Complete Works of Bram Stoker (135 page)

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 disrespectfully 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 called 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.”

Rafe sprang forward to catch her in his arms, but the horse started a little, and the rein on his arm held him off. There was a sort of grim irony in the situation, which, however, both Rafe and Betty were too agitated to notice.

It was, perhaps, only a natural manifestation of masculine nature, but when the conviction began to dawn upon him that he had not lost Betty’s love, the supremacy of the man over the woman began unconsciously to assert itself.

“You had better get on your way, Betty,” he said, in an authoritative manner; “the roads are not safe, and it was unwise to come alone.”

The speech may seem inconsequent, but both speaker and hearer understood the connection. The silences of lovers, and the habits of such silent understandings, are known to themselves. Then a thought seemed to strike him, and he added, with a horrified expression on his face  —  “My God! if it had been some other than me!”

Betty said sadly: “Would to God, Rafe, that it had!”

“But you don’t know the danger!”

Here a momentary pang of bitterness swept over Betty’s heart, and she answered out of the quickness of her woman’s speech  — 

“Aye, Rafe; you know better than I do the highwayman’s mercy!”

Then followed quickly the reaction of her long restraint, and in a burst of passion she poured forth her whole heart, and all that had been torturing her during the past two days. She ended thus  — 

“But, Rafe, it was because I feared it, and dreaded it, that I came. If it were bad for me, an. innocent woman, to suffer, what must the guilt be that makes such a fear to you. Oh, Rafe! Rafe! what mattered the danger to me, a dead woman  —  aye, a dead woman!” for she saw the question in his face. “What life is in one when the hopes are shattered, and the fire in the heart is quenched? I would have given my life for you, Rafe, as you did for me. Why, then, should I hesitate to run a danger for your sake?”

Here Rafe interrupted  — 

“But, my God! Betty, you don’t know the danger. These men are the roughest, the cruellest, the most remorseless wretches that exist!”

He ground his teeth with passion at the horrible possibilities that rose before his mind. Betty looked at him a moment, and her heart began to beat with a new hope. The lesson of his own shame and ill-doing, and what it meant to her eyes, was coming home to him; out of his very passion might come his reclamation. He would, she reasoned to herself, never have experienced such emotion if he were truly hardened; and so she felt she could enter on a new phase of her task. Still calmly looking him in the face, she put her hand in the bosom of her dress and pulled out her sharp dagger.