“It is a treat to hear you, Sir Matthew. I should be at a loss to name any man that I thought your equal in the gift of eloquence. But, nevertheless, we must not forget business. We must not forget Master Michael Armstrong, Sir Matthew.
“No, no, my good friend, we will not forget him. Be patient for a moment, and I will make you understand how my friend Elgood Sharpton, and my darling protégé have been mixed up in my mind together. Sharpton’s factory at Deep Valley is one of the most perfect institutions, I take it, that the ingenuity of man ever produced. It is perfect, sir, — just perfect. In the first place it is built in a wild desolate spot, where the chances are about ten thousand to one against any of the travelling torments who take upon themselves to meddle and make about what does not concern them — it is a hundred thousand to one against their ever catching sight of it. You never saw such a place in your life, Crockley. ’Tis such a hole that I don’t believe the sunshine was ever known to get to the bottom of it. It was made on purpose, you may depend upon it. Well, sir, Sharpton, who whatever he undertakes is sure to get over the ground faster than any other man, for he never lets any thing stop him, Sharpton felt quite convinced, you see, that the only way to carry on the work to any good purpose was to UNDERSELL. And how was this to be done without loss instead of gain? That’s a question I promise you that has puzzled many a man that was no fool — but, egad, it did not puzzle him. He knew well enough that it was not the material — that came cheap enough — nor yet the machinery, though Heaven knows that’s dear enough; but ’tis the labour, sir, the damnation wages going on, on, on, for evermore that drains the money away. And what then does he do, but hit at once upon the very perfectest scheme that ever entered a man’s head to lessen that ruinous burden. He knew well enough, for he has a most unaccountable deal of general information, that there were lots of parishes in England that didn’t know what on earth to do with their pauper brats. There’s many, you know, that say this one thing, this nasty filthy excess of pauper population is the very mischief that is eating up the country, and destroying our prosperity. But who’s the greatest political economist, Crockley, the man who talks of the evil, or he who sets about finding a remedy? The political economists of the nineteenth century ought to erect a statue to Elgood Sharpton; and so they will, I have no doubt, when the subject comes to be more perfectly understood. For just mark what he has done. First he finds out this capital spot for the job, and builds a factory there; next he either goes himself, or sends agents, good, capable, understanding men, to all the parishes that he finds are overburdened with poor. Then, sir, he enters philosophically into the subject with the parish authorities, but of course with proper discretion, and proves to them that in no way could they do their duty by the parish children, particularly the orphans, or those whose parents don’t trouble them, so well as by apprenticing them to a GOOD TRADE.”
Here Sir Matthew paused, and a merry glance was exchanged between him and his companion.
“Well, Crockley, it is a good trade, you know, a devilish good trade, isn’t it? At any rate I promise you that so many parishes felt convinced of it, that Elgood Sharpton had soon got Deep Valley factory as full of young hands as it could cram. Now it is since that, you must know, that old Sir Robert took it into his head that little children must not be overworked. He it was, I believe, that first set up that nonsensical cry to any purpose; and to be sure, nothing ever was so absurd in a country where every body knows that if the young pauper spawn could but be made to die off, every thing would go on well. Is it not strange now, that old Peel could not be contented to grow rich, and hold his tongue? But no, he got bit by some poisonous humanity notion or other, and a devilish shake he gave to the system just at first, by his absurd bill for the protection of infant paupers; but such men as Sharpton are not to be knocked down like ninepins, either by law-makers, or law; and to say the truth, old Sir Robert Peel’s bill was to all intents and purposes a dead letter within two years after it was passed. Bless your soul, it was the easiest thing in the world to keep the creatures so ignorant about the bill, after the first talk was over, that they might have been made to believe any thing and to submit to any thing. In fact the question for them always lies in an egg-shell. They must either do what the masters would have them, OR STARVE. That fact is worth all the bills that ever were passed: and another thing is, that as long as there’s nothing to prevent our own friends and relations from being among the magistrates, even if complaints are made, we can manage them.”
“How true it is, Sir Matthew, that there is no inequality of accidental condition than can equal the inequality produced by a decided superiority in the intellectual powers,” said “Dr. Crockley. “At this moment I give you my sacred honour that I look upon you, and your friend Mr. Elgood Sharpton also, as standing in a much more commanding position than any duke in the country. What’s a long descent compared to a long head, Sir Matthew? I’ll tell you what the difference is. A long descent pretty generally helps a man to empty his purse, whereas a long head will never fail to help him fill it. It is as clear to me, as that the sun’s in heaven, Sir Matthew, that the game is in your own hands. I know — for I have made some curious experiments that way — I know what a dog may be taught to do by hunger, and you may rely upon it that it is just as powerful in aman. Egad, Sir Matthew, it is a very fine subject for scientific experiments. It is difficult to say how far it might go. If a dog, for example, may be taught tricks by hunger, that approach in ingenuity to the powers of man, why may not man, skilfully acted upon by the same principle, be brought to rival the docility of a dog?”
“I see nothing in nature to stop it, doctor,” replied Sir Matthew, with an air of great animation. “But remember, my dear Crockley, this is not a point to be touched upon in the book we were talking of. The public, you know, can have nothing on earth to do with the private regulation of our affairs. People have just as much right to inquire at what o’clock my lord duke expects his valet to get up, and moreover what the valet eats for breakfast when he is up, as they have to know what hours our hired labourers keep, and what they feed upon. It is a gross inquisitorial interference, Crockley, and ought not to be thought of in a free country.”
“That’s a first-rate idea though, Sir Matthew,” said the doctor, taking out his pocket-book and pencil. “I must book that. It is turning the parliament into an office of the inquisition. The canters may call it a holy office, if they will, but the British people will never bear the notion of AN INQUISITION. That’s a capital idea, I promise you. As to my parallel, you know, between a dog and a man, it is merely between ourselves, or such an out-and-out-friend as Mr. Sharpton, and it may be worth thinking about, perhaps, practically and scientifically, I mean; but certainly I should never dream of printing it. A hundred years hence human intelligence may have reached such a point of improvement that the plain good sense and practical utility of the idea may make it properly appreciated. But as yet we are not sufficiently advanced in the science emphatically denominated “the positive” in contradistinction to “the ideal.” It will come though, if we do but go on in the path we are in. But we are generalizing too much, Sir Matthew; nevertheless I suspect I have caught your idea. You have thoughts of sending your young favourite to Deep Valley mill, by way of putting the finishing stroke to your benevolent projects in his favour?”
“Exactly so, my dear friend. But we must have indentures, observe; and there is some little difficulty in that.”
“I suppose you know best, Sir Matthew; else I should say that indentures cannot be necessary. From your description, the locality of this factory, with its romantic name, must be like the valley of Rasselas, at least in one particular — namely, that without wings the happy dwellers there would find it impossible to escape,” replied the doctor.
“Difficult, exceedingly difficult, certainly; but not quite impossible; for without indentures a runaway could not be legally pursued. And to tell you the truth, friend Crockley, I should not much approve giving a s
ubject for a second part of Mr. Osmond Norval’s drama, in which the hero should appear upon the scene after a few months’ residence in Deep Valley mills.”
“That’s true. But I don’t see under what pretence you are to get the brat apprenticed to your friend Sharpton,” remarked the cautious counsellor.
“If he is apprenticed to me, it will do just as well,” replied the knight, “for I could make over the indentures to Sharpton easy enough, but it strikes me I might have some difficulty in making the mother consent to it.”
“Not if you will be upon your P’s and Q’s, Sir knight,” said his friend: “you have nothing to do but go on sending tit-bits to the sick woman, and the rickety boy that you mentioned, and when they have got a little used to it she’ll not choose to affront her generous benefactor. Remember the dog theory, Sir Matthew, they are all alike.”
“I dare say you are right. But at any rate I had better keep out of that hateful brat’s way, or rather take care that he keeps out of mine. But I shall bear the sight of him better if I make up my mind to send him to Deep Valley. That will wipe out old scores between us.”
Having said this, Sir Matthew rose from the breakfast-table, seeming thereby to indicate that the consultation was at an end. Dr.
Crockley rose too; but, though he took up his hat and his riding-whip from the chair on which he had placed them, he lingered as if he had still something to say before he took his leave.
Sir Matthew, however, seemed to take no notice of the hint, but stretching out his hand said decisively, “Good morning, doctor, good morning. Let us see you again soon.”
Dr. Crockley upon this stretched out his hand too, but instead of clutching that of the knight, he seized upon his button. “One word, Sir Matthew, one word. You are too much of a man of business to think me troublesome. Respecting that little appointment that you were talking about the other day; I should like to have it settled. Because, to say the truth, I shall consider myself as wearing your livery; or, to speak more fitly, to be fighting positively under your colours, when this is done; and of course you know we ought to understand one another completely.”
“No doubt of it, Crockley. I said nothing that I do not mean to stand to. You shall have two hundred a year, paid quarterly, for attending to the health and wellbeing, and all that, you know, of the factory children. But as I don’t want you to give them two hundred pounds’ worth of physic, remember I shall expect that you will make up the deficiency in — in just saying round about the neighbourhood how remarkably well every thing goes on at Brookford Factory. I’ll pledge you my word that every thing does go on capitally well there, Crockley, so you will have nothing on your conscience on that score.” —
“I am not afraid of that, Sir Matthew; I know I may trust you. But I should like a bit of a memorandum about my own business, if you please.”
“Quite right, quite right, sir. I am too much a man of business to object to that. Draw up the engagement, such as you wish it to be, and I dare say I shall make no objection to signing it.”
After this a cordial hand-shaking was exchanged and the friends parted.
CHAPTER XII.
AN UNFORTUNATE RENCONTRE — AN ADVENTURE — MISS BROTHERTON GROWS WISER EVERY DAY.
MRS. TREMLETT’S inquiries proved successful. Jim Sykes, the weeding-boy, knew perfectly well where widow Armstrong lived; and after he had repeated his instructions three times, Mary Brotherton and her unresisting chaperon set off on their expedition. On one point only did the self-willed heiress yield to the judgment of her companion. Mary, who knew, that though she seldom went beyond the shelter of her own park-paling, she often walked without fatigue within it for two or three hours together, wished to set off for Hoxley-lane on foot; but Mrs. Tremlett talked so much of the fatigue, that the good-natured girl consented to let the carriage convey them to the point at which the lane diverged from the high-road. This yielding, however, was wholly from consideration for her companion. For herself she believed the precaution quite needless; and she was right. However much her temper might have been endangered by the series of spoiling processes she had undergone, her health had been taken good care of, and few girls of her age in any rank, had greater power and will for exertion than herself.
Nevertheless, before she had driven half a mile, she heartily rejoiced at having sacrificed her own inclination to that of her good-nurse; for the road to Ashleigh was the favourite ride of the officers quartered in the neighbourhood, and had she been seen on foot, it is probable that before reaching Hoxley-lane she would have been surrounded by a body-guard of military. So greatly did this danger appal her spirits, that the first moment she found herself free from a white-gloved hand either at one window or the other, she stopped the carriage, and ordered the coachman to go far enough down the lane to permit her to get out unobserved by any persons passing by the road.
But poor Mary was this day doomed to disappointment; and the indignant, and almost passionate beating of her heart under it, made her more conscious, perhaps, than she had ever been before, how deeply the business upon which she was engaged had entered into her soul.
Soon after Sir Matthew Dowling had dismissed his breakfast companion, he strolled out towards his splendid stables, and perceiving his son loitering among the grooms, and himself equipped for the saddle, he inquired whither he was going to ride. “Only to Ashleigh, governor,” was the reply. “Then wait five minutes, Augustus, and I will ride with you.”
Whether the youth approved the proposal or not, he was fain to submit to it, and the evil star of Mary Brotherton contrived to bring them to the top of Hoxley-lane at the moment her carriage was about to turn into it.
“Stop!” cried the young lady, accompanying the word with a very energetic pull at the check-string. “Go on to Ashleigh,” was the order that followed.
“Was ever any thing so provoking, nurse? Do you see who those hateful men are?”
“Why ’tis Sir Matthew, my dear,” replied the gentle old woman.
“The wretch!” muttered Mary between her teeth at the very moment that Sir Matthew on one side, and his languishing son on the other, besieged her carriage.
“Not for my right hand would I have him guess where I am going,” thought she, as with a face suffused with the deepest carmine that agitation could produce, she forced her lips into an unmeaning smile in return to their salutation.
The father and son came to exactly the same conclusion, and at the same moment. There was but one cause that it was possible to assign for her evident emotion. She was deeply in love with Augustus, — more deeply than even the young man himself had imagined. The thing was plain, no doubt remained, no not a shadow of it on the mind of either father or son, but it was the elder gentleman only who at once determined to push so fine a game to its close, with as little delay as possible.
Feeling quite sure that there was no liberty he could take at this moment which would not be welcome, he made a sign to the coachman to stop, and deliberately dismounting he threw his reins to his groom, told Miss Brotherton’s footman to open the carriage-door, and stepped in with the assumed air of a partially loved friend, who knows that no leave need be asked.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 181