In private he scrupled not to yield to this feeling, and certainly derived considerable pleasure from it; but before witnesses, he always joined in the family tone respecting “poor Martha” and scrupled not to push her on one side, upon all occasions on which any display of Dowling elegance was contemplated.
It was this ugly Martha Dowling who now startled little Michael with her voice of kindness, and, notwithstanding all her lady mother said about the “horrid vulgarity of her manners,” poor Martha had a sweet and gentle voice. The child looked up at her, and with the weakness that appeared constitutionally peculiar to him, his eyes were immediately filled with tears. Yet Michael was not a whimpering boy either; many had seen him harshly treated, for he had worked almost from babyhood in the cotton-factory, but nobody had ever seen him cry under it. But if his mother, or his poor sickly brother, touched his little heart, either with joy or tenderness, he would weep and laugh both, with very infantine susceptibility. So it was with him now, for when Martha added with a good-humoured smile, “And what brings you here, Master Armstrong?” he laughed outright as he replied, “Indeed, ma’am, I ain’t Master Armstrong, and I don’t know a bit what I be here for.”
This speech, though addressed to Martha, being heard by all, the contrast between his appearance and his language considerably excited the curiosity of the two eldest Miss Dowlings.
“La! how he talks! I thought he was a gentleman by his jacket, didn’t you, Arabella?” said Miss Harriet.
“Yes to be sure I did,” replied the eldest sister. “But I am sure he is not, with that horrid way of speaking, what did you bring him here for Peggy?” continued the young lady with an air of authority.
“Because master bid me, miss,” was the satisfactory reply.
“Well to be sure, that is queer! I suppose he’s the son of somebody or other, or papa would never have sent him in to us. It is not at all his way to patronise vulgarity. Where do you live, young gentleman?”
Michael looked very much as if he were in danger of laughing again, but he did not, and replied very demurely, “in Mr. Sykes’s back-kitchen, ma’am, in Hoxley-lane.”
Though the answer was addressed to the inquirer, his eye turned to Martha as he uttered it, as if anxious to see how she bore it, but he encountered a look that altogether puzzled him; for though it was at least as kind as before, there was uneasiness in it, and she looked round her, as if uncomfortably doubtful of what would happen next.
She did not, however, wait long for the result; for Miss Sophia, Miss Louisa, and Miss Charlotte, the three middling-sized Miss Dowlings, who had approached very near to the little boy, and were even growing so familiar that Miss Charlotte had taken hold of one of his dark curls, were severally and suddenly drawn off by the respective hands of their two eldest sisters, and the governess.
“Then he is not a young gentleman after all?” said Miss Sophia.
“La; how funny!” exclaimed Miss Louisa, “where did he get his clothes from?” interrogated Miss Harriet.
“Most likely he stole them,” responded Miss Arabella.
“Why ’tis Duodecimus’s jacket!” ejaculated the observing Miss Charlotte.
“Oh! quelle horreur!” cried the governess driving her pupils all before her to the other end of the room.
At this moment, and before any more active measures could be resorted to for the safety of the young ladies the door of the school-room was again thrown open, and the portly person of Sir Matthew appeared at it, accompanied by the globe-like figure of Doctor Crockley.
“Good morning young ladies!” said the proud father, looking round him, and immediately entering into the jest that he saw was afloat. “How do you like the young beau I have sent you?”
“Good gracious, papa!” exclaimed the elegant and much admired Miss Arabella, “he is a beggar-boy and a thief!
Sir Matthew, and his friend Doctor Crockley, both burst into such a shout of laughter at this sally, that it was a minute before either of them could speak; but at length the knight, turning to the doctor said “Leave my girls alone, Crockley, for finding out what’s what, I don’t believe there’s one of them but what would have found that fellow out, if I had wrapped him up in the king’s own mantle.”
“They are sharp enough, there is no doubt of that, replied his friend, “but I must say you don’t perform your charitable acts by halves, Sir Matthew. You have dressed up the little scamp so superbly, that nothing but the vulgar dark complexion could make one know that he was not one of your own.”
“Why yes, there is some difference in the skins I must say, replied Sir Matthew, looking with most parental complacency on the fair skins, flaxen hair, and light eyelashes of his race.
Difference, indeed. ’Tis Africa and Europe. And is it not remarkable Sir Matthew to see the look of him? Hasn’t he got a sort of slavish, terrified air with it? I tell you what, Sir Matthew, I should not be at all surprised to find, when the march of philosophy has got a little farther, that the blackamoor look comes along with the condition, and, that the influence of wealth and consequence is as quickly shown upon the external appearance of men, women, and children, as a field of clover upon the inferior animals. And why not? It is quite natural — perfectly conformable to the analogy, that, by accurately tracing cause and effect, may be followed through all creation. You have a head, Sir Matthew, for that sort of thing: you can understand me, if nobody else can.”
The little doctor knew that this was one of the soft points at which his wealthy neighbour was assailable. Sir Matthew loved to be assured that his head was of a superior fabric.
“But why, papa, should you send a nasty beggar-boy to us, with Duo’s clothes on?” inquired the intelligent Louisa. Before he replied to this, the knight exchanged a glance with his friend, which seemed to say, “that’s the right sort — she’s in the clover-field.”
“I have taken him in for charity, my dear,” replied the knight, with a sort of pomposity that seemed of a new pattern. The young ladies had never seen papa look so before. Martha, from having found herself rather more frequently the object of Dr. Crockley’s jokes than she desired, had, on his entering the room, retired to the window, but now she came up to her father, and quietly, and as often happened, almost unnoticed, kissed his hand.
“For charity!” exclaimed the fair-haired Arabella, moving a step or two farther away from the object of this extraordinary caprice. “La Papa! why don’t you send him to the hospital?”
Doctor Crockley laughed outrageously. “That girl, ‘Sir Matthew,” he said, when he had recovered his voice, “that girl is beyond all comparison the most thoroughly-born lady that ever I happened to hit upon — and that is saying something, I promise you. She hasn’t a commonplace vulgar notion in her from top to toe. It is what I call the physiology of wealth — it is upon my soul — it is a study, a science. I have not got to the end of it, but I am certain I shall make a system out of it — and you’ll be able to follow me, there’s some comfort in that. I declare to God, that if I had not found you in the neighbourhood, I should have bolted. I cannot exist without occasionally bringing my mind in contact with superior intellect; you find that, too, Sir Matthew, I’m sure you do.”
Sir Matthew assured him that he did, very much; and then pulling a Belinda lock that adorned the olive-coloured throat of Mademoiselle Beaujoie, he asked her if she had ever seen a brat, taken in for charity, so nicely dressed as that little blackguard.”
“Brawt? ça veut dire petit vaut-rien. No, my honor Sire Matue, nayver! you are viddout no reval de most—”
Whilst the French governess struggled to find a word sufficiently expressive of admiration, and if possible, with some little meaning besides, Sir Matthew took the liberty of pinching her ear, while he whispered into it, “What, you little rogue? what?”
She gave him a Parisian œillade, by no means an unkind one, and turned away, while the two smallest Miss Dowlings ran up to her, and, in the jargon in which their mamma and papa delighted, demand
ed “si papa voulait let them jouer avec the little beggar-boy?”
This question, repeated nearly in the same words by Mademoiselle Beaujoie to the knight, appeared to cause him some perplexity, and, after reflecting upon it for a minute, he turned to consult his philosophical friend.
“I say Crockley, what do you think of that?” Then lowering his voice, he added, “you comprehend the job, doctor, — which will do best to help it? Parlour or kitchen, school-room or factory, drawing-room or scullery?
“All and every of them,” replied his friend, in the same low tone, but very decisively. “No doubt in nature about that, Sir Matthew; he must be here, there, and every where, and the thing will fly like mad.”
“You are always right Crockley, there is nobody like you,” replied the grateful knight, cordially slapping the round shoulders of his friend, “I twig, I twig, and so it shall be, by the Lord Harry.”
“You are as rapid as lightning, Sir Matthew! I remember no instance of a cerebral formation so absolutely perfect as yours. Now then, let us visit my lady, shall we? I am as dry as brickdust, and it is about lunch-time I take it. — Bring the boy with you, and introduce him before the servants in style.”
“So I will — that’s it — I twig, Crockley. Go, Martha, and see if the luncheon is laid.”
The report being favourable to the wishes of the gentleman, the party, consisting of the three eldest Miss Dowlings, their papa and the doctor, left the young ladies and their governess to dine, while, with little Michael, who was ordered to follow, they all repaired to the dining-room, where a well-covered table awaited them.
Her ladyship and Mr. Augustus were already there, and both expressed exactly the degree of curiosity which the knight desired, as to who the little gentleman might be whom they brought with them.
Miss Dowling, and Miss Harriet Dowling, burst into a loud laugh; Sir Matthew looked towards the sideboard, and seeing two servants in attendance there, spoke as follows:
“My dear Lady Dowling, I must bespeak your munificent charity, and universal benevolence in favour of this little unhappy boy. His mother is a widow, and — and something, I forget exactly what, is very unhappy about her — and this little boy behaved remarkably well—” Here Sir Matthew broke off in some degree of embarrassment, not wishing particularly to impress upon his lady’s mind that it was his tender care for the Lady Clarissa Shrimpton, which had first introduced the fortunate factory-boy to his notice. But he passed all that over very skilfully, and ended his harangue by saying, “I know perfectly well, my dear lady Dowling, that there is not in the whole world so amiable a person as yourself, and therefore I entertain not the slightest doubt, that the benevolence which warms my heart on this occasion, will communicate itself to yours.”
Lady Dowling raised her light eyebrows, and her still lighter eyelashes, into a look of the most unmitigated astonishment, and remained thus for a while, contemplating the extraordinary spectacle, of one of the handsomest boys she had ever seen, dressed in a style of unquestionable fashion, and presented to her as a being so deplorably miserable, as to have excited the pity of her husband. The first clear and distinct idea that suggested itself was, the necessity of inquiring respecting this beautiful child’s mother, and of finding out whether she might not happen to be beautiful too; the next arose from the sudden recognition of her own son’s own clothes, and the complexion of the lady became extremely florid.
“I should like to know where he got those clothes from,” she said in accents that by no means spoke composure of spirit.
“My dearest love,” replied the most amiable and the most polite of husbands, “that is entirely my doing. You have known me long enough, my sweetest, to be aware that I never do any thing by halves — I saw that little fellow ragged and wretched, and I clothed him!”
“Well, I must say, I do think—” began her ladyship, when Sir Matthew, seating himself at the table, thrust a knife and fork into the very centre of a pigeon-pie, and accompanied the act by a sound, something between a slight cough and a grunt, which, in language matrimonial, was known to mean, “You had better hold your tongue and mind your business.” Whereupon, Lady Dowling sat down too, but her fair complexion was rather more rosy than was becoming, and it was in no very sweet voice that she said to Martha, who ventured to take a chair next her, “Do get a little farther, child, can’t you? — You know I hate to be crushed and crammed up so.”
Here Dr. Crockley, who had already fallen with vehemence upon a cold ham, stopped for a moment, and laughed vehemently. “My dear madam, you are of the slight and elegant order yourself, and you don’t make allowance for poor people who are as fat and roundabout as Miss Martha and I — we can’t squeeze ourselves into an eggshell, Miss Martha, can we?”
Her slim sisters tittered, and the witty Augustus observed, that “To be sure, Martha did look more like a collar of Oxford brawn, than any thing else in creation.”
Meanwhile, the meal proceeded, and little Michael continued to stand half-way between the door and the table, as fixedly as if he had taken root there.
Martha was, in general, very philosophically inclined to let all things round her take their course; but she sat exactly opposite to the object of her father’s benevolence, and there was something in the expression of his eye, as it rested upon the dainties before him, that was more than she could bear. “May I give the little boy something to eat, papa?” said she addressing her father in a timid voice.
“How shall we manage about that, Crockley?” whispered Sir Matthew into the ear of the doctor who sat close to him.
Cram him, cram him, Sir Matthew. — You’ll find it like oil on the surface of water, spreading far and wide,” replied his counsellor, whispering in return, “Let the boy have to boast of his high feeding, and it will do more good than if you were to endow him with lands and houses, and keep him lean.”
“Say you so, my wise man! Faith, then, the matter is easy enough, for I believe Dowling Lodge is rather celebrated for its superfluity of good cheer. We’ll have him gasping with indigestion within a week, see if we don’t.” Then raising his voice, he answered the petition of Martha, by repeating her words, “May you give the little boy something to eat?” and then added with a laugh, “By all manner of means, Miss Martha; and,” taking some half-demolished fragments off his own plate, “he may boast of feeding as well as his master. Here, Master Factory, catch!” And so saying, the benevolent owner of Dowling Lodge skilfully cut the air with half a pigeon, which, taking exactly the direction he intended, struck Michael in the middle of his forehead. Whatever might be the effect of this liberality of heart and hand out of doors, Sir Matthew had every reason to be satisfied with the result within.
The whole Dowling family, with the exception of stupid Martha, burst into a simultaneous shout of delight, while Dr. Crockley clapped his hands, and vociferated, “Bravo!” as loud as he could scream.
Just at this moment, the great bell at the front door, and it was a very great bell, resounded along passage and halls with prodigious clamour. This is a sound which produces, in those who hear it, emotions varying according to their varying temperaments. Genuinely fine, poco curante people, if they hear it, heed it not. Fussy folks, of whatever rank or station, prepare their looks and their books, themselves and their belongings, to receive the threatened visitation advantageously; but in a mansion of such professional display as Dowling Lodge, a ring at the door-bell is an event of serious importance. In such an establishment, the luxuries, or even the comforts of the family, are confessedly of no importance at all, when placed in competition with the display of their grandeur; and upon the present occasion, the whole family hastened to leave their unfinished repast, in order to receive the welcome spectator of their fine clothes and fine furniture in the drawing-room.
My Lady Dowling, and her two light-coloured elder daughters, Sir Matthew, his eldest son, and his learned friend, succeeded in reaching their respective sofas and bergères half a minute before the door was th
rown open, and Lady Clarissa Shrimpton, Miss Brotherton, Miss Mogg, and Mr. Osmond Norval were announced.
Great, of course, and very zealous was the joy expressed by the Dowling family at the sight of their illustrious friend and her cortège. Miss Brotherton was, indeed of herself, or rather of her purse, a personage pretty sure of being well received every where; but even Miss Mogg was (in yankee phrase) well shaken, and Mr. Osmond Norval gazed at by the young ladies, as an emanation from the rays that encircle the brow of Apollo; while even the exquisite Augustus ventured, in compliment to his titled patroness, to shake him too, though he had never been introduced to him at Oxford.
But the feelings of Sir Matthew, at this prompt reappearance of his fair and noble friend, were something vastly different from any thing his family could participate in, nor did Lady Clarissa mistake them. There was a look that spoke infinitely more than any tongue could utter, and a meaning in the silent pressure of the hand, confirming the idea, which had often recurred to her during the night, that it would soon be necessary to make Sir Matthew understand the exact nature and extent of the flattering, but perfectly innocent preference she was conscious of feeling for him.
This first delightful, but somewhat agitating moment over, Lady Clarissa hastened to explain the purpose of her visit.
“You guess why I am come, do you not, Sir Matthew?” she said, pointing to Mr. Osmond Norval. “Permit me to present to you, and your highly-educated family, this young votary of the muses, who, if my judgment errs not, may fairly claim competition with the first poets of the age. Nor should we, of this remote neighbourhood, be insensible to the honour of being the first to assist in pluming the yet unfledged wing, which shall one day bear him aloft into the empyrean regions of eternal fame.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 171