Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  An abrupt, and most peremptory demand, for three pounds two shillings and seven pence, was here made, by a sour-looking little man, who entered the small room without ceremony, making a group of intruders round the widows bed, equally unwonted and unwelcome. Her over-taxed courage seemed to fail, for it was with something like a sob that she replied to his demand by saying, “I shall have twelve shillings to take for needlework, when this is done, and you shall have it every farthing sir, if you’ll be so merciful.”

  “And who’s to pay your rent, Missis Armstrong? if I may be so bold,” said Mr. Butchel.

  The widow had not a word to say for herself, and, covering her face with her hands, wept bitterly.

  “Now’s my time!” said Parsons to himself, as he stealthily crept from his hiding-place. “Now for Sir Matthew’s benevolence.” And, in a minute afterwards, his tall, gaunt figure, and hard countenance, were added to the company. The noise he made in entering, caused the widow to uncover her eyes, and it was with an emotion little short of terror that she recognised the tyrant, at whose name her children’s cheeks grew pale. Instinctively she stretched out her hand, and took hold of that of Michael, who was still seated on the side of the bed. But the boy shook it off, as if his mother’s love was a secret treasure that the overlooker must not see, and, suddenly standing up, he remained, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and his hands hanging by his sides, as if petrified.

  “Hollo! — why what’s the matter now? Is all the parish come to wish joy to this good woman here?” said the overlooker, with as jocund an air as he could persuade his iron features to assume.

  “Wish her joy?” responded the well-tutored parish-officer, “and for what, Mr. Parsons, if you please? For having an honest tradesman come upon her with the gripe of the law, in hopes to get what’s his own? She’s got into trouble, I promise you, and I don’t very well see how she’s to get out of it.”

  “You don’t say so?” said the confidential agent. “What! is that you, Mr. Larkins, coming to take the law of a poor body this way? I didn’t think you was so hard-hearted.”

  “I don’t deserve that character, sir,” replied the baker sharply; for though desired to call and enforce his claim by the parish overseer, Mr. Larkins knew not a word about Sir Matthew’s scheme of benevolence; “and the proof that my heart isn’t harder than other people’s” he continued, “is, that I gave the widow here credit for what has been, excepting a few ounces of tea, her whole and sole living for months past,”

  “And very kind of ye too,” observed the conciliating superintendent.

  “I should like to know, then, what became of all the money the two boys got, besides her own needlework, and, of late, two shilling a week from the parish, beside?” observed Mr. Butchel.

  “Why, that is rather puzzling, I must say,” replied Mr. Parsons, “but no matter for that, no matter for that, just now. This family have got a kind friend, I promise you.”

  “Yes, but it does matter,” returned Larkins “It can’t be right, no how, for me to be out of three pounds two shillings and seven pence, and she with such lots of money.”

  “Indeed, indeed, sir!” said the widow, once more looking up at him, “I have done my very best, paying a little and a little at a time, as you know I never stopped doing, only for two weeks that my biggest — that is my oldest boy, was making up time that was lost, when he was home sick, and so got no wages. But the seven shillings a week that they get between ’em, and my uncertain bit of needle-work, gentlemen, can’t stand for food, and clothes, and rent’ — and a little soap to keep us decent, and a bit of firing to boil a drop of water — it can’t do all that, gentlemen, without getting behindhand, when any making up time comes in the factory.”

  “Well then, that’s just the reason why you must come into the house,” replied Butchel; “and, at any rate, you may depend upon getting no more money out of it.”

  Upon hearing these words, “the decent, respectable man,” who was willing to take the widow’s goods, at a “valiation fair and honourable,” began examining the condition of a chair that stood near him; an operation which the widow eyed with the most piteous look imaginable.

  “Come into the house, I tell you, without more ado,” resumed Butchel. “And what, in Cod’s name, d’ye think we want you in for but your own good? D’ye think the parish have a fancy for maintaining crippled women and children, by way of a pleasure? ’Tis ruination any way; but when you’re in, we know the worst of it at once, and that’s something. The boys’ wages will go a bit to help, and at any rate there’ll be no two shillings to pay, which is what the overseers hates above all things; and what they won’t continy to do. So now I have said my say.”

  And here Mr. Butchel began to move his heavy person towards the door.

  “Stop a minute, Mr. Butchel, if you please sir,” ejaculated Sir Matthew’s superintendent. “I should be sorry to let you go back to your employers under any delusion or mistake whatever, and the fact is, that this good woman, the widow Armstrong, is no more likely to go into the workhouse than you are yourself, Mr. Butchel; begging your pardon for naming such a thing.”

  “Then I suppose as it’s yourself as means to keep her out of it, Mr. Parsons?” replied the parish officer jocosely.

  “Not exactly me, myself,” replied the other in the same tone, “but it’s one as much more able as he is willing. It is Sir Matthew Dowling as intends to befriend her, and that not only on account of the general charitableness of his temper, which all who know him really well are quite aware is very great, but because that little boy as stands there, and who is one of our factory children, saved a friend of Lady Dowling’s, last night, from something she looked upon to be a considerable danger.”

  “And does Sir Matthew mean to see me paid?” demanded the baker.

  “Upon my word, Mr. Larkin, that’s more than what I’ve got authority to say,” replied Parsons; “but, howsomever, I don’t think that you had best go on, just at this particular minute, to persecute about it, seeing that in course Sir Matthew won’t take it civil, when he’s being such a friend himself to the widow.”

  “I don’t want to do nothing uncivil to nobody,” replied the baker, “but I don’t quite understand this business. It is something new, isn’t it, Sir Matthew setting up for a soft-hearted gentleman, among the factory folks?”

  “New to you, may be, Mr. Larkin, but not to me,” replied the trustworthy agent. “There isn’t another to be found, look which way you will, that can be compared with Sir Matthew Dowling, for real, true, benevolent, charitableness, when he finds proper objects for it.”

  The baker stared; the man of old chairs and tables scratched his puzzled head; the intelligent Mr. Butchel looked at the speaker with a knowing wink; the widow fixed her eyes upon her patchwork quilt; and little Michael in astonishment, which conquered terror, raised his eyes to the superintendent’s face, while that worthy advocate of a master’s virtues stood firmly, striking his stout cane upon the ground, with the air of a man ready to do battle with all the world in support of what he has asserted.

  “Well then, at any rate my business is done and ended,” said Mr. Butchel moving off, “and I wish you joy Mussiss Armstrong of your unaccountable good fortune.”

  “Come along, Jim!” said the baker to the respectable dealer in seized goods, “there’s nothing to be done to-day, that’s clear. But I hope you’ll remember the twelve shillings as you’ve promised me, Mrs. Armstrong.”

  “I will indeed, sir!” answered the widow earnestly; and, on receiving this assurance, Mr. Larkin took his departure with his professional friend, leaving Mr. Joseph Parsons, the widow Armstrong, and her son Michael to carry on whatever conversation they might wish for, without interruption.

  “Well now, if I ain’t glad they’re gone, them fellows,” said the superintendent shutting the door after them. “You are a favoured woman, Mrs. Armstrong, to get rid of ’em as you have done, and I don’t and won’t, question that you are thankful to t
hose to whom thanks are due.”

  “I always wish to be so, sir,” said the widow.

  “Well, there’s no hardship in that I suppose. But about this son of yours, this young Master Michael, you must see to his doing his duty to his benefactor. If he was to prove ungrateful, Mrs. Armstrong, it is but fair to tell you that I wouldn’t undertake to answer for the consequences.”

  “God forbid he ever should be ungrateful to any as was kind to him!” replied the poor woman; “but indeed, sir, I don’t think it is in his heart to be so. Since the day he was born, God bless him, I have had little besides love to give him, and indeed, sir, I think the child would die for me.”

  Michael slily stole his little hand sideways under the bedclothes, where it was soon clasped in that of his mother, but his eyes were again firmly rivetted upon the ground.

  “Ay, ay, that’s all very well; but it has nothing to do in any way with his duty and obligations to Sir Matthew. What I want to know is, whether he is ready and willing to do that which Sir Matthew will require of him — that’s the main question, you see, Mrs. Armstrong.”

  “And what will that be, sir?” said the widow, while Michael’s eyes were again raised for a moment to the face of his taskmaster.

  “He is to be made a gentleman of — that’s to be the first work put upon him.” The poor woman smiled; but little Michael shook his head. The superintendent appeared to pay no attention to either; but again striking his cane magisterially upon the ground, he added, “Let him make up his mind to do all that he’s bid, and come back to Dowling Lodge with as little delay as possible.”

  With these words, and without deigning to bestow any species of parting salutation upon those to whom they were addressed, Mr. Parsons left the room.

  CHAPTER V.

  A SEPARATION OF LOVING HEARTS — A SPECIMEN OF FINISHED COMPOSITION — CONDESCENSION AND GENEROSITY — SIR MATTHEW CLOTHES LITTLE MICHAEL WITH HIS OWN HANDS.

  WHILE the superintendent, in his serpentine course homeward, scattered the tidings of his master’s munificence towards the factory-boy, Michael Armstrong and his mother indulged themselves in a few parting words and very tender caresses; the mother continuing to repeat at intervals, “Be sure, darling, to be a good boy, and do what you’re bid,” while the son reiterated his entreaties that she and Teddy would take care one of t’other, and have him back again, spite of every thing, if they found that they could not do so well without him.

  But even while this went on, Michael was improving his toilet by putting on the more carefully patched garments, which had hitherto been kept sacred for Sundays. When this operation was completed, and his hair, face, and hands made as clean as the joint efforts of himself and his mother could contrive to make them, the little boy turned to leave the miserable shed that had been his home, with a reluctant step and heavy heart, retracing the short distance between his mother’s bed and the door, once and again to take another kiss, and to repeat, with increased earnestness, the questions, “Isn’t there nothing more I can do for you, mother, before I go away: — and will you be sure to tell Teddy to stop for me, morning and night, at the gate in the lane, where it all happened? — will you mother?” But at length the lingering separation was completed, and Michael set off upon his return to Dowling Lodge. In the mean time, Sir Matthew himself had not been idle: but, retiring to his study, he composed a paragraph for the county newspaper, which, after considerable study and repeated corrections, was at length completed, and despatched by the post, in a feigned hand, the wax being stamped with the handle of the seal instead of his arms, and the postage paid.

  The paragraph ran thus:

  “ENGLISH BENEVOLENCE.

  “There is, perhaps, no class of men so cruelly misrepresented as the manufacturers of Great Britain; surrounded on all sides by a population of labourers, crowded together exactly in proportion to the quantity of work the neighbouring factories are able to furnish — they are continually reproached both with giving too many hours of employment to their poor neighbours on the one hand, and with the poverty which is the inevitable lot of operatives with large families on the other.

  “That all manufacturers, however, are not the cruel mercenary tyrants they are so often, and so unjustly described to be, was shown within the last few days by an incident which occurred near the town of Ashleigh, not a hundred miles from D — l — g L — d — e. The owner of that splendid mansion, while escorting the amiable Lady — round his grounds, had occasion to remark some symptoms of a very noble disposition in one of the children belonging to a neighbouring factory on his estate. On making inquiries, he discovered him to be the son of a poor widow, whose failing health made her, and her orphan children peculiarly eligible as objects of charity. This fact having been satisfactorily ascertained, Sir M — th — w D — l — g gave way to the warm impulses of his generous heart, and adopting the little orphan among his own children, at once gratified the gentle feelings of his amiable nature, and set them an example which it is impossible they should ever forget. It is more easy for the recorder of this charming anecdote to relate thus the principal circumstances of it, than to enter into any detail of the numberless delicate traits of character exhibited by Sir M. D — l — g in the course of the transaction. Those who know him thoroughly, will, however, be at no loss how to supply these; and those who do not, would scarcely understand the description, were it given with all the detail possible.”

  The value and the accuracy of the statements contained in this announcement, belonged wholly to the author of it; the phraseology to a private MS. digest of newspaper eloquence, the result of many years of steady research, during which no morsel of fine writing that might assist in such occasional addresses to the public as the present, had been ever suffered to flow down the stream of time, and perish, without having been first carefully noted in the knight’s repertory of fine periods.

  Having concluded this business, Sir Matthew Dowling rang his bell. As it was only the study-bell, it was answered, as usual, by one of the housemaids.

  “Where is the little boy, my dear, that I sent into the servants’ hall last night?” inquired Sir Matthew.

  “Upon my word, Sir Matthew, I can’t tell,” she replied; adding, in that tone of familiar confidence which her master’s condescension encouraged, “but if you sent him into the hall, Sir Matthew, he never got there, nor never will, you may take my word for that, as long as Madam Thompson reigns.”

  The housemaid was not a beauty — none such, as was before stated, ever made part of Lady Dowling’s household; but she was a wit, and Sir Matthew was too clever himself not to feel the value of cleverness in others; he, therefore, raised his eyebrows in a comic grimace, very good-humouredly chucked the maid under her ugly chin, and instead of putting himself in a rage, as might have happened under other circumstances, he only said, “And how was that my dear? Come, tell me all about it — I like your stories, Peggy, they are always so funny.”

  “Whose stories wouldn’t be funny, Sir Matthew, if they told of the airs and graces of Mother Thompson!” replied the lively damsel; “she’s for all the world like an old owl, as sits winking his eyes and trying to look wise.”

  “But she’s a prime favourite with my lady, Peggy, and into the bargain, knows a thing or two about soups and hashes; so we must be very respectful, my dear, in talking of her — but as to her daring to say, that the boy I ordered into the hall was to be turned out of it, that’s rather more than possible, I think.”

  “That’s because you don’t know Mrs. Thompson, Sir Matthew. I only wish you had heard and seen ’em last night, she, and the butler, and Mrs. Fine Airs, my lady’s maid, and Mr. Fine Airs, my lady’s footman! If it was not enough to make one sick, I wish I may never see you again, Sir Matthew.”

  “They are a confounded impertinent set of rubbish,” replied Sir Matthew; but still without losing his good humour. “However, all people of fashion, that is, rich people, Peggy, always do have a confounded impertinent set of servant
s about ’em. That’s one of the great differences between high people and low.”

  “To be sure you must know best, Sir Matthew,” replied the saucy grisette, but with a look and accent somewhat ironical. “I don’t mean to doubt that in the least, I’m sure; but in the places I’ve lived at — Lord Wilmot’s, Lord Crampton’s, and such like, I never did hear of my lord’s commands being treated in that fashion. They might have their jokes in the hall, and the housekeeper’s room too, no doubt of it, and impudent enough if you like it; but for downright flat disobedience, I never did hear of such a thing.”

  Sir Matthew on hearing this, became rather white about the lips, and red about the forehead; but Peggy knew the rising storm was not at all likely to fall on her, so nothing daunted, she went on.

  “I don’t think I should have taken much notice about it, Sir Matthew, if it hadn’t been for not liking to see you treated with disrespect; for I’m not over and above partial to beggar children myself; but that sort of natural dislike was nothing in comparison to my feelings about you, sir: and if I had been placed in power, instead of having none, your will would have been obeyed, if every servant in the house had flowed at me for it.”

  “You’re an excellent girl, Peggy,” replied the knight, approaching her very condescendingly. “You know well enough that you are a favourite, and I know well enough, my dear, that you deserve to be so; and I tell you what, Peggy, I’ll take care to let those animals, my servants, know that I am master here, as well as in the factory — and that my word’s law!”

  “And so it ought to be, Sir Matthew,” replied the obedient domestic. “I hope I know my duty too well to dispute my master’s will in any thing and as she spoke she very meekly yielded herself to receive the condescending salute, with which Sir Matthew was pleased to reward her excellent sentiments.

  “You are an excellent good girl, Peggy!” he resumed after this little interruption; “and don’t fear but I shall find means to reward you. But you must give me your help, my dear, to confound the impertinence of these fellow-servants of yours; if I don’t make ’em wait upon that beggar’s brat as if he was their lord and master, never trust me with a kiss more. Where is the little factory vermin, Peggy?”