The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Sabine Baring-Gould

by Sabine Baring-Gould

  On the day of the regatta Betty said to herself; “How ignorant I am! Fancy my not knowing where Henley is! That it is on the Thames or Isis I really do not know, but I fancy on the former—yes, I am almost positive it is on the Thames. I have seen pictures in the Graphic and Illustrated of the race last year, and I know the river was represented as broad, and the Isis can only be an insignificant stream. I will run into the schoolroom and find a map of the environs of London and post myself up in the geography. One hates to look like a fool.”

  Without a word to anyone, Betty found her way to the apartment given up to lessons when children were in the house. It lay at the back, down a passage. Since Lady Lacy had occupied the place, neither she nor Betty had been in it more than casually and rarely; and accordingly the servants had neglected to keep it clean. A good deal of dust lay about, and Betty, laughing, wrote her name in the fine powder on the school-table, then looked at her finger, found it black, and said, “Oh, bother! I forgot that the dust of London is smut.”

  She went to the bookcase, and groped for a map of the Metropolis and the country round, but could not find one. Nor could she lay her hand on a gazetteer.

  “This must do,” said she, drawing out a large, thick Johnston’s Atlas, “if the scale be not too small to give Henley.”

  She put the heavy volume on the table and opened it. England, she found, was in two parts, one map of the Northern, the second of the Southern division. She spread out the latter, placed her finger on the blue line of the Thames, and began to trace it up.

  Whilst her eyes were on it, searching the small print, they closed, and without being conscious that she was sleepy, her head bowed forward on the map, and she was breathing evenly, steeped in the most profound slumber.

  She woke slowly. Her consciousness returned to her little by little. She saw the atlas without understanding what it meant. She looked about her, and wondered how she could be in the schoolroom, and she then observed that darkness was closing in. Only then, suddenly, did she recall what had brought her where she was.

  Next, with a rush, upon her came the remembrance that she was due at the boat-race.

  She must again have overslept herself, for the evening had come on, and through the window she could see the glimmer of gaslights in the street. Was this to be accompanied by her former experiences?

  With throbbing heart she went into the passage. Then she noticed that the hall was lighted up, and she heard her aunt speaking, and the slam of the front door, and the maid say, “Shall I take off your wraps, my lady?”

  She stepped forth upon the landing and proceeded to descend, when—with a shock that sent the blood coursing to her heart, and that paralysed her movements—she saw herself ascending the stair in her silver-grey costume and straw hat.

  She clung to the banister, with convulsive grip, lest she should fall, and stared, without power to utter a sound, as she saw herself quietly mount, step by step, pass her, go beyond to her own room.

  For fully ten minutes she remained rooted to the spot, unable to stir even a finger. Her tongue was stiff, her muscles set, her heart ceased to beat.

  Then slowly her blood began again to circulate, her nerves to relax, power of movement returned. With a hoarse gasp she reeled from her place, and giddy, touching the banister every moment to prevent herself from falling, she crept downstairs. But when once in the hall, she had recovered flexibility. She ran towards the morning-room, whither Lady Lacy had gone to gather up the letters that had arrived by post during her absence.

  Betty stood looking at her, speechless.

  Her aunt raised her face from an envelope she was considering. “Why, Betty,” said she, “how expeditiously you have changed your dress!”

  The girl could not speak, but fell unconscious on the floor.

  When she came to herself, she was aware of a strong smell of vinegar. She was lying on the sofa, and Martha was applying a moistened kerchief to her brow. Lady Lacy stood by, alarmed and anxious, with a bottle of smelling-salts in her hand.

  “Oh, aunt, I saw——” then she ceased. It would not do to tell of the apparition. She would not be believed.

  “My darling,” said Lady Lacy, “you are overdone, and it was foolish of you tearing upstairs and scrambling into your morning-gown. I have sent for Groves. Are you able now to rise? Can you manage to reach your room?”

  “My room!” she shuddered. “Let me lie here a little longer. I cannot walk. Let me be here till the doctor comes.”

  “Certainly, dearest. I thought you looked very unlike yourself all day at the regatta. If you had felt out of sorts you ought not to have gone.”

  “Auntie! I was quite well in the morning.”

  Presently the medical man arrived, and was shown in. Betty saw that Lady Lacy purposed staying through the interview. Accordingly she said nothing to Dr. Groves about what she had seen.

  “She is overdone,” said he. “The sooner you move her down to Devonshire the better. Someone had better be in her room tonight.”

  “Yes,” said Lady Lacy; “I had thought of that and have given orders. Martha can make up her bed on the sofa in the adjoining dressing-room or boudoir.”

  This was a relief to Betty, who dreaded a return to her room—her room into which her other self had gone.

  “I will call again in the morning,” said the medical man; “keep her in bed tomorrow, at all events till I have seen her.”

  When he left, Betty found herself able to ascend the stairs. She cast a frightened glance about her room. The straw hat, the grey dress were there. No one was in it.

  She was helped to bed, and although laid in it with her head among the pillows, she could not sleep. Racking thoughts tortured her. What was the signification of that encounter? What of her strange sleeps? What of those mysterious appearances of herself, where she had not been? The theory that she had walked in her sleep was untenable. How was she to solve the riddle? That she was going out of her mind was no explanation.

  Only towards morning did she doze off.

  When Dr. Groves came, about eleven o’clock, Betty made a point of speaking to him alone, which was what she greatly desired.

  She said to him: “Oh! it has been worse this last occasion, far worse than before. I do not walk in my sleep. Whilst I am buried in slumber, someone else takes my place.”

  “Whom do you mean? Surely not one of the maids?”

  “Oh, no. I met her on the stairs last night, that is what made me faint.”

  “Whom did you meet?”

  “Myself—my double.”

  “Nonsense, Miss Mountjoy.”

  “But it is a fact. I saw myself as clearly as I see you now. I was going down into the hall.”

  “You saw yourself! You saw your own pleasant, pretty face in a looking-glass.”

  “There is no looking-glass on the staircase. Besides, I was in my alpaca morning-gown, and my double had on my pearl-grey cloth costume, with my straw hat. She was mounting as I was descending.”

  “Tell me the story.”

  “I went yesterday—an hour or so before I had to dress—into the schoolroom. I am awfully ignorant, and I did want to see a map and find out where was Henley, because, you know, I was going to the boat-race. And I dropped off into one of those dreadful dead sleeps, with my head on the atlas. When I awoke it was evening, and the gas-lamps were lighted. I was frightened, and ran out to the landing and I heard them arrive, just come back from Henley, and as I was going down the stairs, I saw my double coming up, and we met face to face. She passed me by, and went on to my room—to this room. So you see this is proof pos. that I am not a somnambulist.”

  “I never said that you were. I never for a moment admitted the supposition. That, if you remember, was your own idea. What I said before is what I repeat now, that you suffer from failure of memory.”

  “But that cannot be so, Dr. Groves.”

  “Pray, why not?”

  “Because I saw my double, wearing my regatta costume.”
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  “I hold to my opinion, Miss Mountjoy. If you will listen to me I shall be able to offer a satisfactory explanation. Satisfactory, I mean, so far as to make your experiences intelligible to you. I do not at all imply that your condition is satisfactory.”

  “Well, tell me. I cannot make heads or tails of this matter.”

  “It is this, young lady. On several recent occasions you have suffered from lapses of memory. All recollection of what you did, where you went, what you said, has been clean wiped out. But on this last—it was somewhat different. The failure took place on your return, and you forgot everything that had happened since you were engaged in the schoolroom looking at the atlas.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, on your arrival here, as Lady Lacy told me, you ran upstairs, and in a prodigious hurry changed your clothes and put on your——”

  “My alpaca.”

  “Your alpaca, yes. Then, in descending to the hall, your memory came back, but was still entangled with flying reminiscences of what had taken place during the intervening period. Amongst other things——”

  “I remember no other things.”

  “You recalled confusedly one thing only, that you had mounted the stairs in your—your——”

  “My pearl-grey cloth, with the straw hat and satin ribbon.”

  “Precisely. Whilst in your morning gown, into which you had scrambled, you recalled yourself in your regatta costume going upstairs to change. This fragmentary reminiscence presented itself before you as a vision. Actually you saw nothing. The impression on your brain of a scrap recollected appeared to you as if it had been an actual object depicted on the retina of your eye. Such things happen, and happen not infrequently. In cases of D. T. ——”

  “But I haven’t D. T. I don’t drink.”

  “I do not say that. If you will allow me to proceed. In cases of D. T. the patient fancies he sees rats, devils, all sorts of objects. They appear to him as obvious realities, he thinks that he sees them with his eyes. But he does not. These are mere pictures formed on the brain.”

  “Then you hold that I really was at the boat-race?”

  “I am positive that you were.”

  “And that I danced at Lady Belgrove’s ball?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “And heard Carmen at Her Majesty’s?”

  “I have not the remotest doubt that you did.”

  Betty drew a long breath, and remained in consideration. Then she said very gravely: “I want you to tell me, Dr. Groves, quite truthfully, quite frankly—do not think that I shall be frightened whatever you say; I shall merely prepare for what may be—do you consider that I am going out of my mind?”

  “I have not the least occasion for supposing so.”

  “That,” said Betty, “would be the most terrible thing of all. If I thought that, I would say right out to my aunt that I wished at once to be sent to an asylum.”

  “You may set your mind at rest on that score.”

  “But loss of memory is bad, but better than the other. Will these fits of failure come on again?”

  “That is more than I can prognosticate; let us hope for the best. A complete change of scene, change of air, change of association——”

  “Not to leave auntie!”

  “No. I do not mean that, but to get away from London society. It may restore you to what you were. You never had those fits before?”

  “Never, never, till I came to town.”

  “And when you have left town they may not recur.”

  “I shall take precious good care not to revisit London if it is going to play these tricks with me.”

  That day Captain Fontanel called, and was vastly concerned to hear that Betty was unwell. She was not looking herself, he said, at the boat-race. He feared that the cold on the river had been too much for her. But he did trust that he might be allowed to have a word with her before she returned to Devonshire. Although he did not see Betty, he had an hour’s conversation with Lady Lacy, and he departed with a smile on his face.

  On the morrow he called again. Betty had so completely recovered that she was cheerful, and the pleasant colour had returned to her cheeks. She was in the drawing-room along with her aunt when he arrived.

  The captain offered his condolences, and expressed his satisfaction that her indisposition had been so quickly got over.

  “Oh!” said the girl, “I am as right as a trivet. It has all passed off. I need not have soaked in bed all yesterday, but that aunt would have it so. We are going down to our home tomorrow. Yesterday auntie was scared and thought she would have to postpone our return.”

  Lady Lacy rose, made the excuse that she had the packing to attend to, and left the young people alone together. When the door was shut behind her, Captain Fontanel drew his chair close to that of the girl and said—

  “Betty, you do not know how happy I have felt since you accepted me. It was a hurried affair in the boat-house, but really, time was running short; as you were off so soon to Devonshire, I had to snatch at the occasion when there was no one by, so I seized old Time by the forelock, and you were so good as to say ‘Yes.’”

  “I—I——” stammered Betty.

  “But as the thing was done in such haste, I came here today to renew my offer of myself, and to make sure of my happiness. You have had time to reflect, and I trust you do not repent.”

  “Oh, you are so good and kind to me!”

  “Dearest Betty, what a thing to say! It is I—poor, wretched, good-for-naught—who have cause to speak such words to you. Put your hand into mine; it is a short courtship of a soldier, like that of Harry V. and the fair Maid of France. ‘I love you: then if you urge me farther than to say, “Do you in faith?” I wear out my suit. Give me your answer; i’ faith, do: and so clap hands and a bargain.’ Am I quoting aright?”

  Shyly, hesitatingly, she extended her fingers, and he clasped them. Then, shrinking back and looking down, she said: “But I ought to tell you something first, something very serious, which may make you change your mind. I do not, in conscience, feel it right that you should commit yourself till you know.”

  “It must be something very dreadful to make me do that.”

  “It is dreadful. I am apt to be terribly forgetful.”

  “Bless me! So am I. I have passed several of my acquaintances lately and have not recognised them, but that was because I was thinking of you. And I fear I have been very oblivious about my bills; and as to answering letters—good heavens! I am a shocking defaulter.”

  “I do not mean that. I have lapses of memory. Why, I do not even remember——”

  He sealed her lips with a kiss. “You will not forget this, at any rate, Betty.”

  “Oh, Charlie, no!”

  “Then consider this, Betty. Our engagement cannot be for long. I am ordered to Egypt, and I positively must take my dear little wife with me and show her the Pyramids. You would like to see them, would you not?”

  “I should love to.”

  “And the Sphynx?”

  “Indeed I should.”

  “And Pompey’s Pillar?”

  “Oh, Charlie! I shall love above everything to see you every day.”

  “That is prettily said. I see we understand one another. Now, hearken to me, give me your close attention, and no fits of lapse of memory over what I now say, please. We must be married very shortly. I positively will not go out without you. I would rather throw up my commission.”

  “But what about papa’s consent?”

  “I shall wire to him full particulars as to my position, income, and prospects, also how much I love you, and how I will do my level best to make you happy. That is the approved formula in addressing paterfamilias, I think. Then he will telegraph back, ‘Bless you, my boy’; and all is settled. I know that Lady Lacy approves.”

  “But dear, dear aunt. She will be so awfully lonely without me.”

  “She shall not be. She has no ties to hold her to the little cottage in Devon. She s
hall come out to us in Cairo, and we will bury the dear old girl up to her neck in the sand of the desert, and make a second Sphynx of her, and bake the rheumatism out of her bones. It will cure her of all her aches, as sure as my name is Charlie, and yours will be Fontanel.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that.”

  “But I am sure—you cannot forget.”

  “I will try not to do so. Oh, Charlie, don’t!”

  ******

  Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker, and Miss Crock, the milliner, had their hands full. Betty’s trousseau had to be got ready expeditiously. Patterns of materials specially adapted for a hot climate—light, beautiful, artistic, of silks and muslins and prints— had to be commanded from Liberty’s. Then came the selection, then the ordering, then the discussions with the dressmaker, and the measurings. Next the fittings, for which repeated visits had to be made to Mrs. Thomas. Adjustments, alterations were made, easements under the arms, tightenings about the waist. There were fulnesses to be taken in and skimpiness to be redressed. The skirts had to be sufficiently short in front and sufficiently long behind.

  As for the wedding-dress, Mrs. Thomas was not regarded as quite competent to execute such a masterpiece. For that an expedition had to be made to Exeter.

  The wedding-cake must be ordered from Murch, in the cathedral city. Lady Lacy was particular that as much as possible of the outfit should be given to county tradesmen. A riding habit, tailor-made, was ordered, to fit like a glove, and a lady’s saddle must be taken out to Egypt. Boxes, basket-trunks were to be procured, and a correspondence carried on as to the amount of personal luggage allowed. Lady Lacy and Betty were constantly running up by express to Exeter about this, that, and everything.

  Then ensued the sending out of the invitations, and the arrival of wedding presents, that entailed the writing of gushing letters of acknowledgment and thanks, by Betty herself. But these were not allowed to interfere with the scribbling of four pages every day to Captain Fontanel, intended for his eyes alone.