption of her mistress.
Betty sat silent — silent and still as death. She heard Rafe’s footsteps on the carpeted stair,
and wondered why they were so slow. How she would have flown had she been going to him! But he was a man, and it was her place to await him; the sweetness of the coming moments was not to be forestalled.
The door opened and closed again, and she looked up. Before her stood Rafe, more erect than ever as to his body, for his years of soldiering had perfected his bearing. But his head was slightly drooped; the long years of hopes, of fears, of imaginings, told their tale when now he stood in the presence of the woman who had been his very sunlight. There was no need for him to speak. Had she not known already, Betty would have understood by instinct the meaning of that humble bearing. The lesson of her own patient years of hoping and waiting were not lost; and face to face these two loving hearts realised that for them time had stood still, and the golden days of their lives had even to begin. All Betty’s joy and pride and hope and love shone in her sweet eyes as she rose to her feet, and with one glad word — “Rafe!” — whose tone was music to the man who heard, and to the angels who smiled approvingly — fairly leaped to the arms which opened to receive her.
When they sat again in their old place on the sofa, Betty said, as she held his hand and pressed it to her side in the sweet old fashion of her childhood —
“Rafe dear, I have a confession to make; you must forgive me, for I could not help what I did.”
“Granted, my dear one, whatever it may be,” said Rafe, and it need hardly be said he took advantage of the occasion for another kiss.
“I was in Cousin Fenton’s study last afternoon!” She paused, for Rafe instinctively stood up. “Nay, you must sit again and be my prisoner!” She held out her hands, and as he extended his to take them his scarred wrists became exposed beneath the ruffles. With a low cry, almost a sob, Betty drew them to her and bent down and kissed them. “Oh! Rafe,” she said, “the word is a pang to me, for it wrought these cruel wounds!” Then she smiled through her tears as she went on: “‘Tis I who am the prisoner now, but oh how different! for my chains are of light, and music, and flowers and love, whilst these ” and she bent over, despite Rafe’s protest, and kissed the scars again.
For an instant Rafe said nothing; then he spoke with a grave solemnity that Betty never forgot all her life long —
“I grieve beyond measure that I must come to you with such a scar. Therefore, oh! my dear one, be most kind to me and turn not against me the arrows of my own conscience. Though it be true that these scars come about from no shameful cause at man’s hands, yet I may not forget that they are justly given at the hands of God. I have come to realise, Betty, something of the wonder of His ways; the sowing and the reaping is all in just measure though men know not or care not at the seed-time what grain it is that they scatter. ‘ Be not deceived, God is not mocked; for whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap.’ These scars shall be warnings to me for all my life; till at the last, if it may be in God’s good time, the. hands that bear them shall lie folded over a peaceful heart.”
Betty took the two maimed hands in hers and held them to her heart as she answered —
“You are right, Rafe: they must be guides to us both. I must share in all things; and then you will truly feel that you have won something for me too out of that bitter time!” Then she went on:
“I had come into the house in Finsbury Square through the garden, and no one saw me. I had fallen asleep in Cousin Fenton’s own chair, and I was only awakened by his coming — and yours. I listened to all, Rafe. I could not help it; for at the first I was spellbound, and then afraid to stir. And then — then, oh! Rafe, when I heard your brave words and knew of the noble doubt that was in your hetrt, I did not want to go, for I feared that then any movement might have turned things awry, and I hoped — oh! Rafe, how I hoped! — that your trust in my love would win in that struggle, and that you would come to me as one knowing.”
Here she faltered, and her voice broke. With a silent gush of tears she laid her head on her lover’s breast, and her arms went instinctively round his neck. Rafe soothed her and stroked her sunny hair, and when he thought she was not aware of it, kissed the tresses. But this did not pass unknown, though Betty said nothing, in sweet hope that the transgression might be repeated. The years that had passed had changed Betty from a girl into a woman, and though her heart and mind retained all their bashfulness, there was a new yielding to the sweet impulses which came to her, as to all the daughters of Eve. The years had made a new hunger of the heart, and when she felt her lover in her arms, and heard his heart beat close to hers, she wanted something more than the simple assurance that he would not leave her again.
And so the two sat silent till even Abigail at the stair-foot was satisfied that the reconciliation, if there were need of one, was com- plete, and hurried to the kitchen and the still-room to see that a worthy supper was provided. By and by she went to the drawing-room to learn her mistress’s commands; and though she was delayed by a distressing cough of sudden oncoming, which took her in the hall, and lasted with increasing violence till her hand was on the door, she made her entrance at last When she saw Rafe and Betty sitting as of old on the sofa — for the sound of her coughing had driven them apart — the tears of gladness rushed unbidden to her eyes; which seeing, Betty flew to her, and, putting her arms round her, kissed them away. Rafe came over to her, and, taking her hand, said in hi’s old, boyish way —
“Abigail, I must have a kiss too. For all your loving care of Betty when I was away who should have been at her side; for all your hope and cheer and belief; for the tenderness and love and care, you must count me your friend and servant so long as we both shall live!” and stooping over her he kissed the old wrinkled cheek which blushed like a maiden’s under his caress.
In order to put herself at ease again, Abigail said, in as natural a way as she could manage —
“What are your commands for supper, Miss Betty?”
“All! all! everything!” said Betty, dancing round the room like a happy child. “Kill the fatted calf, Abigail! Kill the whole herd of them. Rafe is come home! Rafe is come home!”
“Dear heart!” said Abigail, looking at her with glad eyes, and taking Rafe into her confidence with a look. Betty suddenly stopped and said —
“And oh! Abigail, lay another cover, for I should not be surprised if Cousin Fenton were to join us at supper.”
“La, Miss Betty, surely his lordship wouldn’t come out here at this hour all by himself; and him not knowing whether you are at home.”
“Perhaps not, Abigail; but I should make ready for him anyway, lest by chance he should come.”
So Abigail went off to add to her preparations; for a gentleman who had once been Lord Mayor of London was to her of no small importance. From the day of Mayoralty he had never been to her anything but “His Lordship” or “My Lord.”
It was not long before there was another knock at the door, hesitating and unobtrusive, and Abigail herself flew to open it. Visitors at such an hour were rare enough, and to-night, when there was every reason for keeping strangers at their distance, the faithful guardian would not trust to any less responsible person the answering of queries. Her first thought was that Miss. Betty’s prophecy was true, and that Alderman Fenton had arrived; but that could not be, for there was no sound of wheels, not even of hoof-strokes, as would have been had he ridden. So it was with a certain curiosity that she opened the door. Her wonder was in no wise lessened when she saw that the guest was none other than the Alderman himself — the late Lord Mayor — His Lordship — all alone and on foot, and looking no more than an ordinary and unofficial man! Abigail’s wonder grew, as with admonitory finger on lip he stepped into the hall, and himself closed the door softly behind him. She waited in respectful silence for him to speak, yet not without a secret bridling, which would have manifested itself to any one unsheltered by the memory of Lord Mayoral state. The Alderman asked —
“Has your mistress had any visitors today?”
Abigail, under ordinary circumstances, would have blur
ted out the whole matter; but since there was a mystery, she felt that she should best help herself to some clue by being as uncommunicative as might be. Out of the very questions put to her she might be able to construe something, so she swiftly answered —
“Yes, my lord!”
Then the Alderman got even more vague.
“Ladies?”
“No, my lord.”
“At what time was the visit paid?”
“After dinner, my lord.”
“At what time did they go?”
“Not yet, my lord.”
“Good! How many gentlemen were there in the party?” Abigail began to see daylight.
“Only one, my lord!”
“Good! Do you know him?”
The old man was manifestly perturbed in his mind as he asked this question. So Abigail’s eagerness to tell and her respect for his dignity combined with her liking for him — for he was very dear to Miss Betty and had always been kind to herself — all worked in the direction he wished; putting her mouth close to his ear she whispered exultingly —
