Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “My poor Fanny, you are quite knocked up!” exclaimed Miss Brotherton, looking at her with great anxiety. “How in the world shall we ever be able to get her on?”

  “It is only because I have not been used to walk lately,” said Fanny; “that is, not as we have been walking now. Our work keeps us always on our legs, and that makes them bend about so, when I try to walk; but I can walk though it hurts me, and I think it would be better to die outright in getting on, rather than rest so near the factory — so, please ma’am, I’m quite ready to go on.”

  And again the party set off, but the difficulty with which the little Fanny got along became more obvious at every step, and it soon became evident that to get as far as Mrs. Prescot’s would be impossible.

  The dilemma was not a pleasant one. They were still in a part of the road so little frequented, that it was probable they might wait for hours without obtaining assistance from any passer by, nor did either Mrs. Tremlett or Mary recollect to have seen any dwelling nearer than the high-road, from which they were still at a considerable distance.

  The distress of the little girl was painful to witness. At the very moment when the dark cloud which had seemed to settle upon her was withdrawn, and hope gradually and with difficulty, as to eyes long unaccustomed to its light, began to reach her; at that very moment her strength failed, and a sensation, like the sickness of death, rendered every attempt at further exertion impossible.

  “I must stay here,” she said; “it is the will of God.”

  “No, no, Fanny,” said Miss Brotherton, seating herself beside her, and letting the languid little head drop upon her bosom; “you have no reason to think that, while I have a thousand to believe the contrary. It is a most strange chance which has brought me here, and placed you in my hands — this was by the will of God, and I will not believe it has so chanced, only that I may see you die.”

  “You must not stay here,” said Fanny, feebly; “night will come presently, and you must go fast to get home. Do not be sorry for me — but, indeed, I think I am as bad as Michael was, when he fell sick, and was carried away to die.”

  “Did you see—” began Mary, eagerly; but suddenly stopping herself, she added, “Not now my poor Fanny, you must not tell me about it now — when I have got you strong and well at my own home, we will talk of poor Michael. Try now, to think how glad you will be when we have got you homeland all our difficulties are over! But something must be done, I know, my poor child, before this can be. How had we best act in this dilemma, Mrs. Tremlett? Do you think you shall have courage to remain with this poor child while I run on, and endeavour to find some house where we may get assistance?”

  “Alone, Miss Mary?” replied the good woman, looking terribly alarmed. “How can I let you set off in a strange, wild country like this, with nobody to take care of you? Let us go together, Mary; nothing can hurt this little girl, you know, while we are away.”

  “Think it over once more, dear Tremlett,” said Mary, “and then I believe you will perceive that there is more chance of your being useful to her, than to me. I shall get on faster without you, good nurse, and with a lighter heart than if I took you for company, while this little creature was left with nothing but her own melancholy thoughts and childish terrors to comfort her.”

  “Then I will stay,” said the poor woman, sighing heavily; “but just think, Miss Mary, how I shall feel till you come back again!”

  “I will not loiter to amuse myself,” replied her young mistress with a cheering smile; “and now take my place, and let this poor little head rest on your shoulder.”

  “She shall lie down on that bit of level turf yonder, with her head upon my lap,” said the old nurse, tenderly assisting Mary to lift her “God bless you, my dear good soul! I will be quickly back again, replied her grateful mistress. “How much more you show you love me now, than if you insisted upon walking after me. There! she lies as nicely as if she were in bed. If our faithless miller makes his appearance, keep him and his cart till I come back; tell him he shall have more gold, and he will stand waiting beside you, as gentle as a lamb.” —

  Having said these comforting words, Mary hastened onward and was speedily out of sight. Having reached the top of the hill, she looked anxiously round in search of a human dwelling, but nothing met her eye, but barren moor-land, which at some distance showed symptoms of cultivation, being enclosed in patches by low stone walls, and here and there the fragment of a stunted hawthorn fence, which seemed to sustain a hungry life with difficulty. Making her way across the rude and imperfectly-formed sunk fence, which marked the boundary of the cart-road, along which they had travelled in the morning, Mary found herself on a level of some extent, but without the slightest track to direct her steps amidst the long parched grass, and frequent stones with which it was covered.

  “This will never do! I may walk here till I have completely lamed myself, without a chance of meeting any living soul,” thought Mary, stopping short; “I shall do better by making for the high-road at once.” —

  And having so decided, she turned about to retrace her steps, and regain the road; but ere she reached it, a sort of hillock at a little distance caught her eye, and wishing to take advantage of its elevation, for the purpose of reconnoitring, she turned aside to reach it. Her approach to it was from the east, and a dazzling sunset was in her eyes, as she made her way up the rugged side of what looked like one of the tumuli which served as resting-places for human bones, ‘ere churchyards yawned for them. Greatly was she startled on reaching the top of it, to perceive on the western side, crouching in a hollow that looked as if it had been excavated by the shelter-seeking sheep, a strange wild figure, whose dress, as she looked down upon it, left its sex doubtful. The fragment of a hat, and the remnant of a jacket were evidently intended, by their original construction, for the use of the nobler sex, while something resembling a petticoat enveloping the lower half of the figure, suggested the probability that the masculine portion of the attire was worn by sufferance, and not by right.

  Mary’s light step among the matted tufts of coarse vegetation which covered the thin soil, had not been heard, and she stood looking down upon her doubtful neighbour with the advantage of being herself unseen.

  “There goes another day!” said a voice, which though harsh and aged, was unmistakably female; “and the silly soul has got to wait for another.”

  Glad to find that her unexpected companion in this most desolate spot, was of the safer, because the weaker portion of the human race, the wandering heiress determined to address her; but deemed it wisest to approach her visibly, instead of startling the poor soul by speaking to her unexpectedly from the spot where she stood. For this purpose, she gently descended from her elevation, and making a little circuit, presented herself before the eyes of the sun-gazer.

  The old woman, for such she was, sat nose and knees together, in a sort of hole which completely sheltered her in every direction but the west; and from the earnest manner in which her dim eyes were fixed upon the last bright rays of the setting sun, it seemed as if her lair was chosen on purpose to look upon it.

  The appearance of Mary seemed to startle her, but not much; for after looking at her for a minute as if she examined her person with difficulty, because her eyes were dazzled by the object on which she had before been gazing, she said, pointing a stick that she held towards the point whence the bright orb had just disappeared, “Who be you, coming to spy out old Sally at her devotions?”

  “I want to find a house, my good woman, for I have left a poor child very ill at a short distance from hence; I want to find people who can help me to remove her.”

  “There are no people here,” said the old woman, in a gentle but melancholy voice, and turning her eyes round the desolate moor as if in confirmation of the assertion.

  “But perhaps you may be able to tell me where I can find some one?”

  “O dear! O dear! there is no want of finding for such as you. Just go upon the high-road and turn
yourself about, and say, ‘Come to me,’ and you’ll be seeing ’em flock in, right and left, and north and south, all bowing and scraping as genteel as possible. Tis only me as lives in a hole, and prays to the sun every night to be so kind as not to wake me the next morning; ’tis only me that never sees any body. I am the only woman in all the world — all the rest have got their death in the factories.”

  There are many circumstances of more danger, that are infinitely less appalling than meeting, when out of sight of every other human being, a poor frail shattered remnant of humanity with a disordered wit. Mary shuddered as the wild speech of this poor creature confirmed the idea of insanity which her appearance suggested, and her first impulse was to turn and run. But her steps were stayed by the shrill, trembling voice of the old woman, who in an accent, the most helpless and forlorn, called after her, “One minute — only stay one minute! Let me look at you one minute!”

  Mary turned again, and all feeling of terror was lost in pity as she beheld the miserable little crippled figure which was hobbling towards her. Her height hardly reached that of an ordinary child of twelve years old, her gait showed that her legs were dreadfully deformed, her uncouth garments hung about her in tatters, and as she painfully rolled herself at every step round the stick by whose aid she was supported, it was hardly possible to conceive a more complete image of poverty and decrepitude, than her whole appearance offered.

  “Do not hurry so!” cried Mary, every idea of alarm lost in contemplating her suffering helplessness. “I will not go yet, if you wish me to stay.” They were now close together, and the snaking creature looked up in her face, with a soft, silly smile, that had all the woful innocence of imbecility. With a small, skinny hand that was delicately pale, and perfectly clean, she took the end of Mary’s silk scarf and gazed upon it in a sort of ecstasy. “Oh, fine! oh, pretty, pretty, pretty!” she exclaimed, smoothing and patting it with her hand, as if it had been a tame and favourite bird. “I think,” she added, with a sagacious nod, “that I know where you come from. This is just the things, I know, that they wear in heaven — I think I know where you come from.” Then breaking into what sounded like a genuine laugh, she again repeated, “I think I know where you come from — that is what the overlooker man said to me,” she added, lowering her voice to a whisper, “when he caught me running away from the factory. It is not so very long ago — I can tell you all about it, if you would like to hear — and it is not like the rest of the things you know,” touching her forehead with her forefinger; “I don’t tell that backwards and forwards, nonsense-fashion, like the other things I talk about — that was beat in upon my brain by the blacksmith, and nothing can ever take it out again, they say, till one of the angels does it in heaven. It used to pain me a good deal,” she continued, taking off her hat, and laying her open palm on the top of her head, “but since I took to sitting on my throne there, as the folks call it, and gathered the dew morning and night to put upon it, the pain is a deal better.”

  “I cannot hear your story now,” said Mary, gently, “because there is a poor sick girl on the side of the hill that wants me very bad — she comes from the factory too, and she is too ill to walk — can you tell me where I can find any body to help me carry her?”

  “Come from the factory, is she? Dear, dear, dear, dear! She will be sure to die, you may depend upon it — they all do die, except me. Don’t you fancy that you’ll ever take her back alive, it was only I that could bear that, and I was burnt in the head for it, as I told you.”

  “I do not want to take her back,” said Mary, “I want to help her. Where do you live? Are there any houses or people near this place? Now, be a good woman, and take me where I can find somebody to help us.”

  “Yes, I will,” replied the poor creature, in a tone which convinced Miss Brotherton that she understood her, and at the same time beginning to hobble on before her towards the road.

  Nothing probably less pressing, and less hopeless than her present position could have tempted Mary to trust herself to such a guide; yet she felt a strange sort of confidence that the old woman knew what she was about, and though aware that the experiment was rather a desperate one, determined to follow wherever her feeble guide should lead, certain, at least, that the distance could not be very great.

  There was, however, much more strength and power of locomotion in the little cripple than she gave her credit for. Having contrived to crawl through the grassy dyke that fenced the moor, she crossed the road obliquely, and making her way through a very imperfect hedge of furze and quickset, hobbled on across a bit of miserably arid stubble, which presently descended abruptly, and led to a tuft of stunted elder-bushes, beside which stood a small farm-house, with its cow-yard, barns, and ricks.

  Surprised and delighted to find herself so near a human dwelling, Mary had hardly patience to restrain her steps to the pace of her poor guide, nevertheless she had not the heart to leave her, for there was an expression of pride and pleasure in the woman’s eye as she turned round from time to time as they advanced, which she felt it would be most cruel to check by showing that she could do without her. So it was together that they reached the bottom of the steep descent, and together that they entered the kitchen of the farm-house, where a very decent-looking, middle-aged woman was engaged in preparing supper. She looked exceedingly surprised at the appearance of Miss Brotherton, and for a moment turned her eyes from her to her companion, and back again, with an air that was almost bewildered; but soon recovering herself she courtesied with much respect, and said, “I hope you haven’t been scared, ma’am, by falling in with this poor cretur? She is as harmless as a baby.”

  “Oh, no!” replied Mary, “she has been very kind to me, for she has brought me here, where I should never have been able to get without her, the house is so completely concealed — and I want help, ma’am, very much indeed.”

  “You haven’t met no accident, I hope?” said the good woman, kindly, and ceasing her notable operations, she drew forward a wooden chair for her guest to sit upon.

  “Thank you very much,” said the young lady, seating herself. “Yet it is not rest I most want. I have a little girl with me whom I have left by the side of the road that leads from the mills; she is too weak and ill to get on, and I hope you will be able to lend me some conveyance — a cart, a waggon, any thing to take her as far as the King’s Head, three or four miles I suppose from hence, upon the turnpike-road: I would pay well for it.”

  “From the mills?” repeated the woman staring “Yes; from the place called Deep Valley Mill,” replied Mary, “perhaps rather more than a mile from here.”

  “Oh! ma’am, I know the Deep Valley Mill well enough,” was the answer. “All Mr. Woodcomb’s own butter and milk comes from here. That is not the difficulty. But we shan’t like to have nothing to do with carrying away any child from there.”

  “You need fear nothing on that point,” replied Miss Brotherton, eagerly, “I have paid for permission to bring this child away.”

  “That alters the case for certain. But — I ask your pardon, ma’am, — there is something very odd too, in such a lady as you walking away from the factory with one of the children.”

  “Indeed I do not wonder at your saying so. But believe me, I tell you nothing but the truth when I assure you that I have permission, and have paid largely for it, to bring this child away. Our unfortunately attempting to walk was merely accident, and occasioned entirely by my foolish impatience to get away from the place before Mr. Smith, the miller, who took me there, thought his horse sufficiently rested to return.”

  “Mr. Smith, the miller? Then for certain all’s right — for they be known for the greatest of friends, Mr. Woodcomb and he — and I dare say my husband, ma’am, would be proud to help you when he comes home. It’s coming dark fast, and he won’t be long I dare say.”

  “But I must go back to this poor child; I have left her with an old lady, who will, I fear, be greatly alarmed at being left so long,” said Mary.


  “Poor child!” repeated her limping guide, who, from the moment they had entered, had been reposing herself, by sitting on the floor, and had not spoken till now. “Poor child! — think of that! — and she comes from the factory! Think of speaking in that way of a factory child!”

  “Hold your tongue, Sally, or I’ll give you no porridge for supper,” said the woman, but by no means harshly; and as she spoke, she dropped into the maniac’s lap a piece of bread that lay in a plate upon the table.

  “Had your factory child got this now,” said poor Sally, nodding her head with a sort of boastful exultation, “she would not be so terrible bad. But there’s nobody but me as gets this. I am the only old woman in the world; all the rest die young — and most of ’em,” she added, in a whisper, “before they get away.”

  “Was this poor creature at the Deep Valley factory when she was young?” demanded Miss Brotherton.

  “She tells you quite true, ma’am,” replied the farmer’s wife, resuming her cookery, which consisted in chopping up bacon, cabbage, and potatoes, for the frying-pan. “She talks nonsense about the moon sometimes, and is very wild when it comes to the full, but she never makes any blunder when she tells of her own troubles at the factory. She never varies the least bit in the world when she tells about her getting away, and being stopped, and taken back again, poor cretur. ’Tis only too true, that’s the worst of it — and she has never been in her right mind since.”

  “I would hear her tell it willingly, and should listen to it with great interest,” said Miss Brotherton. “But at this moment I can think of nothing but those I have left.”

  “Whereabouts be they, ma’am?” demanded the farmer’s wife.

  Mary described the spot very accurately. “Why, dear me! them surely must be the trees right against our gate,” said the good woman, with great apparent satisfaction. “And if so be as I’m right, ’tis hardly more than a stone’s throw from our back gate. I take it, ma’am, as you walked by the lane just round our farm, and them trees as you speak of, bean’t not one quarter of the distance as you have come.”