Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Act? — Most assuredly I will act, Lady Clarissa,” replied the heiress. “People as much at liberty to please themselves as I am, seldom refuse to aid and abet a scheme so exceedingly full of amusement as this seems to be.”

  “We will set such an example,” cried Dr. Crockley, rubbing his hands joyously, “that every county in England shall hear of us with envy — I know what Sir Matthew can make of a thing if he takes to it. Leave him alone for giving the go-by to all the world. Write away, young gentleman, write away; depend upon it you’ll have a theatre, and actors too, that will do you justice.”

  At this interesting moment, just as the fair-haired Miss Dowlings began to whisper to each other something about characters and dresses, and Mr. Augustus to whisper to Miss Brotherton his hope that he should have to act a great deal with her, the great bell sent forth another peal, upon which Lady Clarissa held up her finger in token of silence; and before the new visiter entered, all the bright sallies of the party were as effectually extinguished as if they had been supplied by gas, which was suddenly turned off.

  CHAPTER VII.

  A POPULAR CHARACTER — MORE BENEVOLENCE — INTERESTING INTELLIGENCE RECEIVED WITH BECOMING ANIMATION — A SELECT COMMITTEE — A FAREWELL FULL OF MEANING.

  THE person who produced this very powerful effect was a lady not particularly distinguished either by wealth or station; but she seemed to possess the faculty of finding her way into every house within her reach, whether the owner of it desired her presence or not.

  Mrs. Gabberly was the widow of a clergyman, who had formerly been vicar of the parish of St. Mary’s, Ashleigh, and having made herself the very largest acquaintance that ever was enjoyed by any country lady without a carriage, she determined upon continuing amongst them after her husband died, as it might have taken her, she said, more years than she was likely to live, before she could expect to make so many friends all over again. She therefore, on leaving the vicarage, contented herself with a very small house, as near the town as possible, and went on very much as she had done before, only having one maid-servant instead of two, and contenting herself with a donkey-chair and a very little boy to drive it, instead of a one-horse chaise, and a steady man-servant of all work.

  Considering the wealth and splendour of the neighbourhood in which accident had first placed her, and to which choice now held her bound, it may be looked upon as a matter of wonder that she should have made any intimacies at all. But, though the vicarage of St. Mary’s, Ashleigh, was far enough from being richly endowed, and the private fortune of the late incumbent not such as to enable him to approach to any thing like an equality in his style of living to even the least wealthy among the manufacturers in the district, there is still a species of respect for the profession of a clergyman, which opens to him and his family the houses of many, greatly their superiors in point of wealth; and it therefore pretty generally depends on the clergy themselves, Whether they are on intimate terms with their neighbours, or not.

  Now Mr. Gabberly, or more properly speaking, Mrs. Gabberly, who in strength of will had ever been his far better half, did greatly desire to be on intimate terms with her neighbours. Rich or poor, gentle or simple, old or young, she was determined to be intimate with them all. And she was intimate with them all, very intimate. One word more, and Mrs. Gabberly shall be left to speak for herself, which she was certainly able to do, with as little impediment of any kind, as most people. Mrs. Gabberly was the daughter of a physician; and from her earliest years had acquired so decided a taste for the theory and practice of medicine, that she could never wean herself entirely from it, but was thought by many to let it still occupy rather too large a share of her conversation and thoughts. Nevertheless, Mrs. Gabberly was exceedingly popular, for though her discourse ran much upon bruises and bowels, rickets and rheums, spasms and spines, it ran also upon matters more attractive. If she could not tell what every body for three miles round had for dinner on the very day on which she was speaking, it was a hundred to one but she could tell, within a cutlet or a hash, what they had been all eating for a week before. She knew, with an approach to correctness that was perfectly astonishing, the amount of every body’s expenditure, and every body’s debts; could tell to the fraction of a new ribbon, how many bonnets each lady consumed per annum; and was perfectly au fait of the quantity of corn and hay got through in every body’s stables. No flirtation ever escaped either her eyes or her tongue, and the Morning Post was a less faithful record of fine parties, than the tablets of her comprehensive memory.

  The Dowling family was aware of all this; and each in their way had a peculiar value for her society, for Mrs. Gabberly knew how to be all things to all men, women, and children; but, at the present moment, it was Sir Matthew who felt the most decided movement of satisfaction at beholding her sharp black eyes, brisk step, and eager manner of reconnoitring every individual present, as she entered the room.

  “Here is my general advertiser,” thought the knight, as he extended his huge hand to welcome her. “We will have a theatrical representation that shall immortalize my charity, and here’s the one that shall act the part of Fame, and trumpet it round the country.”

  “My goodness! what a charming party of you is got all together this morning,” exclaimed Mrs. Gabberly, smiling and bowing, and nodding, and courtesying, to every body in succession, all the time that Sir Matthew continued his cordial hand-shaking. “Now you must just tell me what you are all about, for if you don’t I shall die, and there’s the truth.”

  “No, no, Mrs. Gabberly, you shan’t die, if we can save your life,” replied Sir Matthew, in his most jovial tone. “We are a gay and happy party, at this moment, I do believe, one and all,” and here the knight thought proper to send a glance after little Michael, who, notwithstanding his fine clothes, was looking pale and sad enough, in the most distant corner from the principal group to which he had been able to creep.

  The experienced eye of Sir Matthew read past suffering and present terror in his speaking features, and he cursed the trembling child in his heart of hearts. But Sir Matthew Dowling might have removed as many coatings as the grave-digger in Hamlet, ere the looker-on could have penetrated so far; and it must have been a quick observer that could have detected the sort of lurid glare that for half an instant gleamed in the savage look he cast upon the boy. It was for no longer space that his joyous gaiety was obscured, and he then turned again his admiring glances upon the Lady Clarissa, and resumed his speech.

  “This is the person, Mrs. Gabberly, who must let you into the mystery. You must entreat her ladyship to be pleased to inform you what it is she is going to make us all do.”

  “Well then, I hope her ladyship won’t refuse. You won’t be so cruel, will you, my lady?”

  “No, certainly!” replied Lady Clarissa smiling complacently on the knight. “If Sir Matthew complies with my proposal, I shall have no objection to its being proclaimed to all the world.”

  And here glances were exchanged between the knight and the lady, perfectly intelligible to each other, and which said very distinctly, “Ah! Lady Clarissa!” on the one part; and, “Oh! Sir Matthew! on the other.

  “Speak then, my lady!” said the gallant manufacturer with a low bow; “and whatever you shall say, shall be law.”

  “Now then, ladies and gentlemen! all of you give ear; for not Mrs. Gabberly alone, but every one present, should pay attention to what I am about to say.” And here Lady Clarissa turned her eyes round about her in search of the hero of the scene. “Where is the little boy?” said she, in a tone of great theatrical feeling.

  “Come here, my dear little fellow!” said Sir Matthew, again turning his glances towards Michael, and now looking amiable and benignant with all his might. But the child seemed to wither beneath this sunshine, even more conspicuously than when he had been left in the shade; and it was not till the knight made some gigantic strides forwards to meet him, that poor Michael formed the desperate courage necessary to bring him from his corn
er to the spot where his noble benefactress stood. Nay, the last steps were not made without the helping hand of Sir Matthew, which heavily laid upon his shoulder performed a twofold office; ostensibly caressing, while, in truth, it forcibly impelled the little trembler forward.

  “Now then, Mrs. Gabberly,” said Lady Clarissa, “look at this interesting little fellow! It is he who is the hero of our fête.”

  “Indeed! And pray what may the young gentleman’s name be?” said Mrs Gabberly.

  “Is not that delicious?” cried Lady Clarissa. “Oh, Sir Matthew! how I envy you your feelings! Note that, dear Norval. The touch is exquisitely dramatic, and must on no account be omitted. This young gentleman, Mrs. Gabberly,” continued Lady Clarissa, with increasing animation, “this young gentleman as you most naturally call him, was a few short hours ago, a wretched, ragged beggar-boy! Sir Matthew Dowling, from motives, that I dare not wound his generous heart by thus publicly dwelling upon, has rescued him from poverty and destruction. This deed, so beautiful in itself, and so beneficial in its influence as an example, is about to be immortalized as it ought to be, by the pen, the rapid, brilliant, touching pen of my young friend, Mr. Osmond Norval. He has undertaken to dramatize this charming trait of benevolence, and our excellent Sir Matthew, has consented to fit up a little theatre for the representation of it, at which all the neighbourhood are to be present as invited guests.”

  “Well now! If ever I heard any thing so delightful as that!” exclaimed Mrs. Gabberly, clapping her hands in ecstasy. “Are the cards sent out, Sir Matthew?”

  “Not yet, Mrs. Gabberly,” replied the knight, with his most friendly smile; “but depend upon it that when they are, you will not be forgotten.”

  “Well now, my dear Lady Dowling! I am sure you are always so kind to me!” cried the delighted Mrs. Gabberly, making her way towards the sofa, where sat the lady of the mansion in frowning state; “I should not wonder if you were to contrive a bed for me on this great occasion, it would be just like you. And oh! my! I have got such a quantity of things I want to tell you, but I can’t stop one instant longer now, if you’d give me the whole world. So, good by to you all, my dears! I’ve heard something about you, Miss Arabella, but it must keep, my dear; and I’ve a secret for Miss Harriet’s ear, too, when we have got leisure. But, good by, good by! Good morning, my Lady Clarissa,” and away bustled Sir Matthew’s public advertiser to spread the glorious news of private theatricals at Dowling Lodge, throughout the country. She paused for one moment, however, as she passed by Michael; and putting her hand upon his head, so as to make him turn his face up towards her, she said, after looking at him very earnestly, “Well now, for a beggar-child, he is to be sure the genteelest looking little fellow, I ever did see; but, perhaps that may be owing to his being so pale and thin, which is certainly a great deal more elegant than fatness and red cheeks, though it don’t quite seem so healthy.”

  “Oh! he is in perfect health, I do assure you, Mrs. Gabberly, as you would have said, if you had seen the dear little fellow eating his luncheon with us just now,” said the amiable Sir Matthew chucking him under the chin. “But, by the way,” continued the merry knight, “I rather suspect that I called him away before he had quite finished, and that’s what it is makes him look so doleful, isn’t it, dear? Well! never be ashamed about it — go back again, there’s a darling! and don’t forget to take a nice bit home to mother and brother — d’ye hear, Michael? Pretty fellow! how he blushes!”

  And here the benevolent Sir Matthew himself opened the door leading to the dining-room, and playfully pushed the “darling” through it.

  “Well now!” again exclaimed the astonished Mrs. Gabberly “did ever any body see such a beautiful spectacle of charity as that?”

  And without waiting for any reply, the brisk little lady made her exit without further pause or delay of any kind, and so completely charged “to the top of her bent” with wonderful intelligence, that she actually suffered from the repletion till half a dozen gossippings had relieved it.

  Meanwhile, the party she left resolved themselves into a committee of management upon the business in hand. Mr. Osmond Norval was entreated to urge his eloquent pen with the greatest possible rapidity; while on his part, Sir Matthew promised that the necessary workmen should immediately be employed in preparing one of the largest rooms in the house as a theatre.

  When the consultation reached this point, Lady Dowling suddenly rose and left the room; but this circumstance did not appear to produce much emotion in any of the party, and they remained together in a most delightful state of hubbub and excitement till the heiress grew tired, and ventured to hint that she thought it would be best for her to drive home first, and then send her carriage back for the accommodation of her noble friend.

  This proposal brought the meeting to a conclusion; but not till Lady Clarissa had confessed in a whisper to Sir Matthew, that she never in her whole life remembered to have taken any thing that did her so much good, as the delicious grapes he had sent home with her the evening before.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  A VERY INNOCENT TÊTE-À-TÊTE, BUT IN WHICH MISS MARTHA DOWLING COMES TO A WRONG CONCLUSION — AN UNFORTUNATE EMBASSY — AN AGREEABLE EXCURSION — A PHILOSOPHICAL DISQUISITION — A VISIT TO THE FACTORY.

  WHILE these things were going on in my Lady Dowling’s morning drawing-room, the forgotten Martha — forgotten at least by all but little Michael — employed herself in seeking such a basket, as might answer the purpose of a viaticum between the object of her father’s charity, and the mother and brother of whom he had so fondly spoken. Having at length succeeded in her quest, she returned to the dining-room, and was almost as much disappointed at finding the object of her good-natured exertions flown, as the poor child himself had been, when obliged to quit the room to which this kind friend had promised to return. But Martha, though not a person very highly favoured by circumstances, was nevertheless better off than Michael, inasmuch as by keeping out of sight she could pretty generally contrive to remain where she chose, and do what she liked. These enviable privileges enabled her now to sit down at one of the large open windows of the diningroom, and to draw from her unseemly-sized pocket, a volume of Shakspeare, with which she determined to beguile the time till the boy should return, or till by some means or other, she might be able to discover what had become of him.

  When therefore, impelled by the playful, but very effectual impulse of Sir Matthew’s shove, Michael once more entered the dining-parlour, he had the satisfaction of being again greeted by the friendly eye and friendly voice, which had already so greatly cheered him.

  “So, here you are again, my little man,” said Martha, repocketing her book, and rising; “I thought you would hardly forget the basket: see, here it is, and now you shall help me pack it.”

  The help thus asked for, was afforded by the happy child’s holding the basket in his hand, as he followed her round the table, while with a smile that spoke as much pleasure as his own, she selected all sorts of good things to put into it.

  “There! now I don’t think we can put in any more, Michael; so set off, and carry it to your mother.”

  With eyes beaming rapture, and little hands that trembled with delight, Michael closed the lid of the basket, and proceeded towards the door; but ere he had fully reached it, he stopped short, and addressing Martha, in a tone as fearless and confidential as if she had been his sister, he said, “But what d’ye think about Teddy? Mightn’t I change into my old clothes again, and just step into the factory for one minute? Teddy can’t almost never eat the dinner as we takes to the factory, and a bit of this would do him so much good! — May I?”

  “Upon my word, Michael, I am rather puzzled what to say,” replied his friend; “as papa has ordered you to have these clothes, he might not be pleased at your taking them off again, and it would be a great pity to make him angry with you when he is so very good and kind, wouldn’t it?”

  Michael hung his head, and said nothing.

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sp; “But why need you change your clothes, my dear boy? — I dare say Teddy would be very proud to see you look so nice.”

  Still Michael answered not, but began assiduously picking to pieces the handle of Martha’s delicate basket.

  “Don’t do that, dear,” said Martha, approaching, and taking the offending hand in hers; “but tell me what you are thinking about?”

  “I am thinking,” said Michael, “that if I walked into the midst of ’em this way, and up to poor Teddy, in his dirty ragged clothes, it would look” — and here he stopped without finishing the sentence.

  “It would look, how? — as if you were proud, perhaps?” said Martha.

  The child shook his head.

  “No, not that. Teddy would not think that,” he replied.

  “What would he think, then? — Tell me all that is passing in your little head, and then I shall be able to advise you.”

  “Why, he’d think,” said Michael, and tears started as he spoke—” he’d think that he and I could never be right down brothers any more.”

  Martha involuntarily kissed the little face that was turned up to hers, but replied, laughingly, “Oh! that’s foolish, Michael; do you think that a fine jacket could separate two little brothers that love each other? — I think I could love you quite as well in a shabby coat, as in a fine one.” Michael looked at her very earnestly for a minute or two, and then said, almost in a whisper, “Is Sir Matthew Dowling, as owns our factory, your father?”

  “Yes, Michael,” replied Martha, colouring from some painful feeling which the expression of the boy’s speaking features had given rise to. The child coloured too, but said, with good courage, “Please, ma’am, I should love Teddy just as well, and Teddy would love me, only the others may-be would mock at him and me too — and I know Teddy could not bear it.”

  “Then they would not be as good children as I think you are. But tell me, Michael, something about the mill: papa has never let us see it yet, but I believe it is only because mamma thinks it is a dirty place. Is it very dirty, Michael?”