Of course Miss Martha Dowling had never been in Hoxley-lane before; and notwithstanding her having so agreeable a companion, she speedily became aware that the region was as unpleasant as it was new.
“Is this the only road, my dear boy, by which we can get to your mother’s house?” said she, almost mechanically enveloping her offended nose, in her pocket-handkerchief.
“It is here that we lives, please ma’am,” said the child, pulling her onwards.
“How very foolish of me!” thought Martha, withdrawing her handkerchief, “of course poor people live in poor houses. But I cannot think why the place should smell so!”
No 12 was however soon reached, and the young lady carefully led by her little attendant through the largest gap in the hedge to the outer door of the back kitchen, in order that she might escape Mrs. Sykes’s crowded front one.
“Go in first, Michael, and tell your mother that I am coming,” said the considerate Martha. The child did so, but in this case there was no means for preparation, and having named the unexpected visitant and given his mother a hasty kiss, he returned before Martha had recovered the sort of shock which the dirty and desolate spot on which she stood had occasioned.
In truth no person unaccustomed to approach the dwellings of the operatives in the towns of the manufacturing districts, can fail to be startled at the first near sight of them. In the very poorest agricultural village, the cottages which shelter its labourers have the pure untainted air of heaven to blow around their humble roofs; but where forests of tall bare chimneys, belching eternal clouds of smoke rear their unsightly shafts towards the sky, in lieu of verdant air-refreshing trees, the black tint of the loathsome factory seems to rest upon every object near it. The walls are black, the fences are black, the window-panes (when there are any) are all veiled in black. No domestic animal that pertinaciously exists within their tainted purlieus, but wears the same dark hue; and perhaps there is no condition of human life so significantly surrounded by types of its own wretchedness as this.
Martha Dowling shuddered as she looked around her; and when Michael returned to lead her in, she felt half afraid of crossing the gloomy threshold.
But the widow Armstrong was, as usual, less dirty in her abject misery than, perhaps, any other inhabitant of Hoxley-lane, or its immediate neighbourhood, and the mild countenance and gentle voice with which she replied to the young lady’s salutation removed all her scruples, and she seated herself in the chair placed for her by Michael, with the best disposition in the world to improve the acquaintance.
“I hope you are getting better, Mrs. Armstrong?” said Martha, in that tone of genuine female softness which it is so impossible to mistake, “and that you don’t miss little Michael as much as you did at first.”
“You are very kind, ma’am, to take the trouble of coming to such a place as this,” replied the poor woman, in a voice that indicated something like surprise. Upon which Michael, who had stationed himself near enough to enable him to slip his little hand into hers, said, with a tolerably expressive emphasis—” This is Miss Martha, mother.”
“I wish, ma’am, I had strength and power to thank you as I ought, for all your condescending kindness to my poor boy!” said the widow, earnestly. I never see him, that he has not some fresh story to tell me of your goodness to him. He can read a chapter in the Bible now as well as any boy of his age need to do. And oh! Miss — This is all owing to you — for never could he have given his time to it in the factory.”
“There is more praise due to him than to me, Mrs. Armstrong, I assure you. He is a very good boy at learning, and minds every word that is said to him. I suppose he has shown you his copy-book too, hasn’t he? I never saw a child that had so good a notion of writing.” —
“He was always a quick boy, Miss — but never can he be thankful enough to you for teaching him how to put his quickness to profit. It will be the making of him.”
“I am very glad to hear you speak so earnestly about his learning, because that makes me think that you will be pleased at hearing the business I am come upon. My papa, who is very” — here poor Martha stopped short. She was going to add— “kind to little Michael,” but her honest heart would not let her pronounce the words; so she changed the phrase, and went on with “very desirous of being really useful to Michael, has commissioned me, Mrs. Armstrong, to ask you if you do not think it would be more profitable and advantageous to him to be apprenticed to some good trade, the stocking-weaving for instance, than to run about our house any longer? Papa says, he fears it will give him habits of idleness which he may be the worse for all his life — and that would be quite contrary to his wishes, which have always been that he should benefit all his life long, by his good behaviour about the cow.”
Mrs. Armstrong’s eyes which had been fixed on the countenance of Martha, every line of which spoke of truth and sincerity, fell upon the work she held in her hand as these words were uttered — and for a moment she made no answer. But feeling, perhaps, that this was both ungrateful and ungracious to her visiter, she looked up again and said, “I am sure, ma’am, we can never thank you enough for all your kindness.”
There was the slightest emphasis in the world upon the word “you,” but it was enough to heighten the colour of Martha, and for a moment she both felt and looked displeased.
“My power, of myself, to befriend your boy, Mrs. Armstrong, is very little, I assure you,” she said. “Of course it is natural that I should take more notice of him than a person like my father can, who has so many other things to attend to; but it is to his generosity and benevolence that you must look for any lasting advantage you may hope to gain for him.”
“Indeed, ma’am, I would be happy to take your advice in the disposal of him any way; for I can’t mistake your kindness, or your power to judge what is best, which of course must be greater than mine, notwithstanding your young age — and if Michael likes it, and you think it best, ma’am.”
Martha saw that the mother’s fear of having her boy parted from her, was combating the wiser hope for his future advantage; and fully conscious that the continuing his present mode of life could only be productive of mortification, she boldly answered this appeal, and in the confiding innocence of her heart ventured to say, “Perhaps, in this case, girl as I am, my judgment may be better than yours, Mrs. Armstrong. I do not think it would be good or pleasant for Michael in any way, to continue living at the Lodge as he does at present; and I do think, that if put to a respectable trade, he may not only provide for himself, but be a help and comfort to you and his brother likewise. This is my opinion, certainly, and now ask his. He is still younger than me, to be sure, poor little fellow, and yet I think you ought to listen to his opinion.”
“Well, Mike dear,” said the widow, turning her head towards the child, “you hear what the young lady says; speak up, my dear, and tell us what you think about it.”
“I be ready to go, mother, if she bids me, and you like it,” replied the boy.
“You can judge, ma’am, that he knows his duty. That is just like him. From the time he was able to speak, dear creature, it was always the same — gentle, good, and reasonable. I won’t say but what the parting with him will be a sore trial to me, but God forbid that I should set the wishes of my worn-out life against the hopes of his young one.
How far away is it Miss, do you happen to know where the master stocking-weaver bides, as he’s to go to?”
Martha confessed her ignorance on this point; but added, that though she should be sorry to hear it was too far off for him occasion’ ally to come home and pay her a visit, she should be more sorry still, were he to be placed in the town of Ashleigh. “It would be only putting him for ever in the way of temptation, Mrs. Armstrong,” said she; “and I am sure you are too sensible a woman, to wish that he should be where the doing his duty was likely to be a pain to him.”
“Indeed, and that I would,” said the poor woman, earnestly. “’Tis the seeing their poor young faces
for ever so sad and care-worn, that is the worst trial of all.”
“How true is what my dear father says about the factory people,” thought Martha—” how wonderfully they do all hate work!”
This conviction of their epidemic idleness, however, in no degree chilled the good girl’s desire at once to perform her father’s will, and benefit a very interesting, though not, as she believed, a very industrious mother and son. So deeming it best to enter into no further discussion, but to accept the consent uttered by both as final and conclusive, she rose, and smiling good-humouredly at Michael said, “Now you have taught me the way here, I think I shall be able to get back again by myself; and I dare say Michael, that you and your mother will like to have a little conversation together about this new plan for you. But remember, dear, that you are home by five o’clock to read your lesson and show me your copy-book, we were interrupted this morning you know.” Then leaving in the poor widow’s hand a welcome token of her visit, and promising that she would either bring or send the papers necessary for her to sign, before long, the excellent Martha Dowling departed, after having most innocently, but most effectually, lent her aid to the perpetration of as hateful a crime, as the black heart of long-hardened depravity could devise.
Having waited till the figure of the young lady had passed across the little window, the widow Armstrong pulled her boy towards her, and gave him a mother’s kiss.
“To be sure thee dost look all the better, my Mike, for good food, and fine clothing. But I shan’t be satisfied, unless you tell me that you like all these new favours that they are going to confer upon you.”
“I like to go, mother, very much,” replied Michael, stoutly.
“Thank God! then, my darling — you are provided for,” she rejoined with a deep sigh. “I have known a many stocking-weavers, Mike, exceeding well to do, and there was never one of them, I’ll answer for it, that had a better will to work, and to do his duty, than you have — so I have no right to doubt but what you will do well, and I don’t doubt it. But ’tis the parting with thee, my dear, dear child! — Oh! Mike, you have been a comfort to me ever since you was born — and how do I know, if—”
“Mother!” cried the boy, interrupting her, “I’ll be a comfort to you still. I’ll tell you what I’ve got in my head to do, and just see if it is not a good plan. I mean to be the very best boy that ever my master had, and when I’ve gone on working with him a bit, two or three months, perhaps, mother, — time enough for him really to find out that I am a good boy, — I will tell him all about you and Teddy, and make him understand that if he wants to keep me in good heart to work, he must let me trudge away home to pass a Sunday now and then with you two. I don’t think he’ll be able to say no, mother, when I tell him about Teddy’s poor legs, and all you have done for us both, lying a-bed here.”
Mrs. Armstrong again kissed her boy, and after gazing at him with a look in which pride and pleasure were strangely blended with anguish, she said, “I do think you’ll make your way, Michael — for you are a good boy, a very good boy. But I don’t know how poor Edward will take it.”
“That’s the worst part of it, mother,” replied the little fellow, beginning to cry. “Poor Teddy does look so very happy of a night when he sees me pop round the corner upon him, as he comes out of the factory! — But then I shall be able to help him, mother, all the better by and by. And when I come home of a Sunday, mother, I must teach him to write, and then think how beautiful to have a letter from one another! I know who’ll give me a slate for Teddy, and me too, to learn with, and that’s Miss Martha. And I shan’t mind asking her, not the least, because she knows I am going away. And do you know, mother, I’ve got another notion, and that’s no bad comfort neither. I should not a bit wonder, if Miss Martha was to turn out a right good friend to you and Teddy, when I am gone.”
And so the little fellow ran on — each hopeful word he uttered begetting a new hope, till, by the time the hour of departure arrived, his poor mother had at least the comfort of believing that the prospect opening before him, was one that he looked upon with much less of pain than pleasure.
Meanwhile Martha found her way safely home, and gave her father such an account of the result of her mission, as induced him to give her a kiss, and declare that if she was not the handsomest of the family, she was out-and-out the most useful.
CHAPTER XIV.
MARY BROTHERTON CONTINUES SICK IN HEART AND MIND — BUT IS ROUSED AND CHEERED BY HER OWN STEADFAST WILL — AN O’ER TRUE TALE.
IT was not till the second dinner-bell had rung, that Mrs. Tremlett ventured to seek Mary in her chamber.
The worthy woman was perfectly aware that the naturally strong feelings of her young mistress had been violently affected by the scene they had witnessed, and though far perhaps from comprehending the effect it had produced on her mind, she was conscious that she should do no good by obtruding herself uncalled-for upon her retirement.
But when the signal that always brought them together had passed unheeded, she became uneasy, and availing herself of the privilege that long and well-requited affection gave, she knocked at her door and called upon her name.
Miss Brotherton answered the summons immediately; but her withdrawing the bolt of her door, as well as the unchanged appearance of her dress, showed that she had not been occupied in preparing for dinner.
“You are not aware how late it is, my dear child. The second dinner-bell has rung!” said Mrs. Tremlett looking anxiously in her pale face.
“Has it?” replied the young lady; “indeed, I beg your pardon — but I will not keep you waiting, I will not dress to-day if you will excuse it.”
“No, no, my dear, that won’t do. Never mind about the dinner I will tell them to take it out again.”
“Indeed I do not wish to dress,” said Mary languidly. “Morgan will tease me by asking what dress I choose to wear and fifty questions besides. Let me go down as I am, nurse Tremlett.”
“You shan’t have Morgan at all dear. The dressing will refresh you my darling child; and it won’t be the first time Mary, that I have done all that you wanted in that way. There — just sit down on the sofa for one minute, and I will speak about the dinner, and be back again.”
It was very passively that Mary did as she was bid, and without another word of remonstrance sat down and awaited the return of her old friend. She was indeed completely exhausted, the scene she had witnessed had not touched only, it had wrung her heart; and the hours she had passed since, were not such as to bring her spirits back to their ordinary tone. It was not alone, the melancholy spectacle of a fellow-creature passing from life to death, which had thus strongly affected her — it was the frightful degradation of the group of human beings who had gazed upon it with her. It was the horrible recollection of the dying woman’s statement respecting the lacerated flesh of her child — and it was the filth, the misery, the famine, and the vice that she had been warned of, and had seen, which had set her powerful, healthy, unprejudiced, and unselfish mind, to meditate upon the state of things which had produced it.
It was hardly possible for any one to be more profoundly ignorant upon the subject which had thus seized upon her heart, than was Mary Brotherton. On the question of negro slavery she had from her very earliest infancy heard a great deal, for her father was an anti-(black)-slavery man, who subscribed to the African society, and the missionary fund; drank Mr. Wilberforce’s health after dinner whenever he had company at his table; and while his own mills daily sent millions of groans to be registered in heaven from joyless young hearts and aching infant limbs, he rarely failed to despatch with nearly equal regularity (all booked for the same region) a plentiful portion of benevolent lamentations over the sable sons of Africa, all uttered comfortably from a soft arm-chair, while digestion was gently going on, and his well-fed person in a state of the most perfect enjoyment. On the slavery question therefore Mary really knew a great deal, and felt concerning it as every true Christian must feel. But as to every
thing concerning the nature of the labour performed in the factories by whose chimneys her pleasant park was surrounded — the age, sex, or condition, of the labourers — the proportion of their daily existence devoted to toil — the degree of care bestowed on their immortal souls — or the quantum of enjoyment permitted to them by their earthly masters, while awaiting a summons to the presence of their heavenly one — of all this Mary Brotherton was as ignorant as the sleek lap-dog that dozed upon her hearth-rug. But this carefully-adjusted cloud was now passing away from her intellect for ever. If “Where ignorance is bliss, it if folly to be wise,” that folly had seized upon her; for no longer was she destined to taste the doubtful joy of luxury that had never looked upon the seamy side of existence, or dreamed that the means that supplied its exquisite, yet almost unnoted refinements, were earned by the agony of labouring infants. But though this, worse than fools paradise, was thus closed upon her for ever, she felt a power and energy of purpose awaked within her heart, that she thanked God upon her bended knees for giving, though she trembled as she received it. And never did sainted nun breathe purer or more earnest vows of self-devotion to heaven, than did this ardent-spirited girl to the examination, and, if possible, to the relief of the misery she had at length learned to know existed round her.—’
But like most other persons when occupied by a really profound emotion, Mary felt no inclination to talk about it. She had not indeed the slightest intention to conceal any thing she did from Mrs. Tremlett, but on the contrary hoped eventually to gain much assistance from her strong practical good sense; but she could not discuss, she could not reason, she could not prate about it now, and she went through the business of the dinner-table so tranquilly, that her watchful companion felt rejoiced, though a little surprised, at her recovered composure.
Soon after they retired from table, Mary proposed a walk in the grounds, and as they wandered together through the richly-scented flower-garden, and then seated themselves where the cool breeze of evening brought the tempered fragrance to their senses more delightfully still, the feverish feeling of tightness across her forehead, seemed to relax, and as if to apologise for the silent fit that had seized her, Mary looked kindly into the face of her old friend, and then bent forward and kissed her.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 185