“I ain’t able to answer you, Sir Matthew; all I know is, that Mrs. Thompson marched us all out of the kitchen where she sat in judgment on him, last night, and there he was left with the kitchen-maid and the fat cook; but what’s come of him since, I am no ways able to say.”
On hearing this, Sir Matthew raised his hand towards the bell, but suddenly recollecting himself, he smiled and said, “No, no, that won’t do, Peggy, will it? Go, my dear, and ask where the boy is, and then come back and tell me.”
The damsel, in return, furtively smiled too, in acquiescence and approval of his discretion; and upon leaving his study for the purpose of prosecuting her inquiries among the servants, she encountered the object of them, as he entered the back-door, on his return from visiting his mother’s cottage.
“Soh! here you are then? Well, you must come along this minute to Sir Matthew,” said she, addressing him somewhat gruffly, and not too well pleased, perhaps,’ at this interruption to the confidential conversation with her master, which it had been her purpose to renew. But to the ears of Michael, the name of Sir Matthew was sufficient to render all other words indifferent; and conscious only, that into his dreaded presence he must go if commanded to do so, he followed the girl with a beating heart, and in a few minutes stood pale, and almost breathless, before the awful countenance of the great man.
Sir Matthew gazed at him for a moment with a sort of sneer, which, if interpreted skilfully, would have been found to address itself inwardly. Sir Matthew could not choose but sneer at the whimsical arrangements of accidents, which had converted him into a Mr. Allworthy. The sneer, however, as far as it concerned himself, had no mixture of contempt in it. “Had another done this thing,” thought he, “should I not have called him fool? and is it not ninety-nine chances to a hundred, that thereby I should have described him truly? May the same be said of me? No! By the living God, it may not! How now, little boy? you have made yourself smart, I see — vastly fine, indeed! An inch of clean dowlas, a piece of span-new green baize for a patch, a pair of bony legs without stockings, and magnificent shoes — I did not say a pair, Peggy — but very magnificent shoes; one I suppose won in battle from a giant, and the other from a dwarf. Fine as a prince! isn’t he, Peggy?”
As he thus jeered the little fellow, his eye wandered with malignant jocularity over his person, which was, in truth, the very model of make-shift poverty; while the child, as if he felt his eye palpably crawl like a reptile over him, shuddered he knew not why.
Then, changing his tone so suddenly, as to make even the confiding Peggy start, he continued, “You horrid lump of rags stand back — stand back! back! back! behind that high chair — d’ye hear? Stand close and stand still — if he does not make me as sick as a dog, Peggy, let me never smell musk more!”
“He does smell horrid bad to be sure, Sir Matthew!” replied the girl. “Hadn’t I better take him back to Molly the kitchen-maid, and make her scour him?”
“No, hang him — that won’t take it out of him — I know ’em all. No, Peggy, let the scouring alone, and just go up stairs to the nursery-maids, and tell them to send me down a good handsome suit of clothes, complete, of Master Duodecimus’s — he is the nearest in size to this scaramouch; and I will dress him, Peggy, as if he were the son of a duke. It will be fun, capital fun, and will it not be generous, Peggy?”
“Generous, Sir Matthew? It will be past all belief! What?
Him to be dressed up in the clothes of Master Duodecimus? oh, my! Sir Matthew, you must surely be joking.”
“I’m as serious as an undertaker, girl. Get along with you, and do what I bid you — the longer you’re about it, mind, the longer I shall have to sit in the same room with the ragamuffin in his own full dress — so make haste, if you please.”
This was said in a manner to remove all doubts as to the munificent knight’s being in earnest; and the active Peggy went and returned with as little delay as was consistent with the necessity she felt herself under, of entering into some short explanation with the nursery ladies; one and all of whom seemed much inclined, on the first opening of her mission, to treat the whole business as a hoax. When at length, however, she had succeeded in making it apparent that Sir Matthew was waiting for the suit of clothes in a most monstrous outrageous passion of a hurry, the messenger’s arms were speedily loaded in exact conformity to the orders she had brought, and she returned to the knight’s study with all that was needful to convert the rude exterior of little Michael into the nearest resemblance that nature would permit, to the elegant and accomplished Master Duodecimus.
Considering the loathing and disgust manifested by Sir Matthew towards the person and the poverty of his protégé, it was extraordinary to see the amusement he seemed to derive from dressing him up. Though the alert and obedient Peggy stood close by to do his pleasure, it was his own large hands that thrust the little limbs of Michael into the clothing he chose they should wear, and it was amidst shouts of laughter from both, that the ludicrous metamorphosis was completed.
But somehow or other when they had finished their masquerading work, the result was not altogether what Sir Matthew anticipated. The clothes were very handsome, well-made clothes, and as poor Michael, notwithstanding his leanness, was a very handsome, well-made boy, the incongruity between them seemed to vanish in the most unaccountable manner, as the operation drew towards a conclusion.
Peggy, however, was not such a fool as not to understand what was expected of her; so when the knight, catching up his son’s tasselled cap, pressed it down upon the little curly head as a lusty packer of worthless goods thrusts down the cover that is to enclose them, and then pushed the child towards her with an impulse that nearly brought him upon his nose, she very judiciously renewed her noisy laughter, exclaiming, “Did any one ever see such a little quiz!”
“Quiz, girl?” replied Sir Matthew, eyeing him with no very fond expression. “It would be well for the scamp if that was the worst you could say of him — I know a thing or two Peggy, and that boy will be lucky if he gets drowned. I’ll bet a hundred guineas that with a few lessons, he would forge any writing you could show him; and before he is twenty, he will have taken as many shapes as Turpin. That boy was born with a halter round his neck, I want no gipsy to tell me that.”
During the whole of the undressing and redressing operations, the boy’s cheeks had been dyed with blushes, and his eyes so fixedly nailed to the floor, that neither Sir Matthew nor his maid had been able to enjoy their embarrassed expression; but as this dark prophecy fell on him, he looked up, and it was well for him that his munificent patron at the same instant turned his mocking glances towards the servant, as he said, “There — gather up his rags, girl, and be sure you wash well after it for, had he met that speaking young eye, he could hardly have misunderstood the scorn that shot from it. As it was, however, he saw nothing but the patched garments that were scattered round, and once more sneering as he looked at them, he added, “Lead the little blackguard through the servants’-hall, and into Mrs. Thompson’s parlour — d’ye hear, Peggy, up to her very nose, and tell her that I have sent him to pay her a visit, and when she has had enough of the compliment, lead him round to Mademoiselle’s room, and we’ll have a little fun among the children.”
By no means displeased with an errand which permitted her to affront with impunity the autocrat of all the offices, Peggy gathered together Michael’s discarded wardrobe and then clutching hold of his hand, led him, bon gré mal gré, to the presence of the imperious housekeeper.
Mrs. Willis, my Lady Dowling’s own maid, and Mr. Jennings, my Lady Dowling’s own man, were enjoying with that important functionary a slight morning repast of fruit, cakes, and wine, and at the moment Peggy and her charge entered, they were enjoying some very excellent jokes together. But, Mr. Jennings no sooner cast his eyes on the little factory-boy, than he arose, looking rather abashed at being caught by a drawing-room guest of even nine years old, with a glass of claret in one hand, and a slice of pineappl
e in the other.
Peggy, to whom the conciliatory smiles of this gay gentleman did not descend, enjoyed his mystification exceedingly; and relaxing her rough hold of Michael’s wrist, she led him respectfully towards the table saying, “My master has sent this young gentleman to pay you a visit, Mrs. Thompson; perhaps he would like a little fruit. There, my dear, that’s the housekeeper Sir Matthew told you of, and if you will please to go and sit down by her, I dare say she will give you something nice.”
Mr. Jennings immediately placed a chair beside the gracious Mrs. Thompson, who, after filling and setting before the young gentleman a plate with whatever she supposed would be most agreeable, said in a half whisper to his conductor, “Who is it, Peggy? I didn’t hear never a carriage.”
Before she could, or at least before she would answer, Michael, who had not accepted the chair offered to him, took his cap from his head, and with considerably more courage than he had yet shown said, “I am Michael Armstrong the factory-boy.”
“Who! What?” screamed the housekeeper; “what bold joke is this, Mrs. Peggy Perkins? Do you think you have got a patent for your place, that you dare play such tricks as this?”
“If I keeps my place, I don’t think I shall have to thank you for it, ma’am,” replied the favoured housemaid, with very little civility. “My master ordered me to bring the boy to pay you a visit; those was his very words, Mrs. Thompson, and as I was bid, so I have done.”
“There’s some people as will do every thing and any thing they are bid,” observed Mrs. Willis, again drawing out her favourite smelling-bottle, while with the other hand she extended a wine-glass to Mr, Jennings, for a little Madeira, which she felt was absolutely necessary to support her in this very disagreeable emergency. “Master, or no master, Sir Matthew Dowling doesn’t know how to behave himself — it’s I says it, and I don’t care who repeats it to him.”
Mr. Jennings stared at the factory-boy for a full minute very attentively, and then gave a long low whistle, at the same time turning his eyes with a look of much intelligence full in the face of the housekeeper.
“He isn’t at all like any of ’em, Mrs. Thompson,” said he.
Mrs. Thompson shook her head. “There is nothing at all in that, Mr. Jennings, I’m sorry to say. But remember I do desire, and insist, that the subject is never alluded to in my presence again. When I lived with his grace, I always made it a rule that none of the household should ever discourse in my presence of any thing that it was not decent to hear.”
“Well, ma’am,” said Peggy; “when you have done looking at him, he is to go into Momsell’s room for the children to see him.”
The housekeeper, the lady’s-maid, and the footman, all simultaneously lifted up their hands and eyes to heaven.
“Please to let me put on my old clothes and go home,” said Michael.
“You little ungrateful wretch!” exclaimed Peggy; “when Sir Matthew dressed you up himself with his own hands. What d’ye mean by that, you bad boy?”
“They’ll laugh at me,” said Michael, resolutely; “and I don’t like it.”
“You don’t? Isn’t that a good one?” said Mr. Jennings, clapping his hands in ecstasy. “Oh, Lord! pray let us have him back again, Mrs. Peggy, that is to say if Sir Matthew can bear to part with him. He’s the finest fun I’ve got sight of this many a day.”
“You must find fun for yourself, Mr. Jennings, for I shan’t be at the trouble of bringing you none,” replied the self-satisfied Peggy, again seizing the hand of Michael, and leading him off.
“Well, for a broom-maid, I hope she’s saucy enough,” said Mr. Jennings; but the subject of his remark was already beyond hearing, threading her way through the long stone passages which conducted to the opposite wing of the mansion, the whole of which was appropriated to the younger branches of the Dowling family.
CHAPTER VI.
MICHAEL’S INTRODUCTION TO ALL THE MISS DOWLINGS — SIR MATTHEW FEEDS HIM WITH HIS OWN HAND, AND PRESENTS HIM TO ALL HIS MOST VALUED FRIENDS.
HAVING given a sharp rap on the door, Peggy was told to “com een,” by the voice of Mademoiselle Beaujoie; whereupon she threw the door wide open before her, and stood with Michael Armstrong in her hand, in the presence of three grown-up Miss Dowlings, three middle-sized Miss Dowlings, two little Miss Dowlings, and their French governess.
The live youngest, all rushed as by one accord towards Michael. “What a pretty little boy!” was exclaimed by two or three of them. “Are you come to play with us? Mayn’t we have a holiday, Ma’mselle?”
“What an elegant-looking creature!” exclaimed the eldest Miss Dowling, who with her two grown-up sisters, had come into the room for the advantage of practising duets on a venerable pianoforte totally out of tune, and whose loudest note could by no means compete with the shrill accents of the animated group who inhabited the apartment. “Did you ever see a prettier boy, Harriet?”
“Who is he, I wonder?” replied the young lady she addressed.
“How he blushes!” said the governess, tittering.
“What’s your name, dear?” demanded Miss Martha, the third daughter of the Dowling race.
“Michael Armstrong, ma’am,” replied the boy, looking up with an air of surprise, for Miss Martha, queer-looking as she was, spoke kindly. And queer-looking as she was, Michael met her eye with pleasure, for that too spoke kindly, though it was neither large nor bright.
Martha Dowling was in truth, about as ugly as it was possible for a girl of seventeen to be, who was neither deformed nor marked by the smallpox, — short, fat, snub-nosed, red-faced, with a quantity of sandy hair, that, if not red, looked very much as if it intended to be so; eyes of a light, very light gray, and without any thing whatever in external appearance to recommend her, except a smooth, plump, neck and shoulders, with hands and arms to match, which, in truth, were very fair and nice-looking, and a set of well-formed, stout white teeth.
What made the unlucky appearance of this young lady the more remarkable, was the contrast it presented to the rest of her family. All the other young people were, like both their parents, “more than common tall,” for their respective ages, and, like most other tall young people, rather thin, so that Lady Dowling was apt to indulge herself by declaring that, “though certainly some of her children might be considered prettier than the rest, there was not one of the whole set (except that poor vulgar Martha), who was not most particular genteel-looking.”
“Genteel looking” she certainly was not, nor graceful, nor beautiful in any way; and the consequence was, that father, mother, brothers, and sisters, were all most heartily ashamed of her. This was a misfortune, and she felt it to be so pretty sharply, for poor vulgar Martha was far from being a stupid girl. But, in her case, as in a million of others, it might be seen that adversity, though
“Like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Weareth a precious jewel in its head.”
for of all her race she was the only one whose heart was not seared and hardened by the ceaseless operation of opulent self-indulgence. She felt that she was rather an object of pity than of admiration, of contempt than of envy, of dislike than of love. This is severe schooling for a young girl’s heart, but if it produce not reckless indifference, or callous insensibility, it often purifies, softens, and even elevates the character. Such were its effects on Martha Dowling: that coarse-seeming exterior contained the only spark of refinement of which the Dowling family could boast. Never did a high-born Hidalgo, in Spain’s proudest days, inculcate among his race the immeasurable importance of pure descent, with more ceaseless or more sedulous earnestness, than did Sir Matthew, the omnipotence of wealth among his. Every child was taught, as soon as its mind became capable of receiving the important truth, that not only was it agreeable to enjoy and cherish all the good things which wealth can procure, but that it was their bounden and special duty to make it visible before the eyes of all men that they could, and that they did, have more money spent upon them, than any other family in
the whole country; but Martha felt that all this could not apply to her.
Strange to say, the only tie resembling affection which prevented the total isolation of this poor girl among her family, was that which existed between her hard-natured father and herself; but it was a sentiment not easy to analyze. In Sir Matthew it probably arose at first from his having been told that the little girl was very like him; and, on hers, from his being the only person in the house who had ever bestowed a caress upon her. In both cases, cause and effect went on increasing. Martha’s face (saving its expression), was incontrovertibly like her father’s; and, for that reason, or from the habit it had at first created, her father, though rather ashamed to confess it, was certainly very fond of her.
That, as a child, she should love him in return, was almost inevitable; but that, as she advanced in years, she should feel for the being, the most completely formed by nature to be hateful to her, an affection the most unchanging and devoted, had something of mystery in it less easy to be explained. Yet, so it was. Martha Dowling adored her hard-hearted, vicious, unprincipled, illiterate, vulgar father, as heartily as if he had been the model of every thing she most admired and approved. Nay, it may be, that she loved him better, or, at any rate, more strongly still; for it was rather with fanaticism than devotion, or like the pitying fondness with which a mother dotes on a deformed child, who sees only that because it is less loveable it has more need of love than the rest.
It was not, however, on the same principle, that Sir Matthew’s affection for his ugly daughter increased as years rolled on; for he saw, that though as a child she had been like him, she was now grown very plain: and, in company, he felt almost as much ashamed of her, as Lady Dowling herself. But he could not mistake her love and true affection, nor resist the charm of feeling that at least there was one being in existence, who would have cherished him, even if he had not been the great man he was.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 170