“Nothing was ever so fortunate as this, nurse Tremlett,” said Mary, as soon as they were left alone; “our stage-playing, as you are pleased to call it, must begin here. There is no danger that this kind simple-hearted creature should misdoubt a word we say, and if you will only perform your allotted part with your usual quiet good sense, I have no doubt but we shall reach her heart sufficiently to make her very useful.
I do not ask you to say any thing — only look sufficiently interested to support the character I assign you.”
“Oh! dear Miss Mary!” exclaimed Mrs. Tremlett, colouring, “is it to begin already?”
The countenance of Miss Brotherton fell from an expression of great animation into that of deep despondency and disappointment, she found that all her difficulties with the old woman were about to be renewed. “Oh! why, Mrs. Tremlett, if you are unequal to this, did you not honestly tell me so when I explained my purpose to you before we set out?” said she, with more of severity than she had ever used in addressing her during her whole life before, “I could then have taken measures to carry on this business without you. You know how deeply my heart is in it — I did not expect this weakness — I thought it was over!”
“You are wrong, Miss Mary — you are mistaken altogether,” replied Mrs. Tremlett, eagerly. “I am neither weak nor silly, and so you shall see, if you won’t be so very rash and hasty with me.”
By no means displeased at the energy with which the good woman defended herself, Mary replied, “Let me see this, Tremlett, and my love and value for you will increase a hundred fold.”
“Begin, then, as soon as you like, my dear, I am quite ready.”
And, in saying this, the good old woman assumed an aspect as full of confidence and courage as her own.
In a few minutes their repast, which a good dairy made luxurious, was before them, the landlady remaining in attendance to replenish the tea-pot, and so forth.
Miss Brotherton’s manners, though by no means remarkable to those in her own station for that perfect polish which guards every thing without, and every thing within, from disagreeable impressions, were always conciliatory and kind to all below her, and seldom was she waited upon by any one who would not have gladly retained that office near her. So it was with Mrs. Prescot of the King’s Head; the good woman lingered in the room, evidently because she liked being there, and taking advantage of this, Mary addressed her, venturing to give her the name she had read upon the sign.
“We are in Derbyshire, are we not, Mrs. Prescot?”
“Yes, miss; this is Derbyshire, sure enough.”
“What distance is it from hence to Deep Valley?”
“What, the factory, miss, that is called Deep Valley Mill?”
“Yes; how far is it to that factory?”
“Why it is not over easy to say rightly, seeing that there is no direct road to it. It is a lonesome out-of-the-way place as ever human beings thought of taking to, and I can’t say as much is knowed about it by any of the neighbours round. There is a cart-road, I believe, as goes right down to the mill, but the nearest way would be over them hills there, of course, because the factory is built down amongst the very middlemost of ’em,” replied Mrs. Prescot.
“Would the walk over the hills be too far for my aunt and me?” inquired Mary.
“Oh dear yes, miss! I should think so! Besides, ’tis no place whatever for ladies to go to. The poor little creturs as bides there bean’t no sight for them to look at; and, besides, nobody of any sort is ever let to look at ’em.”
“We must get there, somehow or other, Mrs. Prescot,” said Mary; “and I trust in God that we shall not be refused admittance, for our business is no common one.”
“You have got business at Deep Valley Mill?” demanded Mrs. Prescot, abruptly.
“Indeed we have,” replied Mary, “and, by some means or other, we must get in, and, what is more, we must see every apprentice they have.”
The woman shook her head.
“I have had more than one lodging here for a night,” said she, who for some reason or other was curious to get inside of Deep Valley Mill. But I never knowed one of ’em that ever did more than get a look down upon it from the top of one of them mountainous hills out yonder; and it’s no easy matter, they say, to get to the right place even for that; for, by what folks say, them as built the mills seem to think that they could puzzle the wicked one himself to find ’em out. But there’s one eye as sees ’em, if no other do.”
These last words were added in a mutter that might, or might not, be noticed, according to the pleasure of the parties within hearing. Mary did not notice them.
“Could you have the kindness to tell us to ‘whom we should apply for permission to go through the factory?” said she.
“Indeed, miss, I am happy to say I knows nothing about ’em, and if all’s true as I’ve heard said over the ale-pot by the kitchen fire, the more people ask for leave, the less they are likely to get it. But may I make so bold, miss, as to ask the reason why such ladies as you wants to get in there? It would only break your hearts; and what’s more, they’ve been having a horrid fever there, and that I know for certain, though they sent the poor little creturs off by night to be buried, some to one churchyard, and some to another, to stop people’s tongues. It bean’t no place, ladies, for you to go.”
“When I tell you why we wish to enter there you will not say so,” replied Mary. “The mill is worked by apprentice children, is it not?”
“Yes, miss, the more’s the pity — for that’s what makes the poor wretches slaves for life — for not many of ’em, by all accounts, lives till their time is up.”
“Hear me then, Mrs. Prescot — among those miserable apprentices we hope and expect to find a dear child who belongs to us.”
“Lack-a-day! what a story-book that would make!” exclaimed Mrs. Prescot. “How long is it since you lost him?”
“It is a long time,” replied Mary, evading the question, “and it is a long story to tell how it happened. He is my own brother — and this lady who is come with me is our aunt.”
“Are you quite sure, miss, that you shall find him there?”
“How can I say that, Mrs. Prescot, when you tell me so many of the children are dead?” replied Mary. “But so much do I think I shall, that I will give five sovereigns to any one who will only put me in the way to get admittance to the mill.”
Mrs. Prescot again shook her head. “There be a many and a many poor souls round about that would do amost any thing honest for such a reward; but if any body told you they could do as much, they would only deceive you. I don’t believe there is any body in the parish, not even the parson, could make ’em open their doors to let strangers in.”
“Do you think that the person who has the power to open them would do it for a hundred pounds?” demanded Miss Brotherton.
“I can’t take upon me to say, miss; it sounds like a fortune to me — but they are all rich at Deep Valley, as folks say, managers, overlookers, and all — so, may be they mayn’t think so much of it.”
“Mrs. Prescot, I would give five hundred pounds, rather than not look over the children at Deep Valley Mill.”
The woman stared at her with a very natural mixture of curiosity and astonishment; but there was a friendly interest in her eye, also. “It’s late to-night, ma’am, to do anything,” said she, “and if you’ll be pleased to say nothing to nobody till my husband comes home, I don’t know but what he may be as likely to think upon what would be the best way to set about it as any body; not that he ever meddles or makes with the people of the mill in any way, but he’s a good schollard, and a quick-witted man too, as ever I knowed, though I say it as shouldn’t.”
This proposal was readily agreed to, and the interval till their host’s return employed in a ramble of a mile or two along the road, where a recent shower had laid the dust, while every woodbine in the hedges which skirted it, sent forth a delicious perfume. The outline of the hills around them, though h
ardly deserving Mrs. Prescot’s epithet of mountainous, was bold and picturesque, and the foreground, with its hanging levels and rich copses, altogether formed a scene of considerable beauty.
“All this is very pretty, my good Tremlett,” said Mary, offering her arm to her old friend to assist her ascent of a steep hill, “and I should enjoy it greatly did I not fancy that could we look over yonder hilltops we should see a hateful roof, excluding the sweet breath of evening from the helpless creatures it encloses.”
“God grant that you may snatch one of them from it, my dear child,” replied the old woman; “let that thought comfort you.”
“Should I succeed!” cried Mary, “should I indeed carry home that little fellow to his poor mother and my pretty Edward, I should certainly feel something approaching to perfect happiness! But if I fail! how shall I bear to meet them?”
“Think not of it, dear! see how that last bit of sunshine comes full upon your face as you talk about it; that is a sign my dear that you will have your wish.”
It was the last bit of sunshine, for the next moment the golden disk was hid behind a ridge of hills; yet they walked on for nearly a mile further, and, when they returned to the King’s Head, they found the good man of the house already returned, and his supper, as his wife assured them, very nearly finished. “He shall come to you in half a minute, ladies, if you’ll please to be seated, while I bring in the candles; — I have told him all you said to me, and he don’t seem so much put out about it, by much, as me, — but he’s uncommon ‘cute, as you’ll find when you comes to talk to him.”
In about a quarter of an hour Mr. Prescot knocked at the parlour-door, and being properly introduced to the ladies by his wife, was left standing before them, while she retreated to pursue her various avocations.
“Your wife has told you, Mr. Prescot, our reason for coming here?” said Miss Brotherton, glad to escape the repetition of her fictitious tale.
“She has, ma’am,” was the succinct reply.
“And do you think it possible for us to obtain admission to Deep Valley Mill, and to go over it in such a manner as to give us an opportunity of seeing all the children?”
“If I had heard that much, as to your purpose, ladies, and nothing more, I should have said NO, you could no more get into Deep Valley factory than into the moon. But my missis added something to the back of it, as makes a difference.” This was said with a look and accent which fully justified Mrs. Prescot’s assurances of her good man’s ‘cuteness.”
“I think, Mr. Prescot, that she said no more than I am willing to make good,” replied Mary. “I do not wish to expend money wantonly, but, if less will not serve, I am ready to give five hundred pounds to any person who could enable me to see all the children in Deep Valley “It is a long sum, miss,” replied the man thoughtfully, “and I can’t but fancy that less might serve. The people as is in authority there is bad people, I don’t scruple to say it, and sooner than open their doors for pity towards any Christian soul, man, woman, or child, they would see ’em all in the bottomless pit. But ’tis just because they do all the wickedness we hears of, that I sees hope they may be bought to break their own laws; for if they does one thing for the love of gold, they may do another. ’Tis plain enough to see, to be sure, that they knows it is for their interest to keep all eyes off their cruel goings-on — and what’s for their interest they won’t easily give up. — So it may be that squire Elgood Sharpton himself would turn away from five hundred pounds, rather than show off his poor miserable apprentices. — But that mayn’t hold good for his agent, and I believe in my heart that, if we could quietly get to offer Woodcomb the manager a hundred pounds, you would not have long to wait for a sight of the children.”
“And how is this to be done, Mr. Prescot?” said Miss Brotherton, “if you can undertake to manage it, you may put what price you like on your services, I feel certain that you would not name a higher sum than I should be willing to pay.”
“Why, as for me, miss, I must not be known to meddle or make in the matter. Squire Sharpton would have my licence away before I could say Jack Robinson. Any advice I can give is at your service, and I may be able to put you up, perhaps, to doing the thing in the likeliest way; but as to my going to the mill, it won’t do. One reason is, that I never was there before, and it’s like enough that, seeing a stranger, they’d set the dogs at me before I had time to say my errand. No! — that won’t answer. The only man I can think of as would give us a chance is one Smith, the miller as serves ’em with oatmeal, and pretty stuff ’tis, as I’ve been told, which don’t speak over-well for his honesty, you’ll say, though, ’tis likely the price is in proportion. Howsomever, whether he be good or bad, I don’t know another as comes and goes to Deep Valley as he does, and that’s what makes me fix upon him as a messenger.”
“And when could I see this man?” demanded Mary.
“Why, betimes to-morrow, miss, there’s no doubt, if I goes and gives him notice.”
“Then, do so Mr. Prescot, and be assured your trouble shall not be forgotten.”
“There is no fear of it, miss,” replied the acute landlord with very honest sincerity, “and I’ll go to the mill outright. But I think — you’ll be pleased to excuse me for speaking my mind — that you two ladies must settle between yourselves what you’d be willing to give Timothy Smith himself for the job — seeing that he’s not one to work for nothing; — and another thing I’d make so free as to mention is, that you’d do well to make him understand that you don’t want to get inside their wicked den, but only to see the children, one and all of ’em — and then you know, miss, they may trim ’em and scour ’em up a little for shame’s sake, afore they brings ’em out.”
Miss Brotherton, after this conversation, felt as fully convinced as the good wife herself could desire of the value of the landlord’s head, and determined to be guided by his advice. After a little further conversation between them, it was settled that she should write a note to Mr. Woodcomb, the manager, in readiness to give into the hands of Mr. Timothy Smith on the following morning, if she could prevail upon him to deliver it.
Mr. Prescot performed his part of the business ably, for the portly miller was waiting for the ladies in the parlour when they returned from their early walk.
Miss Brotherton possessed a sort of instinctive skill in reading the human countenance, which rarely deceived her, and it took her not long to discover that the man she had now to deal with was one upon whom it would be folly to waste any arguments which did not affect his own interest. She, therefore, briefly stated the fact that it was of great importance to her to obtain sight of all the apprentices at Deep Valley Mill, having great reason to hope that she should find a young relative there, for whose release from all engagements she was willing to pay handsomely.
“It is not the custom, ma’am, to admit visiters at that factory. It have been found to hinder the work,” replied the miller solemnly.
“So I understand, sir. But, hearing that you are in the habit of visiting the mill on business, I have taken the liberty to send for you in order to say, that if you would undertake to deliver this note to Mr. Woodcomb, the manager, I would willingly give you five pounds for your trouble.”
“That is hardly enough, ma’am, for the risk of offending so good a customer,” replied the miller.
“Will double that sum induce you to do it for me?” said Mary.
“On what day do you wish it to reach Mr. Woodcomb’s hands?” demanded Mr. Timothy Smith, endeavouring to retain a doubtful expression of countenance.”
“To-day, sir; as early as possible.”
“Then, ma’am, I’ll be fair and open with you, and not go about to mince the matter, or deceive you in any way. If you will pay me down twenty pounds in gold, or Bank of England notes, I will consent to give up all the important business I had fixed to do this morning, and undertake, not only to give your letter to Mr. Woodcomb, but to use my influence with him — which is greater than you may gues
s for — to make him do what you wish, provided that you treat him with the liberality which a gentleman like him has a right to expect.”
Miss Brotherton drew forth her pocket-book. —
“I will give you the twenty pounds you demand, Mr. Smith,” she said in a tone as business-like and decided as his own, “if you perform my errand successfully. I will give you this ten-pound note now, as payment for conveying the letter, and another of the same value when you return to me with the manager’s permission to see the children who are apprenticed at the mill.”
Mr. Timothy Smith looked at Miss Brotherton’s pocket-book and he looked at her. His glance at the first inspired a strong inclination to increase his demands; but the miller had studied the human countenance as well as the lady, and when he looked at her he felt certain that though young, rich, and very eager in pursuit of her object, she was not a fool, and that if he pushed her to a more preposterous payment than he had already proposed, she would be likely enough to turn about and look for another agent. He therefore demurely replied, “It is all fair, ma’am; I agree to the terms.”
And without wasting any further time, the man of the mill received the note, put on his hat, and departed.
Not all Mary’s self-command, and, considering all things, she had a great deal, could enable her to await the return of her costly messenger with composure. All that she heard of this mysterious mill tended to prove that it was precisely such a place as Sir Matthew Dowling would be likely to fix upon as the abode of Michael. The more she meditated the more she became convinced that the boy was there, and she was hot and cold, pale and red, a dozen times in an hour.
She had kept a copy of her letter to the manager, that she might show it to Mr. Bell, from whom she hoped to receive absolution for the innocent fraud she had practised. To read and re-read this letter, and to speculate with Mrs. Tremlett upon its probable and possible effects, occupied some portion of the tedious time; slowly dragging her steps up and down Mrs. Prescot’s little garden, and occasionally sitting for a fidgety five minutes in a bower of scarlet-runners, employed the rest. But the morning seemed endless, and more than once she suspected that her watch stood still.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 201