Complete Works of Bram Stoker (125 page)

“I will tell you something, my dears, which comes back vividly to my mind tonight. Mrs. Abigail said how like my dear little Betty is to her grandfather, and I said myself that I knew she was true. Perhaps it is these two things together that take my mind back seventy years and more  —  further than the span of a man’s life. It was when I was brought before the great, Cromwell, not long after the King had been martyred.”

As he spoke the last words the old man’s voice was instinct with reverence, and he stood ( up. As he paused one of the boys said  — 

“‘ Great Cromwell! ‘ He wasn’t great. He was a traitor.” The old man answered  — 

“Traitor or no traitor, he was a great man. K Sometimes when I look back through the dimness of my age I wonder where, in time to come, the measure of his greatness shall |be set. But we will not talk of this now. Suffice it that in the days I speak of the world called him great. He was the victorious general of a conquering army. He was the head of the State  —  in the eyes of some; the head of the Parliament and the general of the Parliament’s forces, and his iron will was felt throughout the land. I had been an officer of the King’s household, and had some knowledge of usage in foreign matters; but when the Parliament slew the King I refused to serve longer under those who made him a martyr, and so I went away from London and stayed in Much Hadam, where my great-aunt had her home. Not very many days had passed when a letter came demanding my presence in London. To this I replied, respectfully but still firmly, that inasmuch as my services and my faith had been those of my King, I could not now give to others the fealty which had been his.”

“And was there any answer?” said Betty, nestling closer to his knee and looking up into his face with her earnest eyes.

“Any answer! My faith, child, but there was an answer! Before another day had passed it came in the shape of a troop of soldiers, who arrived covered with dust and with their horses foaming, for they had ridden from London during the night. They had a warrant for my arrest, signed by Cromwell himself; and they, only waiting to bait their horses before starting, took me back to London. They treated me civilly enough. They said their orders were to show me all due respect, and they were a fine set of fellows, I warrant  —  tall men and strong, and earnest and grave in their ways and bearing. Aye, children, they were earnest men, those old Ironsides, whatever any one may tell you now; and, my faith! but they spoke and fought as though they believed in the righteousness of their cause.”

“Oh fie! grandfather,” said Marjory, in her pert way, “to speak for traitors  —  and you a King’s man!”

“Nay, child,” said the old man gravely, “it is no shame to speak truly of any man. The truth is a purging fire that cleanses all it touches, and it would be shame to me, and you might well cry ‘ Fie! ‘ upon me if any malice on my part bore down truth. And moreover, my dear, I was a King’s man then, and a King’s man when his son came to his own again, and a King’s man in the old succession till James, tampered with our faith, and made me a King’s man to Dutch William and his English Queen. And a Queen’s man am I now  —  and shall be whilst good Queen Anne is spared to rule. All these be different Kings, and there be many who iold that the Crown of England should rest on another head; yet you cry not ‘ Fie! ‘ upon those who bled with the King when he fought against the King. But there! these things are beyond you, I fear. You will know more and understand better hereafter.” “Well, but go on, grandfather! Tell us of the soldiers,” said one of the boys. “Go on! Don’t mind Marjory; she’s always interrupting. Keep quiet, you Marjory, and don’t trouble us!” he added, in the dictatorial way of brothers.

“Well, we never drew rein till we rode into Whitehall, and then and there, all booted and spurred as I was and white with the summer dust, I was taken before Cromwell himself. He received me standing, and put his questions simply and directly. I listened in silence, and after a pause spoke  — 

‘“Sir, I may not answer. When the evil time came and my King was butchered, I who held loyal service as his due, resigned my place and sought that solitude which should be the right of every Englishman-if England is, as you boast her to be, free. Whereat the hands of the grim Ironside around me instinctively sought their sword and I tell you that for all my brave words  —  and I meant to die for them if need were  —  my heart beat quick and heavy. But Cromwell looked me steadily in the face and spoke out  — 

“‘ Well said, young sir! That is the speech of a true Englishman, and God forbid that I or those who hold with me should deem it ill on thy part to do thy] duty boldly  —  even though our duty to follow! it were to send thee to the gallows for it. But think, young sir! mayest thou not have d higher duty than even the loyalty of doing nothing in memory of a dead man? Hath England no claim upon thee? Hast thou no duty to her? Is there no work in the present to which the hand of a loyal Englishman can be turned? It is a grave question that thou hast to answer; and yet thou thinkest it meet to be silent. Thou hast, much knowledge of certain matters; and even earnest men, for lack of such help as thine, may blunder into rougher ways of statecraft than were needed. Nevertheless thou shalt go free, for I cannot see in thy eye other than the look of a true man. Stand back there, and let him pass! I am Essex stock myself, and know his home and lineage. There is naught but truth in his blood; and England never needed true men more than now. Bethink thee, in the future, sir, when the time comes for other grave choice, that thou hast chosen blind obedience to a dead fancy rather than the call of living England  —  that England for whom men like these have shed their blood!’ and with a grave sweep of his arm he took in the whole ranks of soldiers and statesmen who stood around him. I turned to the door, feeling of such small worth that though I had risked my very life in the boldness of my words, I knew that my going was without dignity. No one else moved to the extent of a hair; I opened the door, passed out, and closed it again.

“And then, hardly had I crossed the threshold, than there came over me such an overwhelming sense of duty undone that I almost reeled. Who and what was I that I should hold my hand or my tongue, when England, in the very throes and stress of civil war, might need me? What was duty that I should deny its call? What was truth? And, my dears, in that instant the answer rose before me as if, like Belshazzar’s doom, it had been written in fire upon the wall  —  that truth and duty were one, and that both must be obeyed at all sacrifice of self. My duty seemed then a simple thing enough. I had no more right to hold back my doing than to refuse to risk my life. The duty must be done, whatever the risk, whatever the pang.

“And then I turned and opened the door again, and walked in silence into that room with head erect  —  I had left it with downcast head. And then the great Captain stepped forward to meet me, and took me by the hand and said: ‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant! ‘ and it seemed to me that truth and duty, though strong together, were imperfect, but that with faith the perfect trinity appeared. But this is all over your heads. Run away to bed now, children! Good-night!” And the old man sank back into his chair, as though the full weight of his ninety years had come upon him all at once.

As she gave her good-night kiss Betty murmured in her grandfather’s ear  — 

“I think I know, grandfather! Faith and!

Duty and Truth are like three candles with but one light,” and she walked gravely away, whilst the old man’s eyes followed her lovingly. When the children were all in bed and Betty’s father had gone to work in his study, her grandfather went up to the nursery and tapped softly at the door. Mrs. Abigail came quickly and opened it. She was about to make some remark, when the old man held up a warning finger and said softly  — 

“Is Betty asleep? Please look into her room and see. I do not want to disturb her if she is.” Abigail, with an inaudible protest against disturbing people when they were going to bed after a hard day’s work, softly opened the door of Betty’s room. The child was not asleep, for she spoke at once. Abigail reckoned to the old man. He entered the room, and the nurse shut the door softly and vent back to her own room, but without protest of any kind this time, for there was something so grave in the old man’s face  —  something so sweet and yet so earnest  —  that it awed her a little, and unconsciously her womanhood admitted the dominance of the man.

As he entered the room the child said, in a most natural way  — 

“I knew you would come, grandfather.”

The old man was a little startled, for such visit was a rare thing indeed on his part, and the subject had not been mentioned between them. Indeed his own intention to come had been formed long after she had said goodnight. And yet there was something so genuine and unforced in the utterance, as though it was the natural conclusion of a train of thought, that the old man was strangely moved; and as he sat beside the little cot he said brightly  — 

“Why Betty, my dear, you seem to know things by instinct.”

“Oh, I don’t know, grandfather; but sometimes when I am told things, or see or hear them, other things come into my mind all at once.”

Then, as the child took his great hand in her little ones and drew it to her breast and nursed it, visions of other faces rose before him and mingled with hers, so that the past and the present  —  the living and the dead  —  became embodied in the one sweet childish presence! The story of his thought was so well written in his face that the child, looking into his eyes whispered softly  — 

“Tell me, dear grandfather; what are you thinking of?  —  tell me all.” After a pause, the old man spoke to her in a low, solemn voice.

It was a strange, albeit so sweet and peaceful a scene. The lamp which the old man carried, was laid on the table at the foot of the cot so that its light might not dazzle the eyes of the child, and the two were in shadow, deep save for the reflected light from the walls of the room and the dim echo of the moonlight through the yellow curtains. The child’s face was framed in her little white muslin cap, with just here and there a stray tangle of her sunny brown hair peeping through. Her sapphire eyes were grave and earnest, and the likeness of the child to the old man was more strangely great even than before.

“My child, it seems strange of me to talk of such things, but there is a spell upon me to-night. Mayhap that the old memories are awake and are growing stronger still as the end draws nearer.” The child held his hand tighter and closer to her breast, but said not a word, though a tear gathered in each eye and rolled slowly down her cheeks as she lay. “For the end must come some time, my dear,” he added, as he saw the tears. Stooping, he kissed her forehead, and then, with his silk handkerchief, wiped the tears from her sweet little face. “All the faces I have loved seem gathered in yours to-night. The face of my mother, who, when a child like you, stood with her mother on the heights of Portland Bill and saw the great Armada sweep up the Channel and watched the beginning of the fight that ended in its annihilation. My mother it was who taught me to be true above all things and not to fear to do that which my conscience told me. And I see, too, the face of my wife, whom I had known when she was scarcely bigger than you are, and who grew up to love me as I had loved her all along; who counselled me ever in the way that was most honourable and most true; who mourned when my master suffered at the hands of his foes; who, when I saw the work of that Cromwell who had taught me my duty to England pass away, told me he had been right to choose even death for my conscience’s sake, and to act on it when it showed me a new path; and who, alas! left me with my little daughter when God’s time came for her to go home to Him. And I see, too, the face of that little one  —  so like you, my dear, that half a century seems gone and that I see her lying in her little cot, that very time the Great Plague was on us that the Great Fire later purged away.” The child held his hand closer and tighter still. “And I see, too the face of her daughter.”

“That’s me, grandfather!” said the child brightly. The old man shook his head.

“Nay, nay, my dear. Time runs more quickly than you think. I speak of your mother, my child, who stood with me in the streets of London and saw Dutch William enter. Your mother, my child’s child; for Betty, dear, you are my great-granddaughter, though we always call you granddaughter. But that is naught to me, my dear,” he added, earnestly and quickly, seeing a look of disappointment crossing the child’s face. “You are all the more dear for the years that have elapsed, and for all the love and the sweet memories that go to mould you in my heart. Nay, I can say with all truth that as my life ebbs away and I come nearer to the time when I shall meet my dear ones who have gone before, I love best of all the little one whom I must leave and whose love I shall bear to them when we shall meet. But these are sad thoughts for a child, and I must leave you to rest; nevertheless I want to tell you, Betty dear, something which I always intended you to know. When I have passed away all that I have is to be yours; it is in the hands of I trustees; what this means you will know later.

But there is one sum which is kept apart and which is to be yours and yours alone, and which you are to deal with when you pleas? and how you please. I want to ask you not to use that money lightly. Keep it till you feel that there is real want of it; that it can do some good thing such as your heart tells you is good  —  when it can avert some calamity. It is a trust given to me long, long ago by one who had sinned deeply and had greatly atoned, and who knew the value of help given freely and at the right time. I have never, had cause to use it, and I want to pass over the trust to the nearest of my own kin. You will keep it for me, Betty, will you not?”

“I shall do as you wish, grandfather,” said Betty gravely, and added: “Please God!” Then the old man went on: “And now, my child, good-night. We are not likely to speak of this again; in the morning I shall not allude to it, but I wanted you to know it! Good-night my child, and God keep you in His sight and in His heart of hearts, so that you may walk in His ways all the days of your life!” and he bent over and kissed her forehead.