The History of the Lady Betty Stair

by Molly Elliot Seawell

“Your first duties as a priest must have seemed strange,—confessions, for example, Monsieur l’Abbé.”

“Very strange they seemed. I was ordained the morning of the day that the mob entered Versailles, and before night I had heard my first penitent confess that he had killed a man.”

Lady Betty knew well enough how the secrets of the confessional were guarded, but in spite of herself, she burst out, leaning toward the Abbé:

“And he killed Angus Macdonald of the Scottish Guard!”

The Abbé de Ronceray, although soldier, courtier, and priest in one, was thoroughly disconcerted. He turned pale and then red. His lips opened to speak, but no word came forth. A duller mind than Lady Betty’s must have seen that she had hit the white.

“It is not worth while for you to try and deceive me,” cried Lady Betty, with tears pouring down her pale face, “I know—I know it all—Angus Macdonald was my brother—my only brother!”

The Abbé, much agitated, sank back in his chair. It is a very terrible thing for a priest to reveal, even inadvertently, the secrets of the confessional. He is pledged to die first—and many have died rather than reveal confessions. He was a straightforward man, accustomed to a soldierly plainness of speech. He knew not what to say, and could not restrain a slight groan, and this was the confirmation of Lady Betty’s fears. They had been quite alone until then, but the folding doors opened and several persons came in. Seeing the Abbé and Lady Betty sitting in silence at the other end of the room and plainly deeply moved, no one approached them. Lady Betty, rising quickly, said to him, in a broken voice:—

“You did not mean to tell; it was one of those dreadful coincidences that no one can guard against. But for me—it breaks my heart! it breaks my heart!” and without another word, she slipped away so quickly and noiselessly that she might have been one of the ghosts in that ghostly palace.

It was some hours afterward that Lady Betty, coming out of a dream as it were, found herself sitting on the steps of Queen Mary’s Bathhouse, at a distance from the palace. The night was raw and damp, and through a gloomy haze she could see the faint glimmer of lights below her in the town, and above her the great sombre pile of the palace, with here and there a gleaming window. All was strangely still, and the only distinct sound was the regular step of the sentry as he paced back and forth on the pathway above her. She wondered dully to herself how she managed to elude him,—for her present place was beyond the confines of the palace proper,—and how long had she been sitting in that dismal place? She remembered having on a white gown, which must have been visible even in the dusk of night. But to her surprise, as she came slowly out of the maze of pain and wonder, she realized that she was wrapped in her plaid, although her head was bare and she still had on her white satin slippers. She drew the plaid around her and cowered where she sat in the gloom, leaning her head against one of the stone pillars. The palace clock tolled out eleven. De Bourmont was to leave at twelve. He would wait as long as he could in the courtyard, hoping to see a light in her window. At that very moment he was searching for her, to give her the letter she had promised to take. And all the time he had known that Angus Macdonald was her brother! She could recall a dozen times that she had spoken of him, and De Bourmont’s face had been so tenderly sympathetic—he had seemed to feel so deeply for this terrible tragedy of her early life; and he knew, he knew so much more than she could tell him. As this thought struck her she uttered a half-articulate cry of anguish, that broke off suddenly. The sentry alone paused in his walk, listened and looked about, then, perfect silence succeeding, resumed his steady tramp. No other sound broke the quiet of the night.

At twelve o’clock the guard would be relieved, and a few minutes before, a dark figure crossed the sentry’s beat. The man cried “Halt!” and advancing at a run, seized hold of Lady Betty Stair, who turned on him a face so white and desperate that he almost dropped his musket. He recognized her in a moment, and anything more awkward for him never happened. Was he to take Lady Betty Stair to the guard-house? He began some blundering questions, holding on to her at the time, and she, looking into his eyes quietly, and remaining quite mute, as if she did not quite understand what he was saying, suddenly dropped the plaid, melting, as it were, out of the man’s grasp, and ran quickly and noiselessly toward the palace. The sentry was immensely relieved. He picked the plaid up and determined to make a clean breast of it to his officer. But he could not get over the uncanny look on Lady Betty’s face.