by Bram Stoker
“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.
Then the deep love of the child’s heart spoke out. She rose in her cot and flung her arms round the old man’s neck and kissed him. The tears ran down her cheeks as she sobbed out-l-
“Good-night, great-grandfather — and grandfather too!” She lay back on her pillow and choked down her sobs while the old man once more dried her eyes and bid her cheerily goodnight When the footsteps sounded in the passage, Abigail came out and asked him if he wanted anything. He shook his head, nodded her a kindly good-night, and passed into his own room.
In the morning Abigail came into Betty’s room and dressed her herself; when the child had knelt at her knees and said her prayers, the woman said to her quietly —
“Don’t rise yet, Betty dear; I have something to tell you, but you must not be frightened.” To her astonishment Betty answered gravely — “Don’t fear, Abigail, I am not afraid; grandfather is dead!”
“Lord have mercy on us!” said the woman, startled, “but how did you know it, Miss? We only learned it half an hour gone, and I came right here lest you should be shocked to hear it sudden. Who learned you of it?”
“No one, Abigail; I seemed to know. Last night he spoke to me as if he was going away. Oh, grandfather! dear, dear, grandfather!” For a moment the child broke out into a paroxysm of weeping; but as suddenly she stopped, and, drying her eyes, said —
“May I see him, Abigail? I shall be very good.”
“Yes, Miss,” she answered, after a pause, “but not yet — not till after — not till this afternoon.”
Then Betty went and sat in the window-seat and cried quietly all to herself till the time had come.
CHAPTER II
DOGGETT’S COAT AND BADGE
IN the ten years that had elapsed after h
er great-grandfather’s death Betty Pole had many subjects for after-remembrance. Queen Anne had passed away; Marlborough had won glorious victories, had been a traitor twice told and had fallen; the royal vultures had gathered round the deathbed of the Queen, and the hopes of the Stuarts had been for ever shattered. King George had come, and ruled in London a German Court by German ways. In Betty’s own family, too, there had been many changes. Her father had been dead more than six years, and his sister who had come to take his place still waged a pretty even battle with Abigail. The latter had grown fatter and greyer, but her heart was as stout as of old and her tongue as sharp. Many a hard knock Miss Priscilla had had to take in the way of words; but she was a just, shrewd woman and knew Abigail’s worth and fidelity too well to quarrel with her for a show of temper. She never failed, however, to have her revenge, and in time Abigail came to know that she had met more than her match in the patient, well-tempered woman who bided her time and gave a home-thrust when that time came.
The elder children had all gone their own ways. One of the boys had become a midshipman and was away with the Southern fleet, and the other had just been gazetted a cornet in the Green Horse Dragoons. Marjory, the pert, had married a Scotch Writer to the Signet and was at present engaged in nursing her first baby in Edinburgh, whilst her elder sister, Lucy, lay beside her baby and her husband too in the deep sea beyond the Dogger Bank where the Queen of Sheba went down with all hands.
Betty was now an heiress to a considerable fortune, for during her long minority the money and estate which her great-grandfather had left her had been used to great advantage by her trustees: ‘Every year the account in Mr. Child’s bank grew larger. Even the nation wanted money badly at times, and the most active trustee, the shrewd merchant, Mr. Fenton, of Finsbury Square — Betty’s cousin on her father’s side — who advised the dealings with her money, knew well how to open his hand and when to close it; and each year’s end found that his judgment in such matters was always right. He was a somewhat hard, stem man, this Mr. Fenton, now a London alderman, and to some he seemed of: an icy temperament; but in his own way he loved his gentle, high-bred cousin, and was proud of her. He would often confide to his cronies that some day she should have such a fortune as would show the world what a London merchant could gather in the span of one life. His sister, who lived with him, shared his love for Betty, who well knew that there was always a loving welcome for her from the stern old pair in the City.
There was only one point on which the old merchant was unsatisfied, and that was the sum of one thousand guineas which, by Mr. Stanmore’s will, lay in the hands of Mr. Child to be paid only to Miss Betty Pole on her own order, when and how she would — all wishes even of her trustees to the contrary notwithstanding. Once he spoke to her about it and she listened in silence whilst he spoke —
“It is a shame, lass, I tell ye; simply a shame to let a sum like that lie idle. I could turn it over and over again in a year and make each guinea into ten. Why, what with their fancy stocks, their South Sea schemes, and their East India Companies and the like, these fools run mad in the hunt for the shadow of wealth; and men who know what money and business mean look on and keep their heads cool till the time comes. I could use this sum alone in such a way that if ye had naught else in the world it would let ye hold up your head with Miss Mendez herself. What with this and your youth and beauty you might pick a husband from the heirs of the Russells and the Montagus! Be wise, child, and let me deal with that as I have dealt with the rest!” Then Betty answered very quietly, as she took his hand and held it, as she Used to hold her grandfather’s — it was a pretty trick she had and it seemed to become her well —
“Thank you, indeed, dear Cousin Fenton, for all you have done for me. Aunt Priscilla often tells me how good you have been to me, and how well you have dealt with my fortune, and I am not ungrateful. Indeed, indeed I am not! But my grandfather spoke to me of that money the very last time I saw him — the very night he died — when he told me of his mother who had seen the Armada, and of his wife who had cried at King Charles’s death, and of his daughter who had been through the Great Plague and the Great Fire, and of her daughter, my mother, who had seen King William enter London. And he gave me a trust that I must keep!”
Here Mr. Fenton struck in —
“Oh, if there is any secret ” Betty still held his hand in one of hers whilst she laid the other on his lips.
“No secret indeed, cousin — now do not be angry with me — I am sure that if you knew all you would be the first to tell me that I am right.”
The old gentleman yielded at once to her soft influence and stroked her hand, as he answered —
“There, there, my dear, I won’t say another word — not one! Do as you please, and if you see any duty, do it. But for the life of me I can’t see what duty there is in not multiplying one by ten.”
Just then his sister, Cousin Hester, came in, and other matters were spoken of. That night it was arranged that Cousin Hester was to come and stay for a few days in Chelsea at the old house in Cheyne Walk so as to see the great race amongst the watermen for the ( orange-coloured coat and silver badge given by Mr. Doggett, the comedian. This race was expected to be a very fine affair; it was to be held on the ist of August, in memory of the crowning of King George the year before, and a great company were expected to be on the river that day. The race was to be amongst six young watermen, who were to start from the “Old Swan,” near London Bridge, at the ebb of the tide and row up the river as far as the White Swan Inn at Chelsea. All the Livery of the watermen were to be there, all the great City companies were to send their State barges, and many noblemen and gentlemen of quality arranged that their barges and wherries would be out that day. As the barges were sumptuous affairs, gay with bright colours and gold, with canopies of rich stuffs; and as oarsmen and other servants were glorious with the richest liveries, the sight was expected to be a fine one indeed.
When the day came there was more splendour even than had been expected, for the ministers were wary, and they thought it possible that so: great a concourse might afford an opportunity to the enemies of the House of Hanover to make manifest their disfavour. As the German succession was too recent to allow of any such chance being ignored, it was thought advisable to have a great display of the forces of the Crown — albeit in a purely pacific manner and simply as an addition to the pageant And so each warship at the Nore and Tilbury and in the docks and at the wharves of London sent some of her boats to the show. Dapper and business-like they all seemed as, in perfect time - with flashing oar-blades and steersmen bending double at each stroke, they swept in and out amongst the floating mass. They were everywhere along the whole course, not seeming of set purpose; but from the Tower to Chelsea there was no stretch of water without its navy boat full of alert, swarthy, pig-tailed fellows, cutlass on side and pistol in belt ready for any emergency.
And then again there was another addition, more showy if less effective at a pinch. All the boats of the King’s household were out. Indeed, there seemed to have been here some attempt to make as brave a show as possible; for even all those boats whose -antique shapes and time-worn timbers seemed to have entitled them to rot away in peace, had been furbished up and sent out, gay with paint and gold, to add to the splendour of the scene. These royal boats, each carrying the Standard, made a numerous muster, and the scarlet of the royal livery with the great badges of the King’s watermen almost as large as breastplate and ‘ back-piece, caught the eyes of the multitude.
In each of the royal boats sat some gentleman to represent his King. In some of the great barges were high officers of State, each with a party of ladies and gentlemen, all radiant with rich clothing. Especially noticeable were all those in any way connected with ceremonial or pleasure, the Lord Chamberlain, the Master of the Horse, the Master of the Hounds, the Master of the Hawks. In others were less important personages, and even in | the wherries and smaller pleasure boats were some young gentlemen of famil
y or degree, as an overt sign of the magnitude and importance of the Court party. In the great barge of the Company of Drysalters, Alderman Fenton, i as was right, had a place. Betty had the boat | of four oars which her brothers had used to delight in, made brave for the occasion, and she, with Aunt Priscilla and Cousin Hester, sat I on blue cushions in the stern, whilst Mrs. Abigail had a seat all to herself in the bow and j looked after the baskets with the dinner, which was to be taken on the water to-day. Everything was astir on the river hours before the race, and all sorts of trials of strength and speed were undertaken, and all sorts of mishaps occurred. The river ran strongly in the reaches between Vauxhall and Battersea, and in such a throng there were many novices. But help was always at hand, and the sun was bright and warm; men and women and girls and boys were on pleasure bent, and all were gay and happy.
Betty’s boat took several turns down the river as far as Vauxhall Gardens, and the eyes of its occupants enjoyed, to the full the life and rich beauty of the scene.
Several times they were passed, either going up or down the river, by one of the royal boats, which seemed gifted with a divine uneasiness. It was powerfully manned by four splendid oarsmen, whose bronzed faces, tattooed skin, and precision of stroke, showed them-to be men-of-war’smen who had donned the royal livery for the occasion — a state of things noticeable to the eye of a keen observer in many of the royal boats. They never seemed to tire, but swept up and down as though to show off their strength. There was only one other person in the boat, a young gentleman who steered. He was a handsome young fellow with black hair and dark eyes and a proud bearing, and he carried well the elegant dress which he wore. It did not seem to strike either of the elder ladies that there was a method in the constant passing and repassing of their boat; but Betty seemed to realise it in some way, for she never raised her eyes as the boat swept by — that is, she never raised her eyelids, but looked out between her long eyelashes, as even the fairest and sweetest young women do when a strange young man of elegant appearance is in the immediate foreground.