The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Sabine Baring-Gould

by Sabine Baring-Gould

  Thus the unhappy girl grew up to woman’s estate, her heart seething with rebellion.

  And then a terrible thing occurred. She caught scarlet fever, which took an unfavourable turn, and her life was despaired of. Miss Mountjoy was not one to conceal from the girl that her days were few, and her future condition hopeless.

  Letice fought against the idea of dying so young.

  “Oh, aunt! I won’t die! I can’t die! I have seen nothing of the pomps and vanities. I want to just taste them, and know what they are like. Oh! save me, make the doctor give me something to revive me. I want the pomps and vanities, oh! so much. I will not, I cannot die!”

  But her will, her struggle, availed nothing, and she passed away into the Great Unseen.

  Miss Mountjoy wrote a formal letter to her brother, who had now become a general, to inform him of the lamented decease of his eldest daughter. It was not a comforting letter. It dwelt unnecessarily on the faults of Letice, it expressed no hopes as to her happiness in the world to which she had passed. There had been no signs of resignation at the last; no turning from the world with its pomps and vanities to better things, only a vain longing after what she could not have; a bitter resentment against Providence for having denied them to her; and a steeling of her heart against good and pious influences.

  A year had passed.

  Lady Lacy had come to town along with her niece. A dear friend had placed her house at her disposal. She had herself gone to Dresden with her daughters to finish them off in music and German. Lady Lacy was very glad of the occasion, for Betty was now of an age to be brought out. There was to be a great ball at the house of the Countess of Belgrove, unto whom Lady Lacy was related, and at the ball Betty was to make her début.

  The girl was in a condition of boundless excitement. A beautiful ball-dress of white satin, trimmed with rich Valenciennes lace, was laid over her chair for her to wear. Neat little white satin shoes stood on the floor, quite new, for her feet. In a flower-glass stood a red camellia that was destined to adorn her hair, and on the dressing-table, in a morocco case, was a pearl necklace that had belonged to her mother.

  The maid did her hair, but the camellia, which was to be the only point of colour about her, except her rosy lips and flushed cheeks—that camellia was not to be put into her hair till the last minute.

  The maid offered to help her to dress.

  “No, thank you, Martha; I can do that perfectly well myself. I am accustomed to use my own hands, and I can take my own time about it.”

  “But really, miss, I think you should allow me.”

  “Indeed, indeed, no. There is plenty of time, and I shall go leisurely to work. When the carriage comes just tap at the door and tell me, and I will rejoin my aunt.”

  When the maid was gone, Betty locked her door. She lighted the candles beside the cheval-glass, and looked at herself in the mirror and laughed. For the first time, with glad surprise and innocent pleasure, she realised how pretty she was. And pretty she was indeed, with her pleasant face, honest eyes, finely arched brows, and twinkling smile that produced dimples in her cheeks.

  “There is plenty of time,” she said. “I shan’t take a hundred years in dressing now that my hair is done.”

  She yawned. A great heaviness had come over her.

  “I really think I shall have a nap first. I am dead sleepy now, and forty winks will set me up for the night.”

  Then she laid herself upon the bed. A numbing, over-powering lethargy weighed on her, and almost at once she sank into a dreamless sleep. So unconscious was she that she did not hear Martha’s tap at the door nor the roll of the carriage as it took her aunt away.

  She woke with a start. It was full day. For some moments she did not realise this fact, nor that she was still dressed in the gown in which she had lain down the previous evening.

  She rose in dismay. She had slept so soundly that she had missed the ball.

  She rang her bell and unlocked the door.

  “What, miss, up already?” asked the maid, coming in with a tray on which were tea and bread and butter.

  “Yes, Martha. Oh! what will aunt say? I have slept so long and like a log, and never went to the ball. Why did you not call me?”

  “Please, miss, you have forgotten. You went to the ball last night.”

  “No; I did not. I overslept myself.”

  The maid smiled. “If I may be so bold as to say so, I think, Miss Betty, you are dreaming still.”

  “No; I did not go.”

  The maid took up the satin dress. It was crumpled, the lace was a little torn, and the train showed unmistakable signs of having been drawn over a floor.

  She then held up the shoes. They had been worn, and well worn, as if danced in all night.

  “Look here, miss; here is your programme! Why, deary me! you must have had a lot of dancing. It is quite full.”

  Betty looked at the programme with dazed eyes; then at the camellia. It had lost some of its petals, and these had not fallen on the toilet-cover. Where were they? What was the meaning of this?

  “Martha, bring me my hot water, and leave me alone.”

  Betty was sorely perplexed. There were evidences that her dress had been worn. The pearl necklace was in the case, but not as she had left it—outside. She bathed her head in cold water. She racked her brain. She could not recall the smallest particular of the ball. She perused the programme. A light colour came into her cheek as she recognised the initials “C. F.,” those of Captain Charles Fontanel, of whom of late she had seen a good deal. Other characters expressed nothing to her mind.

  “How very strange!” she said; “and I was lying on the bed in the dress I had on yesterday evening. I cannot explain it.”

  Twenty minutes later, Betty went downstairs and entered the breakfast-room. Lady Lacy was there. She went up to her aunt and kissed her.

  “I am so sorry that I overslept myself,” she said. “I was like one of the Seven Sleepers.”

  “My dear, I should not have minded if you had not come down till midday. After a first ball you must be tired.”

  “I meant—last night.”

  “How, last night?”

  “I mean when I went to dress.”

  “Oh, you were punctual enough. When I was ready you were already in the hall.”

  The bewilderment of the girl grew apace.

  “I am sure,” said her aunt, “you enjoyed yourself. But you gave the lion’s share of the dances to Captain Fontanel. If this had been at Exeter, it would have caused talk; but here you are known only to a few; however, Lady Belgrove observed it.”

  “I hope you are not very tired, auntie darling,” said Betty, to change slightly the theme that perplexed her.

  “Nothing to speak of. I like to go to a ball; it recalls my old dancing days. But I thought you looked white and fagged all the evening. Perhaps it was excitement.”

  As soon as breakfast was concluded, Betty escaped to her room. A fear was oppressing her. The only explanation of the mystery was that she had been to the dance in her sleep. She was a somnambulist. What had she said and done when unconscious? What a dreadful thing it would have been had she woke up in the middle of a dance! She must have dressed herself, gone to Lady Belgrove’s, danced all night, returned, taken off her dress, put on her afternoon tea-gown, lain down and concluded her sleep—all in one long tract of unconsciousness.

  “By the way,” said her aunt next day, “I have taken tickets for Carmen, at Her Majesty’s. You would like to go?”

  “Oh, delighted, aunt. I know some of the music—of course, the Toreador song; but I have never heard the whole opera. It will be delightful.”

  “And you are not too tired to go?”

  “No—ten thousand times, no—I shall love to see it.”

  “What dress will you go in?”

  “I think my black, and put a rose in my hair.”

  “That will do very well. The black becomes you. I think you could not do better.”

 
Betty was highly delighted. She had been to plays, never to a real opera.

  In the evening, dinner was early, unnecessarily early, and Betty knew that it would not take her long to dress, so she went into the little conservatory and seated herself there. The scent of the heliotropes was strong. Betty called them cherry-pie. She had got the libretto, and she looked it over; but as she looked, her eyes closed, and without being aware that she was going to sleep, in a moment she was completely unconscious.

  She woke, feeling stiff and cold.

  “Goodness!” said she, “I hope I am not late. Why—what is that light?”

  The glimmer of dawn shone in at the conservatory windows.

  Much astonished, she left it. The hall, the staircase were dark. She groped her way to her room, and switched on the electric light.

  Before her lay her black-and-white muslin dress on the bed; on the table were her white twelve-button gloves folded about her fan. She took them up, and below them, somewhat crumpled, lay the play-bill, scented.

  “How very unaccountable this is,” she said; and removing the dress, seated herself on the bed and thought.

  “Why did they turn out the lights?” she asked herself, then sprang to her feet, switched off the electric current, and saw that actually the morning light was entering the room. She resumed her seat; put her hands to her brow. “It cannot—it cannot be that this dreadful thing has happened again.”

  Presently she heard the servants stirring. She hastily undressed and retired between the sheets, but not to sleep. Her mind worked. She was seriously alarmed.

  At the usual time Martha arrived with tea.

  “Awake, Miss Betty!” she said. “I hope you had a nice evening. I dare say it was beautiful.”

  “But,” began the girl, then checked herself, and said—“Is my aunt getting up? Is she very tired?”

  “Oh, miss, my lady is a wonderful person; she never seems to tire. She is always down at the same time.”

  Betty dressed, but her mind was in a turmoil. On one thing she was resolved. She must see a doctor. But she would not frighten her aunt, she would keep the matter close from her.

  When she came into the breakfast-room, Lady Lacy said—“I thought Maas’s voice was superb, but I did not so much care for the Carmen. What did you think, dear?”

  “Aunt,” said Betty, anxious to change the topic, “would you mind my seeing a doctor? I don’t think I am quite well.”

  “Not well! Why what is the matter with you?”

  “I have such dead fits of drowsiness.”

  “My dearest, is that to be wondered at with this racketing about; balls and theatres—very other than the quiet life at home? But I will admit that you struck me as looking very pale last night. You shall certainly see Dr. Groves.”

  When the medical man arrived, Betty intimated that she wished to speak with him alone, and he was shown with her into the morning-room.

  “Oh, Dr. Groves,” she said nervously, “it is such a strange thing I have to say. I believe I walk in my sleep.”

  “You have eaten something that disagreed with you.”

  “But it lasted so long.”

  “How do you mean? Have you long been subject to it?”

  “Dear, no. I never had any signs of it before I came to London this season.”

  “And how were you roused? How did you become aware of it?”

  “I was not roused at all; the fact is I went asleep to Lady Belgrove’s ball, and danced there and came back, and woke up in the morning without knowing I had been.”

  “What!”

  “And then, last night, I went in my sleep to Her Majesty’s and heard Carmen; but I woke up in the conservatory here at early dawn, and I remember nothing about it.”

  “This is a very extraordinary story. Are you sure you went to the ball and to the opera?”

  “Quite sure. My dress had been used on both occasions, and my shoes and fan and gloves as well.”

  “Did you go with Lady Lacy?”

  “Oh, yes. I was with her all the time. But I remember nothing about it.”

  “I must speak to her ladyship.”

  “Please, please do not. It would frighten her; and I do not wish her to suspect anything, except that I am a little out of sorts. She gets nervous about me.”

  Dr. Groves mused for some while, then he said: “I cannot see that this is at all a case of somnambulism.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Lapse of memory. Have you ever suffered from that previously?”

  “Nothing to speak of. Of course I do not always remember everything. I do not always recollect commissions given to me, unless I write them down. And I cannot say that I remember all the novels I have read, or what was the menu at dinner yesterday.”

  “That is quite a different matter. What I refer to is spaces of blank in your memory. How often has this occurred?”

  “Twice.”

  “And quite recently?”

  “Yes, I never knew anything of the kind before.”

  “I think that the sooner you return to the country the better. It is possible that the strain of coming out and the change of entering into gay life in town has been too much for you. Take care and economise your pleasures. Do not attempt too much; and if anything of the sort happens again, send for me.”

  “Then you won’t mention this to my aunt?”

  “No, not this time. I will say that you have been a little overwrought and must be spared too much excitement.”

  “Thank you so much, Dr. Groves.”

  Now it was that a new mystery came to confound Betty. She rang her bell.

  “Martha,” said she, when her maid appeared, “where is that novel I had yesterday from the circulating library? I put it on the boudoir table.”

  “I have not noticed it, miss.”

  “Please look for it. I have hunted everywhere for it, and it cannot be found.”

  “I will look in the parlour, miss, and the schoolroom.”

  “I have not been into the schoolroom at all, and I know that it is not in the drawing-room.”

  A search was instituted, but the book could not be found. On the morrow it was in the boudoir, where Betty had placed it on her return from Mudie’s.

  “One of the maids took it,” was her explanation. She did not much care for the book; perhaps that was due to her preoccupation, and not to any lack of stirring incident in the story. She sent it back and took out another. Next morning that also had disappeared.

  It now became customary, as surely as she drew a novel from the library, that it vanished clean away. Betty was greatly amazed. She could not read a novel she had brought home till a day or two later. She took to putting the book, so soon as it was in the house, into one of her drawers, or into a cupboard. But the result was the same. Finally, when she had locked the newly acquired volume in her desk, and it had disappeared thence also, her patience gave way. There must be one of the domestics with a ravenous appetite for fiction, which drove her to carry off a book of the sort whenever it came into the house, and even to tamper with a lock to obtain it. Betty had been most reluctant to speak of the matter to her aunt, but now she made to her a formal complaint.

  The servants were all questioned, and strongly protested their innocence. Not one of them had ventured to do such a thing as that with which they were charged.

  However, from this time forward the annoyance ceased, and Betty and Lady Lacy naturally concluded that this was the result of the stir that had been made.

  “Betty,” said Lady Lacy, “what do you say to going to the new play at the Gaiety? I hear it very highly spoken of. Mrs. Fontanel has a box and has asked if we will join her.”

  “I should love it,” replied the girl; “we have been rather quiet of late.” But her heart was oppressed with fear.

  She said to her maid: “Martha, will you dress me this evening—and—pray stay with me till my aunt is ready and calls for me?”

  “Yes, miss, I shall be pleased to d
o so.” But the girl looked somewhat surprised at the latter part of the request.

  Betty thought well to explain: “I don’t know what it is, but I feel somewhat out of spirits and nervous, and am afraid of being left alone, lest something should happen.”

  “Happen, miss! If you are not feeling well, would it not be as well to stay at home?”

  “Oh, not for the world! I must go. I shall be all right so soon as I am in the carriage. It will pass off then.”

  “Shall I get you a glass of sherry, or anything?”

  “No, no, it is not that. You remain with me and I shall be myself again.”

  That evening Betty went to the theatre. There was no recurrence of the sleeping fit with its concomitants. Captain Fontanel was in the box, and made himself vastly agreeable. He had his seat by Betty, and talked to her not only between the acts, but also a good deal whilst the actors were on the stage. With this she could have dispensed. She was not such an habituée of the theatre as not to be intensely interested with what was enacted before her.

  Between two of the acts he said to her: “My mother is engaging Lady Lacy. She has a scheme in her head, but wants her consent to carry it out, to make it quite too charming. And I am deputed to get you to acquiesce.”

  “What is it?”

  “We purpose having a boat and going to the Henley Regatta. Will you come?”

  “I should enjoy it above everything. I have never seen a regatta—that is to say, not one so famous, and not of this kind. There were regattas at Ilfracombe, but they were different.”

  “Very well, then; the party shall consist only of my mother and sister and your two selves, and young Fulwell, who is dancing attendance on Jannet, and Putsey, who is a tame cat. I am sure my mother will persuade your aunt. What a lively old lady she is, and for her years how she does enjoy life!”

  “It will be a most happy conclusion to our stay in town,” said Betty. “We are going back to auntie’s little cottage in Devon in a few days; she wants to be at home for Good Friday and Easter Day.”

  So it was settled. Lady Lacy had raised no objection, and now she and her niece had to consider what Betty should wear. Thin garments were out of the question; the weather was too cold, and it would be especially chilly on the river. Betty was still in slight mourning, so she chose a silver-grey cloth costume, with a black band about her waist, and a white straw hat, with a ribbon to match her gown.