Here the good woman ceased, and looked with some anxiety in the thoughtful eyes of her young mistress. She felt that she did not understand their expression, and no wonder, for Mary Brotherton herself sat silently doubting how she should answer her. A languid feeling, proceeding partly from fatigue and indisposition, and partly from the discouraging conviction that she had no very satisfactory arguments by which to rebut her old friend’s charge of useless devotion to a hopless cause, made her for some minutes unwilling to speak at all. Then came a somewhat peevish wish to interdict for ever the discussion of the subject between them; but as she raised her eyes to utter it, she encountered a look of such humble love, deprecating her displeasure, yet fondly clinging to the freedom which risked the meuring it, that her purpose suddenly changed, and instead of the chilling command she was meditating, she threw her arms round the old woman’s neck, exclaiming, “Oh! my dear nurse! How much, how very much you must love me! since care for my already too-much-cared-for peace and quiet, can harden such a heart as yours towards all the sufferings we have this day heard recounted!”
“Thank God! you are not angry,” cried the affectionate old woman kissing her, and then arranging the neglected ringlets of her pretty charge, and looking cheerily in her face, she said, “Now then, Mary, I won’t teaze you any more about it. You are so sweet and so gentle to me, that I am quite sure you will not long think my heart is hard; and then by degrees you will find out that I am right; and then all will go well again, and I shall see my dear girl look like herself once more.”
“Nurse Tremlett! the time is already come when the impossibility of my efforts being of any avail to stem the torrent with which avarice and cruelty are overwhelming the land, is made evident to me. So much, dear nurse, I concede to you, and therefore on that point we will argue no more. But, my dear old woman, have patience with me if I tell you that there are some points on which my reading may have given me, young as I am, as much, or even more information than your experience has given you. You have heard of the slave trade, nurse Tremlett — you have heard more than one excellent charity sermon preached in aid of the funds that were to assist in freeing these poor helpless black people from the tyranny of their masters, and I suppose you know that it is now unlawful to buy and sell these poor creatures. And how do you think this happy change in their favour has been brought about?”
“By the king and the parliament, Miss Mary, making that most good and righteous law,” replied nurse Tremlett.
“And how were they persuaded to make that law, think you?” demanded Mary.
“I can’t tell how that was brought about, my dear. I suppose it was because they saw that it was right and fit.”
“It was brought about, nurse Tremlett, by the voices of the people of England, which were for years raised quietly, and with no breach of law or order, but with patient and unshrinking perseverance against this great sin, till the lengthened cry could be no longer resisted, and the law they perseveringly asked for, was granted to them. Do you think, nurse Tremlett, that if during these years of orderly, but steady remonstrance, every Englishman and woman had acted upon the principle you recommend, and had turned their thoughts and their conversation from the subject of negro slavery, because each one knew that he or she individually possessed no power to stop it. Do you think that if such had been the system acted upon, England would now have to boast of having abolished this most wicked traffic?”
“Perhaps not, my dear. I think I understand you now,” replied the honest-hearted old woman, eagerly.
“Then now my dear old friend we shall, I think, never have any more disputes upon this subject. You — I — every servant in my house — every acquaintance I have in the world, may aid and assist in putting an end to this most atrocious factory system, WHICH OUGHT TO WEIGH HEAVIER UPON EVERY CHRISTIAN ENGLISH HEART THAN EVER THE SLAVE-TRADE DID. If the whole British empire, nurse, did but know what we are about here — if the facts we heard from Mr. Bell to-day were but impressed upon the minds of all my fellow-subjects as they are on mine, the horrors he detailed would cease before another year was come and gone.”
“God forbid then, my sweet child, that I should ever more raise my sinful voice to drown your righteous one. I have been a vain self-sufficient old woman, my dear Mary, and clearly have been talking a great deal about that of which I know nothing. Only don’t think I am cruel and hard-hearted; for though I do — as you truly say — though I do love you very very much indeed, I am not such a wretch as to hear all we were told to-day without wishing to mend it.”
This was the last time Mary Brotherton had to do battle with her nurse on the subject of the factory system. Once awakened to a sense of its tyranny and injustice, and made to feel that the only hope of remedy lay in the possibilty of universally raising British feeling against it, there was no danger that the right-hearted old woman would ever again turn with indifference, weariness, or displeasure, from the theme. Her young mistress felt that she had touched the right string, and that she should never again have to fear discord where it was so essential to her comfort to find harmony. This change was really a comfort, and she felt it to be so, removing as it did one irksome feature from her situation, and for a few minutes it cheered her, and she said so, cordially, but the next, a pang shot to her heart, as she rememembered that this assurance of accordant counsels with her venerable nurse, could avail her nothing in the most painful of all her difficulties, for it promised no help either in obtaining light upon the mystery of poor Michael’s abode, or in the still more pressing embarrassment of confessing to his unhappy mother and brother the impossibility of obtaining it. Yet this painful task must be performed, and that with’ out delay, for well she knew that every hour that passed without their seeing her, would be rendered dreadful, both by the agony of fear, and the sickening hot and cold fits of uncertainty. But never had she felt herself so very a coward as while meditating this visit of the morrow. She saw in imagination the eager questioning of Edward’s speaking eyes, and the heavy glance of his mother, anticipating the worst she had to tell.
Sometimes she thought she would await the coming of the boy to take his place in the school, and let him report the failure of all her inquiries to the poor widow. But there was a selfish cowardice in this which instantly struck her, and she seemed to hate herself for the suggestion. For above an hour after she had laid her head upon her pillow these thoughts kept her painfully awake, and it was only after deciding that she would once more see Martha Dowling, and try the effect of repeating to her, but without quoting her authority, the dark hints she had listened to, respecting Sir Matthew’s possible motives. It was only when her restless thoughts had fixed themselves on this, that she at length closed her aching eyes in sleep.
Above an hour before the usual hour of rising, Mary Brotherton was already at her writing desk. The idea of going to Dowling-lodge, and encountering the knight and his family, was intolerable, and she had therefore recourse to her pen as the means of obtaining the interview she wished for, without paying for it the penalty of such a visit. She wrote as follows:
“My dear Miss Martha, “I trust you are too goodnatured to be angry with me, even if you should think that I am taking a great liberty with you. But the truth is, that I much wish for the pleasure of seeing you, and yet am too idle this morning to venture upon a drive. Will you then have the great kindness to pass the morning with me here? I send my carriage, lest Lady Dowling should not have one at leisure to send with you.
“Believe me, my dear Miss Martha,
“Yours very sincerely,
“MARY BROTHERTON.”
Having written, folded, and sealed this epistle, Mary recollected that it would be impossible to send it for at least four hours, and she smiled first, and then sighed, as she thought of the restless but useless activity which had caused her so needlessly to forestall her usual hour of rising. It would, in truth, have been better for her, poor girl, could she have slept through the time, for her waking thoughts h
ad little that was pleasant to rest upon. Even the commencement of Edward’s studies, to which she had before looked forward with great delight, now recurred to her only to bring the recollection that if she saw him, his thoughts would be neither of his new clothes nor his new books, but of Michael, and of her promise to get tidings of him. For his sake, and her own too, she determined at least to escape this interview, feeling that it would be better for all parties that no tidings should be delivered to both mother and son at once, which could be done after his school hours, by her driving to Hoxiey-lane, after she had taken Martha home.
In pursuance of this resolution, she walked to the school-house, renewed her orders that the greatest attention should be paid to the new scholar, Edward Armstrong, and care taken that if he were found backward for his age, he should neither be laughed at nor chid. She then left a message for him, stating that she should be engaged all the morning, but would see him at his mother’s house, after he left school.
At eleven o’clock Miss Brotherton’s equipage setoff for Dowling lodge, bearing her letter to Martha, and the interval till its return was an anxious one. First she felt doubtful if her unusual invitation would be accepted; and if it were, she felt more doubtful still as to the nature of the scene which must follow. Nothing short of her earnest wish to redeem her promise to Mrs. Armstrong could have given Mary courage to do what she now meditated.
She entertained not the slightest doubt of the intrinsic excellence of Martha Dowling. All she had ever seen of her, and still more, all she had heard from the Armstrongs, convinced her of this; and to pain her therefore, particularly in that most tender point, the exposure of her father, the tremendous effect of which upon her, Mary had already witnessed, was one of the very last measures she could have been led to adopt. But a strong and stem feeling of justice, urged her not to shrink from this. It was evident from the statement of Mrs. Armstrong that Martha had been actively instrumental in sending Michael ‘to his present destination, let it be where it might; and painful or not painful, it was unquestionably right to make her understand the doubts that existed as to the boy’s well-being, in order that she might avail herself, as she was bound to do, of her access to the only person who could explain the transaction.
Having screwed her courage, therefore, to the strictness of examination necessary to her most righteous purpose, Mary left her boudoir in the possession of Mrs. Tremlett, and repaired to the library to await her guest. Nor did she wait long. Almost before the time arrived at which she had calculated that the carriage might return, the great house-bell gave signal of a visiter, and the next moment Martha Dowling stood before her.
The two young girls shook hands, and each observed that the other looked paler than she was wont to do. The heart of Mary sank within her as she marked the expression of Martha’s countenance. Not only was it pale, but most speakingly anxious, and in addition to her usual shy and reserved manner there was an appearance of uneasiness, and almost of fear, as she thought, which seemed to tell that her object was suspected. Nor was she wrong. In pursuance of a promise given to Michael, Martha had visited the widow Armstrong, and the intense anxiety under which she found her suffering respecting the destination of her boy, awakened for the first time in her own mind a shadowy suspicion that all might not be right concerning him. The pang this cost her was terrible. Good and kind-hearted as she was, there was no strength of fibre in Martha’s character which might enable her to brave every thing rather than remain in doubt. She loved her father fondly, but she feared him more, and the stronger her suspicions grew (and unhappily the more she meditated the more they strengthened), the less power she felt either to refute or confirm them.
The note of Miss Brotherton was delivered to her at the family breakfast table, and the instant she read it, the truth suggested itself to her mind. Had she been a free agent, the wounded shrinking spirit of the poor girl would have certainly led her to invent some excuse for refusing an invitation so full of terror; but she was not.
“What’s that about, Martha?” said Sir Matthew, holding out his hand for the note.
“It is from Miss Brotherton,” muttered Martha, as she resigned it to him.
“Mercy on me!” exclaimed her eldest sister,” what a wonderful fancy Miss Brotherton seems to have taken for Martha! I do think it is the very oddest thing I ever heard of.”
“What a goose you are, my dear, not to understand it!” observed Miss Harriet, the second sister, giving at the same time a very significant glance towards her brother Augustus.
“But good gracious!” retorted Miss Arabella, why might not any other of us do as well? It would seem so much more natural in such an elegant and fashionable girl as she is.”
“She is afraid of us, Bella,” replied Miss Harriet, tittering.
Sir Matthew, who had not only read the note, but contrived to hear all that his two eldest daughters said concerning it, here burst into a laugh.
“Set a thief to catch a thief — hey! Harriet? Come Martha! start away! You have finished your breakfast long ago. I won’t have the carriage kept waiting.”
“Must I go, papa?” said poor Martha, turning very pale.
“Must you go? and with that die-away look too? Why, Martha! are you jealous, because some folks fancy that the young lady wants to make friends with you, for more reasons than one?”
“I would a great deal rather not go, papa!” replied Martha in a beseeching accent.
“Martha! I shall be in a downright passion with you in half a minute. Upon my honour I never heard any thing so cross-grained and unsisterly in my life. Go this moment, and get on your bonnet, and remember if you please, from first to last, to speak of your brother as a sister ought to speak. And if she hints any thing about his having flirted a little with Carry Thompson, be sure to say that he only did it to laugh at her.”
As he spoke these words, Sir Matthew rose from the table, as if to accelerate the movement which was to send her off.
Martha listened to him with the habitual reverence which she ever bestowed on all he uttered; but shook her head, as it seemed, involuntarily, as he concluded.
“Why you don’t mean to say he was in earnest, you good-for-nothing spiteful girl!” cried Lady Dowling, suddenly rousing herself from the dignified apathy in which she usually indulged.
“What a shame!” cried one sister.
“That’s too bad!” cried the other.
“Just like her, though!” sneered Mr. Augustus.
“Hold your tongues, all of you,” said Sir Matthew, “I know Martha better than any of ye, trust me for that, and what I bid her do, that she will do, and nothing else. Run away Martha. Don’t mind any of ’em.”
Thus urged, thus goaded to the interview she dreaded, Martha hastened to leave the room; but ere she passed the door, something at her heart told her that her best course would be to take her father apart, and tell him all. She turned back to look at him, but met a frown so strongly indicative of growing impatience at her delay, that yielding to the sort of slavish feeling in which she had been nurtured, she hurried forward to obey him. Had she possessed greater moral courage, many subsequent events would have been different.
After the first salutation was over, Miss Brotherton, making a strong mental effort to subdue her agitation — of which she was infinitely more capable than her companion — begged her to sit down; and then, placing herself where she could have, as a commentary on what she might induce her to say, the advantage of watching her countenance, she pronounced in a voice that she in vain laboured to render steady, “My dear Miss Martha, I have suffered a great deal of uneasiness since I last saw you respecting the little boy for whom — concerning whom — I mean Michael Armstrong, Martha! His mother is very wretched because she cannot discover to what place he has been sent; and I, nothing doubting that it would be perfectly easy to learn this from you, rashly promised that I would obtain this information. Can you, dear girl! tell me more upon this subject now, than you could when last we met?”
“I cannot, Miss Brotherton!” replied Martha Dowling, in a voice so low and husky, as hardly to be audible, but with a complexion and features that spoke so plainly what was passing in her heart, that Mary felt ashamed of having placed herself where she could so distinctly read all she suffered, and leaving her chair; to share the sofa on which the poor girl was seated, she took her hand and said, “My poor dear Martha! It would be better for us both that I should speak sincerely. I have become acquainted with an individual, Martha, who knows more, much more, than either you or I can do, my dear girl, respecting the factories — those great magazines of human life and labour by which your father, and mine also, have grown from poverty to wealth. This person, Martha, on my questioning him respecting the probable destination of a child so circumstanced, did not scruple to reply, that if his master were displeased, and wished to be rid of him, there were places — factories, mills, dear Martha, where the business was so managed as to render labour very heavy punishment, and where it was easy to keep children, ay, hundreds of them, unseen and unknown for years. Do not tremble thus, dear Martha! Do not draw your hand away from me! Most sure I am that your heart and my heart must beat in sympathy on such a subject as this. Let us be mutually sincere, and we may help each other to undo whatever wrong may have been done. We know, we both well know, that your father was displeased with this poor widow’s son. We know, too, that he is a person of great power and influence. The boy is gone — he will not tell us where. What is the inference? Turn not from it, Martha Dowling, turn not from it, my poor friend, but boldly and honestly seek out the truth, and let me know enough of it to save this helpless child from further suffering.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 197