“Nothing whatever, Miss Brotherton.”
“Do you feel quite satisfied, my dear, that this romantic adventure has been, or will be, advantageous to him?”
“I think,” replied Martha, “that one can hardly doubt his being better off here than in the poverty of his mother’s dwelling. You saw, Miss Brotherton, what a ragged condition the clothes were in which he had worn before.”
“Decent clothes are a comfort, my dear Martha, there can be no doubt of it; but compared with the other circumstances which influence the happiness of life, they are of no great importance. Of course I suppose that your father means to educate him. Do you know whether he can read his bible yet?”
“I know that he could not,” replied Martha, “when he came here.”
“Poor little wretch! That is very terrible neglect somewhere. What sort of person is the mother?”
“By Michael’s account,” replied Martha, smiling, “she is a very estimable person indeed; but it certainly seems that she has not taken much pains with his education, poor little fellow!”
“What a sad thing it is,” continued Miss Brotherton, “that we all of us know so little of the poor people employed in the factories! I believe they are said to be exceedingly well paid, but still I don’t think it is quite right for the rich people in a neighbourhood to take no notice whatever of the poor. I know it is not so in other places; for I have heard my schoolfellows continually talk of their fathers’ tenants and work-people, and of their schools, and their clothing societies, and all sorts of things, and I have been trying to do a little good just at home with the families of some of the work-people about the place. But I have just now got my head strangely full of these factory folks. I wish you could give me some information about them, Martha.”
“Indeed, my dear Miss Brotherton, I know as little as you do. I am told that they are very good-for-nothing, that they receive enormous sums annually in wages, and yet that they are never contented, but for ever complaining, just because they have work to do for what they get, and yet papa says that it is the very prettiest lightest work in the world. And indeed I am afraid it is but too true, for this little fellow, though he is so interesting and intelligent that it is impossible to help liking him, always speaks of the factory as if he hated it.”
“And if he does hate it, Martha, why, if you question him should he conceal it?”
“But I never have questioned him about that; I should not think it right to do so. Only I remember his making me laugh, just after he came here, by saying something exceedingly naive about their all liking wages but not work. Now, though I am not very deep in political economy, it is impossible not to see that poor people must work ‘ for what they get — don’t you think so?”
“Assuredly, and rich people too. I have no doubt that both your father and my father had to work very hard for the fortunes which have rewarded their industry. In our class of life this is necessary. But that does not settle the question that is working in my head at present, and which, to tell you the truth, will not let me sleep by night nor amuse myself by day. How comes it that ALL the people — the only phrases I have heard upon the subject were very comprehensive — how comes it, Martha Dowling, that ALL the people, young and old, who work in the factories are classed as ignorant and depraved?”
“My dear Miss Brotherton, how is it possible that I should be able to answer you?”
“Have you not heard the same statement, Martha?”
“Oh, yes! very often. I know mamma says that nothing in the world should induce her to take a girl who had worked in the factories into the house, even in the very lowest situation. Oh! I believe they are very bad!”
“Very bad? But, good gracious! why are they very bad? What is the cause of this strange degradation of one peculiar class of human beings? It surely cannot arise from the nature of their employment; for if it did, of course the clergy of the neighbourhood would interfere to stop it. It is quite out of the question to suppose that in a Christian country many hundreds — nay thousands — Mrs. Tremlett tells me there are many thousands employed in the factories — it is impossible to suppose, is it not, that any labour or occupation could be permitted, which by its nature, and of necessity, tended to corrupt the morals of those employed in it? There must be some other cause for their wickedness, if wicked they are.”
“Oh! they are very wicked, I am quite sure of that; for I have heard it again and again ever since I was born, and you know I have not been away like you, Miss Brotherton, always in London. I have never lived any where but here, and I never remember the time when I did not hear that the factory people were the very wickedest set of wretches in the world.”
For a few minutes Miss Brotherton was silent, and even seemed to have restored her attention to the silly business of the gaudy stage, for her eyes were fixed in that direction; but she presently gave evidence that wherever her eyes had been, her thoughts had not wandered from the subject to which she appeared so earnestly to have devoted them. For she said in the low, slow, even tone, which denotes concentrated feeling —
“If this be so, Miss Martha Dowling, if thousands of human beings in a Christian country are stigmatized as wicked, because their destiny has placed them in a peculiar employment, that employment ought to be swept for ever and for ever from the land, though the wealth that flowed from it outweighed the treasures of Mexico.”
Martha Dowling started, but said not a word in reply; there was something in the manner of her neighbour which awed her. True, genuine, deep feeling, is always sublime, be it manifested by such a young girl as Mary Brotherton, or such an old king as Lear. But, though Martha was silent, her companion suffered not the conversation to drop; and presently resumed in atone of less exaltation, “Do you think, my dear, that I could get hold of your little Michael some day, so that I might have a little conversation with him?”
“Yes, certainly, Miss Brotherton,” replied Martha, “I think papa would be quite pleased, for he seems to like nothing better than seeing every body take notice of him.”
“Do you think your father loves the little boy, Martha?”
“I am sure he is very kind to him,” replied the conscious daughter a little piqued. “For it can be nothing but kindness that makes him take the child into the house, and feed him and clothe him for nothing.”
“And, of course, Martha, he will get some instruction here?”
“Oh! he has begun to read the bible already,” replied the kind-hearted girl, eagerly. “I have undertaken that business myself. The poor little fellow seemed to suffer so, when he was learning his part. I never saw a child appear so heartily ashamed of any thing.”
“One almost wonders at that too; brought up, as he must have been, in the very lap of ignorance. I should have thought, after all I have heard, that he would have been ashamed of nothing. However, I should like to talk to him. At what hour do you give him his reading lesson, Martha?”
“When I can catch him,” replied the young lady, laughing. You have no idea, Miss Brotherton, how much the little gentleman is engaged. Papa has taken him about with him in the carriage, almost every where, and such quantities of people have been to see him!”
“And does he seem greatly delighted with it all?”
“No, I don’t think he does. He seems to me to care for nothing in the world but his mother, and a little crippled brother that he talks of.”
“That does not look as if he were thoroughly confirmed in wickedness as yet,” observed the heiress.
“No, indeed! It is his affectionate temper that has made me take to him; for I do believe he is very idle, and hates his work, just as papa says they all do,” answered Martha.
“Does he visit his mother every day?”
“He either goes or sends to her, I believe. Papa makes a great point of something very nice being taken down to Ashleigh every day for Michael’s sick mother to eat; and the child always carries it himself, when papa does not send him elsewhere.”
“
And at what hour does he generally go?”
“Always after luncheon.”
“Don’t you think the play must be almost come to an end, Martha?” said Miss Brotherton, after looking again on the stage for a few minutes, and yawning rather more conspicuously than politeness could warrant.
“I should think it must,” replied Martha, catching, and returning the yawn.
There was, however, a good deal to be done. There was a figure dance to be performed, and a trio to be played on the pianoforte, harp, and violoncello, by the two eldest Miss Dowlings, and their music-master.
This last was a very long business: and the heiress, who, instead of having been instructed to endure annoyances patiently, had been rather taught never to endure them at all, got up in the middle of it, and telling Martha that her head ached too much to permit her remaining any longer, made her way out of the room, which she effected the more easily from having taken her station near a side door, which led from the theatre (in ordinary phrase, the school-room) into the private apartments of Mademoiselle Beaujoie.
Martha Dowling, of course, followed her, and expressed much concern for her malady, offering all the specifics usually suggested by one lady to another, under such circumstances. “No, thank you,” was the reply she received to all, “I only want to get away.”
“But it will not be very easy to do so, this way,” replied Martha, “unless you will condescend to go through the passage that leads from the offices.”
“Never fear, dear Martha,” returned the self-willed young lady, “I will condescend to go through any passage that will lead to fresh air, for indeed that place was too hot!”
The room they first entered on passing through the door, was one dedicated to the reception of globes, slates, guitars, dumb bells, dictionaries, embroidering-frames, and sundry other miscellanies connected with an enlarged system of education. Beyond this was the bedchamber of Mademoiselle, which again led to an apartment opening upon that part of the school-room now occupied as the stage. This room, which was denominated Mademoiselle Beaujoie’s parlour, was now converted into a general green-room and dressing-room, for into this, all exits from the stage were made.
While still in the bedroom, Miss Brotherton, and her more than half-frightened companion, heard voices speaking in no very pleasant accents from this theatrical retreat, and the angry tones of Sir Matthew Dowling himself were soon unmistakably audible.
“Let us go back, pray let us go back!” said the greatly distressed Martha, in a whisper.
“I am too ill, my dear, to bear that room again,” rewhispered Miss Brotherton. “Let me sit down here for a few minutes, and I shall recover myself; and then we can return, and go out the other way with the rest of the company.”
It was impossible to argue the point; so poor Martha submitted, though cruelly distressed at the idea of her father’s private violence of temper being listened to by one of those who had never seen Dowling Lodge, or its inhabitants, excepting in full dress. This distress was by no means lessened when some very audible words made it evident that Michael Armstrong was the object of the angry feelings to which he was now giving vent. As the best thing to be done under the circumstances; she pointed to a sofa at the greatest distance from the imperfectly-closed door from whence the sounds issued; but Miss Brotherton had already dropped into a chair so near this door of communication that she not only heard, but saw all that was passing in that part of the green-room which Sir Matthew Dowling occupied. That this was the last place in which a gentlewoman would have been likely to place herself at such a moment, is most certain; but the capricious heiress was wont to exclaim on many occasions, when observance and restraint were irksome to her, “I am not a gentlewoman — and why should I torment myself by affecting to be one.”
It was probably by some such reasoning that she now justified to herself the strong measure she was adopting; in order to become acquainted with what was passing behind the scenes respecting Michael Armstrong.
Circumstances were favourable to the object; for Sir Matthew was in one of those towering fits of passion, to which his family and dependants knew him to be subject, though the majority of the world declared him to be an extremely good-natured man.
“Blackguard! — Vermin! — Devil’s imp!” — were among the first intelligible words which reached the heiress, after she had seated herself; and these were accompanied by cuffs so heavy on the head and shoulders of Michael, that it required a very powerful effort over herself to prevent her darting forward to seize the arm that gave them. But this prudent effort was dictated and sustained by a stronger feeling than curiosity; and she remained perfectly still to await what should follow.
Dr. Crockley, who, though not among the corps of performers, had been permitted to be useful behind the scenes in a variety of ways, and among the rest had acted as prompter, stood beside the trembling child, and it was to his friendly ear that the irritated Sir Matthew addressed himself.
“Will you believe he did not do it on purpose? Will you believe Crockley, that there was any thing to make him cry then? Had we not borne with all his beastly stupidity, expressly for the purpose of keeping the little ungrateful monster in good humour? Hadn’t I fed him, and crammed him, as you bid me, with what was too good for him ever to have reached the smell of? Didn’t I cosset his lazy beast of a mother with such niceties as the dirty beggar never heard of before? And his crook-shanked rat of a brother, too, haven’t they been all fed at my cost for more than a month past? And then to see this black-hearted traitor come upon the stage, and cry before all the company as if his heart was breaking?”
“It’s too bad to bear,” replied Dr. Crockley, “and if he was to be flayed alive and salted, it would not be half what he deserved.”
“Wouldn’t the best thing I could do be to send him back into the factory to-morrow morning, Doctor?” demanded Sir Matthew, suddenly quitting his hold of the child, and setting his square arms akimbo. “By the living God! I am sick of the job.”
“I will be very good, sir, if you will,” said the boy, “and I won’t go to sleep at the work at all, and no more won’t Edward neither, if you will but please to let me go back again.”
“You see how much he dreads the factory,” said Sir Matthew, with. a grim smile. “But,” nodding his head, and winking his eye familiarly to the child, “we shall see, my pretty dear, if Mr. Parsons can’t contrive to do something more than just keep you awake. He shall go back, Crockley, upon my soul he shall. It is the only way to prevent his driving me mad. I loathe the very sight of him.”
“You must do as you like, Sir Matthew,” replied his confidential friend, “but it will be the most d — d foolish thing you ever contrived in your life, if you do. I tell you the story is doing wonders every where; and now, because a stupid brat can’t say his lesson perfect, you are just going to spoil it all.”
“His lesson perfect! Confound the sly vagabond, that was not the point, Crockley. It was not the lesson that choked him. How much will you bet me that if I get fifty lines written down abusing me and nothing else in ’em, he won’t learn them off as glib and perfect as any actor on the stage? I know his black heart, and he shall find out that mine is not made of pap before I have done with him.”
“That’s all right and fair enough, and I have nothing to say against it,” replied the friendly physician, “and let us talk it all over quietly together to-morrow morning; but for to-night—” And here Dr. Crockley taking his friend by the arm led him to the door which opened upon the stage, from whence issued a tintamarre of instruments sufficient to cover whatever he might wish to say, not only from the ear of little Michael, but from all others. The moment selected by the angry knight for relieving himself of the wrath which burned within him would have been a most favourable one, but for the accidental vicinity of Miss Brotherton. While the whole corps of performers, excepting the manufacturer and the factory-boy, were grouped upon the stage, in a style the most favourable for the display of their perso
ns and dresses, the trio above mentioned augmented, by way of finale, by tambourines and triangles, went steadily on in a crescendo movement that ended in a clamour rendered perfect by the last peal of applause from the wellnigh worn-out audience, so that their secret conference was not otherwise likely to be overheard.
At the moment after Sir Matthew had declared his intention of teaching Michael to know what his heart was made of, and just as he was himself led off by his friend Crockley, Miss Brotherton, pressing her two hands strongly upon her breast, involuntarily pronounced the word “MONSTER!” and then placing her hands before her eyes remained lost in no very pleasing revery. But hardly had her meditations lasted a moment, ere they were chased by hearing the sound of some one falling near her, and looking round, she perceived poor Martha stretched insensible upon the floor.
Inexpressibly shocked at remembering, which she did by no slow action of the mind, the suffering to which her own unscrupulous curiosity had exposed the unfortunate girl, she ran to her with eager haste, and with much repentant tenderness raised her head and did all her small experience suggested towards restoring her. The comfortable insensibility did not last long; and Martha, who with restored animation immediately recovered her recollection, and in whose composition no affectation of any kind had part, raised herself without assistance from the ground, and silently placed herself upon a sofa.
“Dear excellent Martha!” exclaimed Miss Brotherton, with much true feeling, “fear not that I should ever repeat what I have so accidentally heard; and let not your good and dutiful nature suffer thus, because I have heard it. We have all our faults, Martha, and it is the duty of each to pray for the conversion of their own hearts first, and then for the repentance of others. And what prayers, dear girl, so likely to be heard, as those of a good and dutiful child? Let us slip back to our places, Martha. This clapping of hands announces, as I take it, the conclusion of the piece.”
Martha, though wounded to the very soul, uttered no word of deprecation or complaint; but there was an unsophisticated simplicity of character about her which made her decline, by a courtesy that had a little of the stiffness of ceremony in it, the offered arm of Mary, and stepping forward she opened the door by which they had left the theatre, till the heiress had passed through it, and resumed her place.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 179