Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  Michael did not move; he was probably ashamed to show that he was weeping, before the face of a lady who spoke so very grandly.

  The kitchen-maid gave him a nudge, but a gentle one, whispering at the same time—” Look up, my boy. What be you ‘feard of? There’s nobody as wants to hurt you here.”

  Thus encouraged, Michael let his arm drop by his side, and discovered a face that was indeed sallow, and by no means very plump, but with features and expression which, whatever Sir Matthew Dowling’s men and maids might think of it, might have sufficed to make the fortune of an able painter.

  “Whose child are you?” demanded the housekeeper. “Mother’s,” replied the boy.

  “I suspected as much,” rejoined the inquisitor, half aside to Mr. Jennings.

  “And I beant no ways surprised to hear it, I promise you,” he replied.

  Mrs. Thompson sighed deeply. “It is dreadful!” said she. Then, after taking a moment to recover herself, she resumed, “And where does the unhappy person live?”

  “Please, ma’am, who?” said the puzzled boy.

  “The — your mother, child. — Shame upon you for forcing me to name her!”

  Michael gave a little shake of the head, which seemed to the merciful kitchen-maid to say, that he did not know what the great lady meant; but he presently replied, as if discreetly determined to mind only what he did understand, “Mother lives in Hoxley Lane, ma’am.”

  “The most deplorable situation in the whole parish! inhabited only by the very lowest!” observed the housekeeper, with another indignant sigh.

  “So much the worse for she,” muttered the kitchen-maid; but not loud enough to be heard by her in whose hands rested the appointment of kitchen-maids as well as cooks.

  “And why does such as you come here?” resumed the housekeeper.

  “Because the squire ordered t’other man to bring me,” answered Michael.

  “I suspect that the boy is a natural fool,” observed Mrs. Thompson, addressing the butler. “It is a sure fact, and a great dispensation — bad parents have almost always children out of shape, both mind and body. You may take my word for that, all of you,” she added, looking round her; “and you will do well to teach it to your children after you.”

  “I’ll be burnt if I don’t think it very likely that it was his own father sent him here, and no one else,” said Mr. Jennings, chuckling.

  “Fie! Jennings, fie!” returned Mrs. Thompson, with a frown. “God in heaven only knows what may have been the cause of it! — Not but what it does look strange, there’s no denying that.”

  “Do you know any thing about your father, child?” said Mr. Simkins in a magisterial tone.

  “Father’s in heaven,” replied the child.

  “Mercy on me! do you hear him? Is not that like mocking the Lord’s prayer?” exclaimed the lady’s-maid.

  “No, it is not!” said Michael, while a flash of youthful indignation rushed into his face. “My father is in heaven along with God.”

  “I dare say he means that his father is dead,” observed the butler with an air of great sagacity; “and if what has been jealoused at is correct,” he added, winking his eye at Mr. Jennings, “it is very natural that he should have been told to say so.”

  “That’s very true,” said the housekeeper, “and it may be, certainly, that the child knows nothing about it whatever, either one way or t’other — indeed I think it’s a good deal the most likely that he does not; — but, any how, it’s a very shocking business, and, as far as I am concerned, I’ll neither make nor meddle in the matter. — Of course, the men-servants may do just as they like about taking notice of him — for here he is, and here he will bide, I dare say; but I recommend the maids to follow my example, and not to injure their characters, nor to corrupt their morals by having any thing to do with the offspring of —— It is more decent not to finish what I was going to say for your goods, young women, — and lucky it is that there is no need. You must all understand me without it.”

  Mrs. Thompson then rose from her chair, and turning her eyes, and indeed her head, aside, to prevent herself from again seeing Michael, she walked with a degree of stateliness and majesty that few housekeepers ever attained, through the kitchen, along the passage, across the servants’ hall, into the sacred shelter of her own parlour, where she gave way to emotions which rendered a glass of prime London Madeira absolutely necessary.

  Meanwhile Michael remained in no very happy condition in the kitchen. He was very tired, very sleepy, very thirsty, very much longing to see his mother and brother, and very greatly puzzled as to himself.

  But though accounted to be a brave little fellow for his age, he could not muster courage enough to ask any questions of those around him, and if he had, it would have been of no avail; for the very moment Mrs. Thompson was out of sight, so many of the servants began talking together, that no sounds his voice could produce would have been heard.

  Jokes and gibes about Sir Matthew, mingled with ridiculous anecdotes, and very cordial abuse of him and all his race, furnished the first subject, and filled the first chorus. Then followed some facetious observations from Mr. Jennings concerning Mrs, Thompson, and a few of her peculiarities; and it was in the midst of the giggling which these occasioned, that the kitchen-maid ventured to say —

  “Well, now, you are all so keen, and so clever about her, that I wonder it don’t come into your heads to find out that she spoke just like an old fool and no better, when she invented all that rigmarole about the boy. Master might be just the devil you says he is, and ten times worser too, for any thing I know about him; but the worser he is, the farther I’d be, if I was such a mighty good gentlewoman as she thinks herself, from giving such a bad father out of my own invention to any body — whether they comed out of the factory or not.”

  “I do think Molly’s right,” said one of the housemaids. “What business has the old frump to find a father for him? Nobody asked her.”

  “That may be all very true, Rebecca,” observed the lady’s-maid, shaking her head very gravely. “I know well enough, that Mrs. Thompson does not always wait for right and reason before she speaks — but that makes no difference as to our having any familiarity with this dirty little boy; for it certainly does appear plain enough, that his mother is very little better than she ought to be.”

  “Lord bless us! and how much better be you than you ought to be, I should like to know?” said the fat cook, who had her own reasons for not being at all partial to Mrs. Wittington, her ladyship’s waiting-maid.

  “I! — You miserable lump of kitchen-stuff, that no man in his senses would ever deign to look upon twice! Do you dare to say that I’m no better than I ought to be?”

  Now the cook was an Irishwoman; and though she had famous black eyes, and teeth like an elephant, her principal claim to the coveted attentions of the other sex (setting aside the attractions which it is but fair to presume her profession gave her), arose from the ready sauciness of her tongue, which, in a brogue as strong as that of the Scotch gardener, and equally dangerous for the untaught to meddle with, was wont to rattle about her, right and left, sometimes scolding, but oftener making sport of all who crossed her humour.

  Now this virtuous outbreak of Mrs. Wittington, was too fair an opportunity to be lost; and accordingly, putting on as demure a look as her wicked eyes would let her, she replied, “You be better than you ought to be, be you? Well now, that’s a trouble for your conscious, isn’t it? — Is there nobody as can help her out of it? — Think what it is, gentlemen, to be so burdened, and she, poor soul, unable to confess to a priest, seeing she’s a heretic! — Oh! she’s better than she ought to be! and you’ve her own word for it too, and that’s the reason you see why she’s obliged, whether she will or no, to turn her back on this poor little fellow, just because he’s fatherless. Isn’t that a sore strait for a young lady’s conscious? — Praise and glory to the Holy Virgin, and all the company of saints, now and for ever more, that I beant one
bit better than I ought to be, and I hope you beant neither, Molly; and so just run to the larder, will you, girl, and bring out something for supper, fit for a hungry little boy, that haven’t the misfortune to be so burdened in mind as pretty Mrs. Wittington. — Oh! the poor soul! she’s better than she ought to be!”

  Molly, the kitchen-maid, did not wait for a second order; and if a capital dish of cold cutlets could have set little Michael’s heart at rest, he might then have been a very happy fellow; but, in truth, he was longing for his own porridge, by his own mother’s bedside; and except from the relief afforded by a copious draught of milk, he went to the bed prepared for him by his friend, the kitchen-maid, so little elated in spirit, and so little thankful for the extraordinary change which had befallen him, that, had his noble patroness been made aware of it, she would, beyond all doubt, have punished his ingratitude, by requesting Sir Matthew to turn him out of doors again; and, moreover, have for ever abandoned the generous idea of surrounding his young head, as she poetically expressed it, with a halo of immortality, by means of getting Mr. Osmund Norval to relate his adventure in verse.

  Sir Matthew Dowling went to his bed also, hardly better pleased with what had occurred than little Michael. But there was this difference between them: little Michael said his prayers, which the great Sir Matthew did not; but, on the contrary, spent his last waking moment in cursing, with great fervour of spirit, the folly of the hideous old maid, who had entailed such a detestable burden upon him — the result of which, as a peace-offering to the whole body of operatives, was at any rate but problematical.

  Nevertheless, when he awoke the next morning with his head quite cool, he felt disposed to think more of the hint given him by his friend and favourite Dr. Crockley, and less of the inconvenience of having a few pounds to pay out of hundreds of thousands for a job, which, if well managed, might help, perhaps, to avert a monstrous deal of mischief.

  With these rational thoughts working strongly in his ever-active brain, he rang his bell, and ordered that Joseph Parsons, his principal overlooker, should be sent for instantly, and shown into his study.

  A short half-hour brought the master and man to a tête-à-tête in the snug little apartment described in the first chapter.

  “Good morning, Parsons,” said Sir Matthew.

  The overlooker bowed his head respectfully.

  “Have you heard any thing of this meeting at the Weavers’ Arms, Parsons?” inquired Sir Matthew.

  “As much as a man was likely to hear, Sir Matthew, who, as you will easily believe, was not intended to hear any thing,” replied the confidential servant.

  “And how much was that, Parsons? Sit down, Parsons — sit down, and let us hear all about it.”

  “I was a coming, sir, if you hadn’t a sent for me,” rejoined the overlooker; “for to say truth, my mind misgives me, that there’s mischief brewing.”

  “I have heard as much,” said the master; “but it can hardly have gone very far yet, if such a sharp-sighted fellow as you only suspect.”

  “That’s true, sir,” said the man, with a grim smile, in acknowledgment of the compliment; “and I’ve not been idle, I promise you. But all I know for certain is, that the people, old and young, our own people I mean, have, one and all, taken dudgeon about that girl Stephens, that died the week before last, just after leaving the mill. She had been at work all day in the spinning-mill, and who was to guess that she was that low?”

  “It was a d — d stupid thing though, Parsons, to have a girl go on working, and not know whether she was dying or not.”

  “And how is one to know, sir? I’ll defy any man to find out, what with their tricks, and what with their real faintings.”

  “You won’t tell me, Parsons, that if you set your wits to work, you can’t tell whether they are shamming or not?”

  “That’s not the question, Sir Matthew, asking your pardon. There’s no great difficulty in finding out whether they are in a real faint, or only making the most of being a little sickish from standing, and want of air. That’s not the difficulty. The thing is to know, when they really take to the downright faintings, whether they are likely to live through it or not.”

  “And where is the great difficulty of that? You know Dr. Crockley would come at a moment’s warning at any time, and feel their pulses.”

  “And he does do it, sir. But, in the first place, I doubt if any man can justly tell whether girls are likely to go on fainting, and up again, as lots and lots of ’em do for years, or drop down and die, as Nancy Stephens did. That’s one thing; and another is, that Dr. Crockley is so fond of a joke, that ’tis rarely one knows when he speaks earnest, and when he does not. He did see Nancy Stephens, about a month ago, and all he said was, ‘she do look a little pale in the gills, to be sure, but a dance would cure her, I have no doubt.’ A dance! says I, doctor. And please to tell me, says I, how the work is to get on, if the factory boys and girls sets off dancing?”

  “‘Maybe you haven’t got a fiddle?’” said he.

  “Maybe I haven’t,” said I.

  “‘Well, then,’ says he, ‘if it don’t suit you to let them dance to the fiddle, I’ll bet ten to one you’ll be after making ’em dance to the strap. And with that, if you’ll believe me, sir, he set off capering, and making antics, just as if there had been somebody behind a-strapping him. To be sure, it was fit to make one die of laughing to see him; but that’s not the way you know, sir, to do one any good as to finding out the real condition of the people.”

  Sir Matthew could not resist a hearty laugh at this characteristic trait of his friend, but he concluded by acknowledging that Parsons was quite right in saying that this way of doing business was more agreeable than useful.

  “However, Parsons,” he continued, “we must not talk about that now, for I have something else to say to you. It is quite plain that they are getting again to their grumblings; and Crockley, who you know is up to every thing, says that he’ll bet his life they have got some new mischief into their cursed heads. Now this must be prevented, Parsons some way or other; for any harm they can do the machinery, is not the worst of it. ’Tis the rousing up people’s attention again, Parsons, there’s the danger. — Just see what they’ve done about the blackamoor slaves, by going on boring for everlasting, ding-dong, ding-dong, till they actually got the thing done at’ last. Now the Philadelphy people and the Boston people are just playing the very same game t’other side the water; and when they have got their way, where will their national wealth be I should like to know? — And where will our national wealth be, when these rascals have contrived to stop the mills instead of working them?”

  “Lord have mercy upon us! Sir Matthew; — if you don’t make me creep all over to hear you!” exclaimed Parsons. “’Tis a pity, sir, and often’s the time I have said it, that you arn’t in parliament yourself — you’d pretty soon show ’em what their meddling with factories would do for the country.”

  “Tis likely I might, Parsons; but a man can’t be in two places at once — and depend upon it, there’s good to be done here, if we knew how to set about it. I shall make you stare, perhaps, Mr. Parsons, when I tell you what I am about now. It came into my head by accident at first; but if I don’t greatly mistake, I’ll make a capital thing of it before I have done.”

  “There’s no doubt of that, Sir Matthew, if you sets your mind to it, let it be what it will,” replied the confidential overlooker “and if it isn’t a secret, sir, I should like uncommon much to hear it.”

  “No, it’s no secret, Parsons — any thing in the world but that,” replied Sir Matthew, laughing. “What should you say now, Mr. Superintendent, to my taking a dirty little dog of a piecer out of the factory into my own house, and dressing him, and feeding him, and lodging him, all for the love of pure benevolence, and little boys?”

  “I don’t quite understand you, sir,” replied Mr. Joseph Parsons, looking very grave.

  “No, I dare say you don’t. But I think I do, Parsons, and
that’s more to the purpose. Trust me, man, it will do good if it’s only by giving the people something to talk of just now, besides this confounded girl’s death. And now, my good fellow, tell me all you know of a boy called Michael Armstrong, for he you must understand, is the hero of my tale.”

  “That’s the boy, is it? — Then that’s why the chap didn’t come to work this morning,” replied Mr. Parsons; “I knows him well enough, Sir Matthew, in course; for he’s going on for eight or nine, and he comed to the factory just about five.”

  “And what sort of a boy is he, Parsons?”

  “Nothing very particular, Sir Matthew, unless it is because of the unaccountable fuss he makes about his elder brother, who is but a poor rickety, shriveldy sort of a child. For some reason or other, his bones never seemed to come rightly straight, and this Mike makes as great a fuss about him, as if he was his grandmother,”

  “Are the parents living?” inquired Sir Matthew.

  “The mother is. She is a bedridden woman, and ought to be in the workhouse; but she’s upish, and can’t abide it, and so she lies abed, doing plain work and that, and the two boys’ wages maintains ’em. But I did hear t’other day, she had given in, and was a begging to go into the house, and take the eldest boy with her. These creturs never know what they would be at. I suspect, howsomever, that she has got hold of a notion, that because he’s so cripply, he beant to work no more; but I shall take care to see Butchel, the parish-overseer, about it. It is altogether a trick that, what won’t answer — his fingers is just as able to handle the reels, and piece the threads as ever they was; and in course, a little dwarf like him, with his legs like crooked drumsticks, can’t look for any but the youngest wages; so after all, he’s one of them as answers best.”

  “No! Parsons, no! ejaculated Sir Matthew with sudden energy. That woman must not go into the workhouse. The whole thing shall be got up, I tell you, in the best possible style. What d’ye say now to getting the woman arrested for debt? — or having all her things sold? — and we just stepping in at the very nick of time, to save her from destruction!”