Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Shut the door, Nurse Tremlett! — Send them away — send them all away — I have no further need to see them!” said poor Mary, weeping from sorrow, disappointment, and complete prostration of spirits. Before she spoke another word, Mrs. Tremlett obeyed her instructions, and gently pushing back the curious throng, closed and bolted the door.

  “Now tell me then, my poor dear child, what new sorrow has come upon you? Sure nothing dreadful has happened to the poor little fellow?”

  “Nurse Tremlett, he is dead!” replied Mary, weeping afresh, as if the boy had indeed been her brother.

  “Lack-a-day for his poor mother!” cried Mrs. Tremlett, “these are bad tidings to take home with us, after all our trouble and pains. Oh, Mary, dear, I wish you had never left your home!”

  “Say not so, Mrs. Tremlett,” said Mary, recovering herself, “certainty is ever better than doubt — and here, here is one I may still save from misery. What is your name, my dear child, and who was it sent you to this dreadful place?”

  “My name is Fanny Fletcher,” said the little girl, “and it was mother’s parish that sent me here as soon as she was dead.”

  “Have you no other friends? — no relations anywhere who could take care of you?” demanded Miss Brotherton, with quickness.

  “No, ma’am, nobody,” replied Fanny; but, in saying this, the child ceased to weep, and, young as she was, an expression of such hopeless, yet enduring composure took possession of her beautiful features, that Mary’s memory instantly applied to her Byron’s thrilling words —

  “My thoughts their dungeon know too well;

  Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,

  And bleed within their secret cell.”

  “Tell me, Fanny,” she said, “tell me quickly, should you not like to come away from this place? I came here to take away poor Michael Armstrong. I was to pay money for taking him, and I will pay it now for you, if you will tell me that you wish to come, and will be a good girl to me.”

  “Poor Michael!” said Fanny, while her tears again began to flow. —

  “Speak, Fanny! shall I take you with me?” cried Mary, impatiently, for she heard without the door the sound of a heavy step approaching. Fanny Fletcher heard it too, and an almost ghastly paleness spread itself over her face and lips, she seemed choking, and perfectly unable to articulate, but clasping her hands together, and dropping on her knees before Miss Brotherton, raised her eloquent eyes to her face with a look which required no commentary.

  “Open the door, Mrs. Tremlett!” said Mary. “Don’t you hear the knocking? This is the child I shall take away with me,” she added in a whisper, and with a look that her friend perfectly understood.

  Mrs. Tremlett opened the door, and the well-pleased Mr. Wood-comb stood before them.

  “That’s well,” he said, looking at the kneeling child, and at Mary, whose arm encircled her neck, with an air of great complacency. “I thought by what those said, as you sent back without looking at ’em, that you had found what you wanted. And now, ladies, I hope you remember the conditions.”

  “Do not doubt it, sir,” replied Miss Brotherton, instantly drawing forth her pocket-book. Here is a note of one hundred pounds to repay the trouble I have given you, and here, a second of the same value to atone for the loss of Fanny’s labour.”

  “All right, ma’am,” said Mr. Woodcomb, very graciously, “and if you had but told me that it was a little girl, with a very pretty face, and that her name was Fanny, I could have saved you all your trouble, for we don’t happen to have another that would answer to that description.”

  “I have taken no trouble, sir, that I at all regret,” replied Miss Brotherton, “but I am anxious to set off on my return without any further loss of time. Will you have the kindness to inquire if Mr. Smith is ready?”

  “I don’t doubt, ma’am, but he will be ready to obey orders, though the horse have hardly been baited well yet. Howsomever, those as pay well generally looks to have things done in a little less time than other folks; and it’s very right and fair that so it should be. If a horse can stand, he ought to go, if his owner is well paid — there is no doubt, of it.”

  “I should be sorry to distress the horse,” said Mary, “and if he be not sufficiently rested, we must wait.”

  “At your pleasure, ladies, at your pleasure. Pray sit down and make yourselves comfortable. And of course your ladyship would like-to have this pretty little girl here made as decent as we can manage; the dirtiest part of her clothes can be changed easy, though the missis of the ‘prentice-house being lately dead, puts us out a little in our management. However, if little Miss Fanny, as we must call her now will please to come up stairs with me, I can make her look a deal better, I will answer for it.”

  Fanny Fletcher having been raised from her kneeling position by the hand of Miss Brotherton, still continued to hold that hand tightly, and the young lady now felt so strong a compression of her fingers, and was at the same time conscious of so tremulous a movement in the person of the child, as she nestled closely to her, that she felt persuaded the proposal of Mr. Woodcomb had frightened her.

  “You are very kind,” she replied, drawing the child, sordid as its wretched garments were, still closer to her, “you are very kind, sir. But I shall prefer taking her away, exactly as I first looked upon her.”

  “Dear me! only to think of that now! That’s the beauty of what’s called natural affection! Then if you will please to keep seated I’ll go tell Miller Smith as you’re ready, and all the business done, so as he may set off as soon as he is able.”

  Mary again thanked him for his civility, but felt disposed to think that he might have executed his mission more satisfactorily, when he returned in about three minutes, with the assurance that Master Smith would be ready to start in little less than an hour.

  An hour at that moment seemed to Miss Brotherton an almost in terminable space of time; she felt painfully conscious of being, “confined and pent up” with sin and suffering. Heated, agitated, and impatient — panting for the fresh air, and longing to question her little purchased protégée, concerning poor Michael, she determined to walk forward on the road they had that morning traversed, and letting Mr. Smith and his cart overtake them.

  “Should you dislike walking on, Mrs. Tremlett?” she said. “My head aches, and I am sure nothing will relieve me but a walk.”

  “I should like it too, my dear,” replied her observant companion, looking anxiously in her face, and perfectly understanding her feelings.

  “Walk, ladies!” exclaimed Mr. Woodcomb, looking exceedingly shocked, “ladies such as you to walk out upon our wild moors? Oh dear no! That is quite impossible!”

  This was said to prove at once his tender care of personages possessing the power of dispensing hundreds, and to show that he was not unacquainted with the refinements of polite society; but this civilly-intended opposition to their exit produced on his hearers an effect very different from what he intended. —

  That Fanny Fletcher should tremble at the mention of delay was not extraordinary, but that Mary should hear again, in fancy, the grating sound of the locks and bars, which had closed behind her as she entered, and feel a sick qualm at her heart, as if she were betrayed, and doomed to remain in that hateful spot against her will, showed that her nerves had indeed been severely shaken, and that her heroism had more of zeal than strength in it.

  Mrs. Tremlett, too, looked exceedingly annoyed, though certainly without the same lively recollection of the bolts and bars; but she was so accustomed to consult the wishes of her young companion, and to feel at ease herself only when she saw her so, that she too coloured with impatience, and sustaining admirably her character of aunt, said, “I beg pardon, sir, but I know my niece’s constitution so well, that I am quite sure the jolting of that rough cart would not do for her just at present. She is a great walker, and a mile or so, creeping along in the fresh air, will do her a deal of good.”

  “In course you know best, ladies,
and I can’t, for certain, take the liberty to oppose. But, by your leave, I’ll just mention your plan to Mr. Smith before you start, and then, maybe he’ll be for pushing on his horse a little.”

  So saying, Mr. Woodcomb left them; when Mary, turning to the little girl, said, “Have you any bonnet and shawl to put on, Fanny?”

  “I don’t know,” replied the child.

  “Not know? How can that be, Fanny?”

  “Because I have never been out of the doors since I first came into them,” said Fanny.

  “Poor dear! I wish they would not keep you here any longer — this is quite intolerable!” said Mary, again opening the door, and looking impatiently across the dismal court.

  “Keep me here?” murmured the little girl, in a voice of the most evident terror. “Do you think they will keep me here?”

  “No, no, my poor child, they shall not keep you here,” said Mrs. Tremlett, kindly. “Here come the two men together.”

  Fanny did not venture to look at them, but Mary did; and again, in spite of her reason, she felt terrified at the idea that she was in their power. Mr. Woodcomb, indeed, looked smiling and obsequious as before, but in the countenance of the burly miller there was something of opposition and displeasure that she could not understand.

  “Setting off walking, miss, is very like bilking your driver,” said he, with considerably more bluntness than civility.

  “What does he mean, Mrs. Tremlett?” said Mary, turning pale.

  “You had better pay the gentleman before you set out, my dear. That’s what you mean to say, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Why surely, ma’am, it would be more like doing business,” replied the man, looking a little ashamed of himself.

  “Is that all?” said Mary, inexpressibly relieved, and drawing out her ready purse with such cheerful alacrity, that could the hearts of the two men before whom she stood have been read, there might have been found in both a strong inclination to profit by it a little further.

  “That, I think, sir, is the sum you named for the hire of your vehicle?” said Mary, extending her hand with two sovereigns towards him.

  Mr. Timothy Smith took the money, but certainly thought that if that sharp-eyed rogue Woodcomb had been further he might have hit upon some excuse for demanding more. As it was, however, he could not venture it, and with a rather surly inclination of the head, pocketed the gold, and left the room. —

  “Now then, sir, if you please,” said the still frightened Mary, “we will wish you good morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am, surely, you can go if you please. Only perhaps you might like, for the honour of your young relation here, to leave some little gratuity to be divided as a little treat among her late companions?”

  Mary looked in his face, and the sort of half-ashamed glance with which the extortioner watched the effect of his words, appeared to her so sinister, that with a sudden feeling of something like rational alarm, she remembered that she had only a few shillings left in her purse, and that again to open in his presence her still well-filled pocket-book, might be dangerous.

  “Aunt Tremlett, have you any money to lend me?” she said, at the same time drawing out again her almost empty purse. “I am very sorry I have only these few shillings left; but I will willingly send you five pounds, sir, for the purpose you mention, if the miller will take the trouble of bringing it to you.”

  “Oh! It’s no matter, ladies. Pray do not trouble yourselves any more about it,” replied Woodcomb, keeping his eyes, however, furtively directed towards Mrs. Tremlett, who was still engaged in seeking for money in the recesses of a very large pocket.

  “I have two pounds and a few shillings, my dear,” said the old lady, at length placing her little leathern purse in Mary’s hand.

  “That will do, that will do perfectly,” said the worshipper of Mammon, with an air and tone of the most amiable liberality, but at the same time stretching out his hand, in which he received the entire contents, uncounted, of Mrs. Tremlett’s purse, which Miss Brotherton unclasped, and emptied into it.

  Had she studied the man’s character for years, she could not have devised any manœuvre so likely to hasten the unlocking the door which enclosed them as thus emptying their two purses before his eyes. He now moved forward of his own accord, drew forth from the pocket of his coat the massive key, applied it with a large, strong, and effective hand, to the enormous lock, drew back the heavy bolts, and finally threw wide the hateful door.

  The three females passed through it with no lingering steps, and heard it close heavily behind them, with feelings assuredly very different in degree, but in so far the same, that each one as she stepped over the threshold, breathed a prayer that she might never repass it again.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  THE WALK PROVES TOO FATIGUING TO ONE OF THE PARTY, BUT NOT TO MISS BROTHERTON — SHE WANDERS FURTHER, AND MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE, BUT AT LAST RETURNS IN SAFETY TO HER INN — A JOURNEY HOMEWARD, AND A FACT RELATED WITHOUT ORNAMENT.

  IT is but a dreary and desolate landscape which greets the eye immediately without the walls of the Deep Valley factory; but to all who are happy enough to feel that they are quitting those hideous walls for ever, it can hardly fail to convey a sense of beauty, freshness, and freedom, sufficient to expand the heart with admiration and delight. Mary felt disposed to bound along the grassy path beside the stream with the joyous playfulness of a child, and rather than have re-entered that creaking door again, would have been tempted, like another Undine, to plunge into the water, and take her chance of finding quarters less hateful beneath its rippling wave. Mrs. Tremlett breathed more freely, and seemed to have recovered the elastic step of youth, as she moved briskly on. But compared with what was passing in the breast of the ragged, dirty little creature that walked beside them, their feelings were most earthly cold and dull. Her small hand was still clasped in that of Miss Brotherton, who felt that the child was urging her onward, even faster than she was inclined to go, while her head upturned towards the towering heights which hemmed them in, seemed eagerly seeking an outlet from the region that her soul abhorred.

  “You are glad, dear Fanny, are you not, to know that you have left that frightful place?” said Mary, kindly pressing the little emaciated hand she held in hers. The child stopped short in her hurried walk, and looking up in her deliverer s face, with a doubting anxious look that it was painful to see, murmured very softly, and as if fearing to be overheard from within the walls, “Shall I never, never go back again?”

  “No, never Fanny! Do you think I would be so cruel as to take you back?” said Mary.

  “I do not know if it is not all a dream,” replied the child. “I have dreamed that I saw green grass, and felt the air upon my face, before.”

  “Do not be afraid, Fanny! You are not dreaming now,” returned Mary. “Run on, and gather that fine large stalk of foxglove. You never saw such a gay flower as that in your dreams, did you?”

  The little girl sprang forward, and falling upon her knees on the grass, plucked the tall flower, and pressed it to her lips, and to her heart. But though this was a childish action, it was not done childishly: there was an appearance of deep feeling, and even of devotion in her look and attitude which strongly awakened Mary’s interest, and when the little creature rose again, and holding the flower in one hand, slid the other once more into that of her new friend, the heart of that friend yearned towards her with newly-awakened tenderness. But when she spoke to her, and endeavoured to lead her into conversation, the attempt entirely failed. There are many who might have felt disappointed and chilled by this; but Mary Brotherton had truer sympathy, and as, from time to time, she felt a loving contraction of Fanny’s little fingers upon her own, and sometimes caught her looking up, as if by stealth into her face, she felt no misgivings as to the cause of her silence, but loved her the better from knowing that her heart was too full to speak.

  They all, and as if moved by one common impulse, walked quickly forward as long as their road continued alon
g the margin of the stream; but when it turned round the steep hill’s base, and began to mount, their pace relaxed, Mary felt that her little companion dragged on her steps with labour, and perceived that Mrs. Tremlett was out of breath.

  “Let us sit down under this ash-tree, and wait for the jolly miller,” said Miss Brotherton, “it cannot be very long, I think, before he overtakes us.”

  This proposal was the more amiable, because, in the first place, Mary could herself have run from the bottom of that steep hill to the top, almost without perceiving that it was any hill at all; and in the next, she so exceedingly disliked both the miller and his cart, that had she consulted her own inclinations alone, she would probably have preferred retracing the whole way on foot.

  But very gladly was her proposal for rest accepted, by both her old and young companion, and long did they remain seated under their pleasant canopy before they any of them grew weary of it; till at length, after consulting her watch, Miss Brotherton expressed a doubt whether the fat miller and his lazy steed intended to overtake them at all. —

  “Good gracious, my dear! do you really think so?” said Mrs. Tremlett, considerably alarmed. “Why, Mary, we shall never get back to Mrs. Prescot’s without him!”

  “I hope I may be mistaken, my dear old woman,” said her kind mistress, affectionately; “for I fear such a walk would be too much for you. But when I remember that he is paid, and remember, likewise, how very little he seemed actuated by any motive, save that of sordid interest, I confess that I do think it very probable he means to leave us in the lurch.”

  “Then let us walk on, Miss Mary, without saying a word more about it. The shadows are beginning to grow long already, and you shan’t be kept out half the night by my laziness. Come along, little girl.”

  With these words, Mrs. Tremlett raised herself from between two comfortable roots, which had made her an excellent arm-chair; but the little girl whom she summoned to do likewise, though she exerted herself to get on her feet, seemed hardly able to stand. —