As soon as Miss Brotherton and Mrs. Tremlett had finished their breakfast on the morning after the interview with Sophy Drake in the drawing-room at Milford Park, they set off together on foot to visit the widow Armstrong in Hoxley-lane.
“Nothing can happen to us worse than our adventure in the carriage the day before yesterday,” observed the young lady; “you will confess, dear friend, will you not, that Sir Matthew’s walking into the carriage was more terrible than any thing likely to befall us on the high-road without one?”
“Why, I suppose I must, my dear,” answered the old lady; “for to tell you the truth, I don’t think you could look more put out if a constable were to come up and arrest you.”
“Decidedly not, Mrs. Tremlett; and listen to the birds, and sniff the sweet air, and then tell me if we are not wise to walk?”
The old woman confessed that she really did enjoy it, and on they went with the gardener’s boy for a guide, till in less than an hour they found themselves before the door of No. 12, in Hoxley-lane. Probably their little pioneer was not one of the widow’s visiters, for the pass through the hedge, leading to the back-kitchen door appeared unknown to him, and in answer to Miss Brotherton’s knock for admittance, the principal entrance to No. 12 was opened by the ragged mistress of the tenement.
“Does the widow Armstrong live here?” inquired Mary. “Yes, ma’am,” observed the woman gloomily; continuing as she made way for the ladies to enter, “The widow Armstrong is a lucky woman — she has got but one child left to provide for, and yet the gentlefolks keeps coming to help her, but nobody thinks of me and my ten young ones.”
The ready hand of Miss Brotherton was immediately in her purse. “That is a large family indeed, my good woman. Are they none of them old enough to help themselves?”
“The seven oldest have all been in the factory from a’most the time they could stand, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Sykes, “and if they hadn’t, they must have been dead and buried long ago for want of bread. But though they have worked poor creturs, early and late, there’s no more come of it, than that their bones be here instead of in the churchyard.”
“But with so large a number, all receiving wages,” said Miss Brotherton, gently, “I should have hoped that you might have found yourselves better off than you seem to be.”
“And that’s what we are told, ma’am, from year’s end to year’s end, and we must bear it, for there is no help. But ’tis a’most as bitter as the work that grinds us.”
Neither the person or manner of Mrs. Sykes were in any degree prepossessing; she was dirty, and in every way untidy in the extreme. She had on her feet the fragments of a pair of men’s shoes, but no stockings, the rest of her clothing being barely sufficient to cover her. Her eye, voice, and complexion, furnished strong indications of her being accustomed to take spirits, while her frightfully thin limbs gave her the appearance of being half starved. In short, it was impossible to look at her without feeling that she was a degraded, as well as a suffering being. Mary Brotherton did feel this, and her heart sunk within her as she thought of Sophy Drake, of her drunken father, and of all Mrs. Tremlett had told her respecting the vice, which like a wide-spreading and hideous epidemic, seemed to ravage in all directions the miserable neighbourhood in which fate had placed her. She shuddered as she contemplated the wretched being that stood before her, and till she had spoken the words given above, a deep feeling of the woman’s unworthiness chilled the ready pity of her warm young heart. But both in these words themselves, and in the tone of quiet settled despair in which they were spoken, there was a frightful and mysterious allusion to some species of injustice and cruelty, under which accusation she seemed herself to be included.
The distaste and reprobation that were a moment before making hasty inroads upon her benevolence, seemed suddenly arrested as she listened; and she was about to repeat again the questions she had already so uselessly asked, as to whence this universal severity of judgment against the factory labourers arose; and wherefore, beyond all others, submitted to the sentence which dooms human beings to toil, these people should appear to loath their employment, and execrate, as it should seem, the very means by which they lived. But ere her lips opened to demand the explanation to which she so eagerly desired to listen, a glance at the hard features of the wretched woman checked her. “It cannot be from such as these,” thought she, “that truth and instruction can be reasonably looked for” — and as she silently gave her alms, and moved onwards towards the door which had been pointed to, as that of the widow Armstrong, something like a systematic project for making herself mistress of the knowledge she wanted, for the first time suggested itself to her imagination.
Mrs. Sykes eyed the silver largesse, as it fell into her hand, with a glance that seemed to devour it, and the words of thanks she uttered were almost hysterical in their eager vehemence. After delaying a moment for the contemplation of this precious “drudge ‘twixt man and man,” she opened the door of communication, and Miss Brotherton and her friend passed into the dwelling-room of the widow Armstrong.
Contrary to custom, her lame boy, Edward, was sitting on the side of her bed, and when Mary entered, he was holding her hand, and gazing in her face with an expression of countenance which appeared to both the intruders to be the most piteous they had ever looked upon. The poor child was looking, too, most wretchedly ill, and the first idea which suggested itself was, that he felt himself to be dying. —
Notwithstanding the extreme poverty of the widow Armstrong, there was an air of decency and decorum about her, that might in any situation have commanded respect; but when contrasted with the appearance of her neighbour, seemed to indicate a claim to more observance than her visiters were showing by this sudden and uninvited entrance.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Armstrong,” said Mary, gently, “for breaking in upon you so abruptly; and I fear our doing so may have startled your sick child. — This little fellow is very ill, I fear.”
“It is long since he has known health, ma’am,” replied the widow; “but it is not that which makes him look so white and trembling now. We have lost what was dearer to us both than all the world beside — and though I don’t think as this one will ever look up again, I can’t find a word in my heart to comfort him!”
“What, then, has happened to you?” said Mary, with much interest—” Nothing bad to your son Michael, I hope?”
“You know Michael, ma’am?” said the poor woman, anxiously.
“I have seen him at Sir Matthew Dowling’s,” she replied. “I wish you never had, ma’am!” rejoined the widow, bitterly—” We were only starving before, but now we are worse than that.”
“Do explain to me what you mean, Mrs. Armstrong,” said Mary.
“I ought to do it, ma’am, for you speak kindly; and that’s a claim poor folks can seldom withstand. — But how can I tell you the matter, ma’am? I know nothing — and that’s the reason why poor Edward and I are so miserable.”
“But that is a bad way to get into, my good Mrs. Armstrong,” said Mary, cheerfully. “Don’t fret yourself about fancied evils, which perhaps do not exist. Little Edward here should know better than that.”
The pale, brokenhearted boy looked at her with lack-lustre eyes, but said nothing.
“Are you uneasy because Michael has not been down to see you lately?” resumed Miss Brotherton.
“He never failed to come, ma’am, till he was carried away from us!” replied the widow, with a sob, that seemed the result of strength exhausted, and weakness that could struggle no longer.
“Carried away from you!” cried Mary, changing colour. “What do you mean, Mrs. Armstrong? who has carried away Michael from you?”
“Sir Matthew Dowling, ma’am, has had him taken away,” and another sob followed the words.
“Do not think I torment you thus from idle curiosity,” pursued Mary, bending over her; “but I entreat you to explain to me fully what you mean. I am greatly interested for your little boy.”
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“I thank you for it, ma’am,” returned the poor mother, mournfully; “but I can tell little that you, or any grand lady, the friend of Sir Matthew, would think to the purpose. Yet the parting with him without one blessing, or one kiss, is hard to bear, though we don’t justly know that any harm’s to come to him.”
“I am no particular friend of Sir Matthew Dowling’s,” replied Mary, with an accent which perhaps spoke more than her words.
“Then I will tell you about Michael!” exclaimed the lame boy, coming round the bed to the place where she was standing, and looking into her face as if he thought he could read all her thoughts there. “You have seen poor Mike when he was living there, ma’am?”
“Yes, I have, my dear boy,” she replied, gazing with deep feeling at his pale, but beautiful countenance; “I have seen him there more than once, Edward, and I am quite sure he was not happy, though he was dressed so fine.”
“He was more unhappy ten times over,” replied Edward, “than when he was as ragged as me.”
“Was he unkindly treated?” demanded Mary.
“He was beaten, kicked, and spit upon!” cried Edward, bursting into tears; “and then he was told to laugh, and look merry.”
“A wretched, wretched, sort of cruelty!” she replied, “of which I can well believe Sir Matthew capable. But you surely do not suppose that he has run away from it without telling you or his mother that he had such an intention?”
“If you knew Mike better, ma’am, you wouldn’t think that he could do such wickedness,” said the mother. “He has stood beating with strap and stick for years, ma’am, young as he is; and never asked to stop from the mill a day, though he has been bruised almost to a jelly; — and worse than that, too, poor lamb! a hundred fold, with such a heart as his, he has seen his lame brother there, that was always dearer, a great deal, to him than himself — he has seen the cruel stripes fall on his poor shoulders, too; and though he has come home with his little face washed with tears from it, he didn’t think of running away.”
Mary saw that she had given pain, and hastened to atone for it by expressing her sorrow for supposing such a thing possible; and then repeated her request, that she might be told what it was that had happened. —
The widow then related more succinctly than might have been expected, all that had passed between herself, her boy, and Miss Martha Dowling, on the morning which followed the theatrical representation at Dowling Lodge. And before she proceeded further, Edward bore testimony to the spirited and courageous willingness with which his brother had adopted the proposed scheme. He had, it seemed, as usual, watched Teddy’s return from the factory — told him what Sir Matthew proposed doing for him, and declared, that hard as it would be to part with him and “mother,” he was ready and willing to start, and was quite determined to be the best boy that ever was ‘prenticed, and to be workman enough to maintain them both as soon as his time was out.
Here the widow again resumed her narrative, and related very accurately the scene of the following morning; dwelling much on the young lady’s kind manner, and on her own putting it to her whether she advised that the child should go, or not.
“And Martha Dowling counselled you to let him go?” demanded Miss Brotherton. —
“Yes, again and again, she did,” replied the poor mother.
“You are quite sure it was Miss Martha?”
“Oh, yes! ma’am; my Mike took care to make me understand that, the day they came together.”
“Then be quite easy in your mind, Mrs. Armstrong,” said Mary, eagerly. “I have no great liking for Sir Matthew Dowling. I do not think well of him, nor have I much to say in favour of any of his family. They seem to me to be cold-hearted, selfish people. But for this one, this Miss Martha that you speak of, I will undertake to answer for it that she has never deceived you, and that if she advised you to let Michael go, it was because she thought the doing so would be advantageous for him.”
“Bless you for ever and for ever, ma’am!” cried Mrs. Armstrong, seizing the hand of Mary, and pressing it to her lips. “There is truth, ma’am, in your voice, and in your eyes. Do as I do, Edward, dear! look at the kind face of this young lady, and see if you can’t find comfort from what she says? I did think, myself, ignorant as I am, that the young lady had an honest face. But, oh! ma’am, let it be as it will, and make the very best of it, ’tis cruel to have our darling taken away in this fashion, without one word of take-leave and blessing!”
“Indeed it is!” replied Mary; “and your being ignorant of the place of his destination increases this anxiety. But on this point, at east, I think I shall be able to set your mind at rest. Before this time to-morrow, I will take care to see some part of the family at the Lodge, and shall certainly not scruple to inquire every particular respecting your boy. Keep up your spirits therefore, both of you; and for the future, let this little fellow here look to me for his wages. I won’t have him go to the factory any more. What sum has he been receiving for his work?”
Astonishment very literally rendered the widow Armstrong dumb, on hearing this most extraordinary proposal. Poor soul! a few short days ago it would have been sufficient to make her forget her weakness and her want, and have put her in a state of mind that queens might envy; for she would hardly have been able to remember that it was possible to have another wish; but now the first use she made on recovering her speech, was to exclaim, “Oh! Michael! Michael! why beant you by to hear this?”
“He shall hear it, Mrs. Armstrong,” said Mary, in a voice of such cheerful confidence, that the terrors of both mother and son seemed to vanish before it. Mrs. Tremlett, too, ventured to add an encouraging commentary upon Mary’s promised visit of inquiry at the Lodge, observing, that it was altogether out of probability that they should want to make any mystery as to where the little fellow was gone.
Mrs. Armstrong, as she listened, seemed almost too happy to credit the evidence of her own senses; but in the deep-set melancholy eye of Edward, there was still an expression of suffering and of fear that looked as if misery had taken a hold upon him that could not be relinquished.
“Now I must go!” said the young lady, rising, “or I shall hardly have time to keep my promise. But I must settle with you first, my dear boy. What was the amount of your wages by the month?”
“Six shillings, ma’am,” replied Edward, looking at her, as she drew out her purse, with an eye that seemed to doubt what it beheld. “Six shillings!” cried Miss Brotherton, as she put the pitiful wages of a long month’s agony into the little trembling hand. “And have you lost your health and liberty for this?” Tears started to her eyes, as she contemplated the look of wonder and delight expressed by the countenance of the poor widow; yet that look was not turned upon her. Stretching out her arms to the boy, she caught him to her bosom, and held him there, much as if she had suddenly beheld him snatched from the fangs of some devouring monster. The face of the child himself, she could not see, but his whole frame trembled, and they fancied he was shedding tears.
“God bless you both!” she said, “to-morrow you shall see me again.” And so saying she took the arm of her friend, and again passed through the dwelling-room of Mrs. Sykes. The woman had now three little dirty creatures round her, to whom she was giving bread.
“Heaven keep you, ma’am! This is your treat!” she said, as Mary and her friend passed through, “It is the first time for many a week that I have fed ’em so freely, poor creturs.”
Miss Brotherton’s heart was too full to answer — she nodded her head and passed on. Their homeward walk, up Hoxley-lane, across the London road, and along a pretty shaded bridle-road that led to a gate in her own park-paling, was performed almost entirely in silence. There is a state of mind in which ideas come with too much violence and rapidity to be told off in words. When this happens from an excess of happy imaginings, no condition can be more delightful: but when, as in the present case, it arises from the remembrance of painful realities, it is greatly the reverse. The
misery around her was no longer a matter of doubtful speculation, but of most frightful certainty. Neither was it any vice in little Edward Armstrong, which drove him to offer up his sickly suffering frame to ceaseless labour at the rate of threepence for each long, painful day. She felt oppressed, overwhelmed, and almost hopeless. Yet at that time Mary Brotherton knew not, guessed not, dreamed not, of the hundredth part of what the unhappy class who had thus roused her human sympathies, were daily and hourly suffering around her.
The first words she spoke on entering her house were to order her carriage, and having gone so far in the performance of the task she had undertaken, she turned with tender kindness to her old friend, and gave as much care to her comfort and refreshment, as if the relative situation which they had borne to each other in days of yore was just reversed, and that Mary was the nurse, and Mrs. Tremlett the nursling.
“You shall do nothing more before dinner, my dear good soul, but lie down upon the sofa, and get cool. Not even Mrs. Gabberly, I suppose, could see any thing particularly dangerous and improper, in my going alone to pay a visit to Martha Dowling.”
And alone to Dowling Lodge the heiress went, pretty steadfastly determined not to leave it, till she had learnt exactly at what point of the earth’s surface Michael Armstrong might be found.
She inquired for Martha, and was shown as usual into my lady’s morning drawing-room, where to her extreme annoyance she found her ladyship, Sir Matthew, Lady Clarissa Shrimpton, and Miss Mogg.
If Lady Dowling could have been glad to see any pretty young lady, it would have been Miss Brotherton, and she did exert herself, more than usual, to be civil; while, on the contrary, Sir Matthew both felt and evinced considerably less satisfaction at the sight of her, than he had ever done since the fact of her heiress-ship had become matter of unquestionable notoriety to the whole neighbourhood. But if his reception was cold, that of Lady Clarissa was warm, for she actually threw her arms round the young lady, reproaching her at the same time very tenderly for not having sent to say she was going to drive to Dowling Lodge. “I should have liked your carriage, my dear, so much better than my broiling little phaeton!”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 188