Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  The consultation which, immediately after her arrival there, took place upon the case of Edward, was productive of, perhaps, the greatest pleasure Mary had ever known; for the sentence unanimously pronounced was, that the limbs of the boy were in a state of progress towards perfect recovery, the weakness and distortion brought on by his employment, not having lasted long enough to produce any deformity, capable of resisting the tendency of nature to recover herself, if not impeded by any fresh unhealthy influence. That any such should arise to disappoint her hopes was not likely; all that was required for him being good air, regular and moderate exercise, wholesome food, and abstinence from all violent exertion for the next year or two. As to her question respecting German baths, the answer was less unanimous; two gentlemen being of opinion that they would do no good at all; two that it was doubtful whether the case would be affected by them or not; and one that great benefit might probably ensue. But as all were of opinion that change of air was desirable, and as a pretty strong inclination to try fresh fields and pastures new seconded this judgment, Miss Brotherton determined to start for the Rhine. Mrs. Tremlett declared that she had not the slightest objection to foreign parts; Edward’s heart swelled with an ecstasy made up of gratitude, hope, curiosity, and the delicious exhilaration attendant upon returning health; while Fanny looked around her, and listened to every one whose words referred to the expedition, with a very delightful consciousness of being wide awake, but not without some fear that she was dreaming, nevertheless.

  Such was the party that filled the travelling-carriage of Miss Brotherton, while an English maid, a French footman, and a German courier, formed her suite.

  Nothing, certainly, could be well more whimsical than the party with which she had thus surrounded herself; but this mattered little, since she was pleased with it — and we must leave her in the full enjoyment of a whole host of delightful feelings, while we return to follow the fortunes of poor Michael.

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  MICHAEL ARMSTRONG SETS OUT UPON A DANGEROUS EXPEDITION — ITS TERMINATION PROVES RATHER MORE THAN HE CAN BEAR — HE MEETS A GOOD MAN, AND TAKES SERVICE UNDER HIM — HE ASKS AND OBTAINS A HOLIDAY, AND MEETS SEVERAL ADVENTURES IN THE COURSE OF IT.

  WHILE this gay and happy party, who would any of them have gladly exchanged pleasure for pain, could they thereby have purchased only the knowledge of his existence, were thus placing kingdoms between them, the unhappy Michael was still enduring all the miseries of an apprentice at the Deep Valley Mill. —

  It would be difficult to imagine a stronger contrast in the situation of two brothers than that which many subsequent years presented between him and Edward. Edward! — who had ever been to him as a dearer second self — who had never enjoyed a pleasure unshared by him, and never known a sorrow that had not also been his — Edward was enjoying all that nature and fortune could give; while Michael still hopelessly dragged on a wretched existence amidst unceasing and unvarying suffering! At length the desperate resolution was formed which put the officials of the Deep Valley factory in the state of activity already described. And where was Michael the while?

  Safely ensconced in a sort of rude drain, which he had himself assisted to construct, when he held the regretted office of scavenger of the court, and over the aperture of which he easily arranged sticks and rubbish sufficient to conceal him, Michael lay for many hours listening to the hubbub which his absence occasioned. He distinctly heard the expression of Mrs. Poulet’s anger and scorn, as messenger after messenger returned, without bringing tidings of him; and had, moreover, the advantage of knowing the track that he had purposely made on the grass which grew tall and rank immediately behind the factory, had led them, and would continue to lead them, all one way, while he would of course take especial care to go another.

  Having left his foot-marks on the grass in the manner described, Michael had scrambled through the bushes which covered the steep hill-side, for the distance of a few hundred yards, and then, taking advantage of a layer of stones, by which a patch of marshy ground had been rendered firm, he again crossed from the hill towards the factory, without leaving any trace behind. By this simple device his pursuers were completely thrown out, for when night came and he crawled out from his shelter, no eye was open to look for him close to his prison-walls, though very keen ones were busy elsewhere in search of him.

  The same strength of frame which had enabled him to escape deformity in the mill, helped him well now, as without food, without sleep, and with every pulse throbbing between hope and fear, he strode rapidly onward on the road he had come with Parsons four years before, carefully avoiding its grassy margin, however, lest more footsteps might be traced. Then, revolving with great clearness of local recollection, the direction in which this road led, after mounting the hill, he firmly resolved, as long as his strength lasted, to pursue it, till it brought him to the door of his mother’s home-provided always, that he was not stopped short by the grasp of an overlooker in the way.

  The necessity of procuring food had not appeared to him any obstacle to the undertaking; for not only had he great faith in his own power of enduring abstinence, but he had faith too, in the impossibility of begging at a farm-house door for a morsel of bread, in vain — nor did either hope deceive him: he walked till nightfall with no other refreshment than water, caught in the hollow of his hand from a trickling road-side spring, and a few blackberries, snatched in terror, as he hurried on.

  As the darkness thickened round him, he called a counsel with himself, as to whether it would be wisest to lay down under the shelter of a hay-rick, and let sleep serve him for supper, or to venture a petition for a morsel of food at a decent-looking mansion which he saw at some distance, and walk on through the night, if he succeeded, by help of the strength so recruited.

  After many anxious reasonings, pro and con, he at last decided upon the latter, and so well did his handsome face and simple assurance that he was very hungry, plead for him, that he not only obtained scraps sufficient for a hearty supper, but a crust or two for the following morning; and with this treasure he trudged on, footsore indeed, and with a pretty strong inclination to lie down and sleep, but mental energy sufficed for many hours to conquer bodily fatigue, and it was not till past three o’clock the next morning, that he yielded, and at last laid himself down in a dry, and, as he thought it, most delightfully comfortable ditch, and slept the sleep of youth and weariness for three or four hours. The bright beams of an autumn sun shooting directly upon his eyes awakened him, and he started up, ready and able to walk forward, sufficiently thankful for the hoarded crusts in his pocket.

  He was now not more than seven miles from Ashleigh; a fact which he joyfully ascertained by a milestone on a road which he had reached, he hardly knew how, but it must have been by missing, not hitting the way he had endeavoured to find; for Parsons had not followed the high-road from the town for more than a mile, and that was before Sir Matthew’s carriage overtook him. Michael looked backwards and forwards along this wide unsheltered road, and trembled to think how easy it would be, to see and recognise a fugitive from any spot within sight of it; but there was a burning impatience at his heart when he thought of home, and remembered that he was within two hours walk of it, which left all caution far behind, and commending himself to God, he set off at the fleetest pace he could achieve, towards Ashleigh.

  No symptom of pursuit, however, alarmed him. From the moment he quitted the mills, to that when he reached what had once been his mother’s door, no terror of the kind had come near him; he had heard no whispering voices, nor seen shadowy figures stealing towards him from a distance. All he had most feared was got through with ease; but all he had most fondly hoped, turned out a fearful blank.

  As Michael drew near the door, he remembered so well every object which met his eye, that he began to fear lest he himself might be remembered by others, and making a circuit to avoid Sir Matthew’s mills, he reached Hoxley-lane without having met a single face he knew.

 
; It was a tremendous moment for him, that in which he first caught sight of the lowly door through which he had passed a thousand times in eager anticipation of his mother’s kiss! Some minutes followed before he could reach it, and the boy trembled so violently that he tottered as he hurried onward, like a drunken man.

  At length his hand was on the latch; it yielded as in days of yore, and in an instant the door was wide open before him. Poor Michael! what death can have a pang so bitter as that he felt, when the almost impossible project of reaching his mother’s home being performed, he found that home empty and desolate, and telling him as plainly as angels trumpet-tongued could do, that she was dead!

  A dismal groan burst from him, and he sunk on the floor, just where he had last stood gaily talking to her of his bright fancies for the future, a few hours before he was snatched away from her for ever.

  The noise he made reached the ears of a woman in the front room, and she opened the door of communication to ascertain who it could be, rummaging in the empty room that was “to let.”

  “My gracious! I should like to know who you are? What do you want here, you ragamuffin? Is this the way you come to take lodgings, pray?”

  This was said by a young and pretty woman who held a baby in her arms, and who being the wife of a confidential overlooker, had not only succeeded to the occupation of No. 12, upon the death of Mrs. Sykes and the dispersion of her family, but considered herself privileged to assume, on most occasions, an air of great importance.

  “Mother lived here!” said Michael, with a look wretched enough to soften the heart of the saucy girl who had addressed him.

  “Your mother, my poor boy? Are you the little orphan Armstrong, then?” was the reply.

  “Is mother dead?” said the unhappy boy.

  “Dead? to be sure she is. And where can you have been not to know that? Wasn’t you with her, when she died?”

  “No no, no!” sobbed Michael; “I came here to find her.”

  “Poor fellow! that’s dismal enough to be sure. I bean’t Ashleigh born, but I have heard a deal since I comed here, about the widow Armstrong and the boy as died!”

  “Died!” echoed Michael, looking wildly at her. “Is he dead too? Is my poor Teddy dead?”

  “Surely he is,” replied the unthinking young woman, who, in truth, knew nothing about either the widow Armstrong or her son, but remembered hearing that a little more than a year before she took possession of the premises, a widow Armstrong had died in the back room, for grief at having lost a boy. She was far from intending to be cruel to the poor lad, who looked himself so very nearly like a corpse, but was too indifferent upon all subjects which did not immediately concern herself, to take the trouble of thinking before she spoke.

  ‘A few more questions might probably have obtained, if not the truth, at least some proof of his informer’s ignorance of it, but Michael had heard enough; he rose to his feet, and without uttering another word, rushed out of the room.

  The state in which he then found himself was certainly nearly approaching to delirium. His strength of body and mind completely exhausted by fatigue, fasting, and intense anxiety, the blow which had fallen upon him was heavier than his reason could bear, and he wandered forth into the fields without knowing where he was, or having any distinct idea of what had befallen him. His devious and unheeded path led him to a spot, at the distance of nearly a mile from his former home, at which several miniature rocks of sandstone give something of wildness and dignity to the little stream, which for the most part runs tamely enough, and looks little more than a wide and dirty ditch, as it passes through the town of Ashleigh. A multitude of cotton-factories, with their tall chimneys mocking the heavens, were visible in the distance, on the other side, and the boy stopped in his wild, hurried walk, to gaze upon them, with a feverish consciousness that there at least stood something he had seen before. A frightful flash of memory then shot across his brain — his mother dead — his darling Edward dead — himself a houseless, friendless, starving wretch, who soon would be caught and carried back to the prison-house he had ran from only to learn that he had no friend on earth! Such were the thoughts which racked him, as he stood upon the edge of the rocky-little precipice, and fixed his eyes upon the quiet water that flowed some twenty feet beneath him. It seemed to present an image of coolness and repose; his burning lips longed to kiss the gentle ripple on its surface — he drew nearer to the extremest verge.

  “I should be safe there!” he murmured, looking downwards till his sick head reeled. “God forgive me!” he added, raising his eyes to heaven. “But if I drown, mother! I shall go to thee!” and as he spoke the words, he sprang forward, and plunged into the stream!

  The shock restored his wandering senses in a moment; he felt that he was perishing, though unconscious that it was by his own act; and forgetting how little reason he had to wish for life, struggled hard to grasp a bush that protruded from the bank into the stream. But he could not swim, and the efforts he made, though they served for a minute or two to keep him afloat, only increased the distance between, himself and the object he endeavoured to reach. His heavy shoes filled with water, and dragged him downwards — his strength failed, his arms ceased to move, and in another moment the water rippled over his head.

  But poor Michael’s history was not finished yet. A heavy-looking elderly man, who had as little as possible the air of one desirous of seeking an adventure, was in the act of examining some sheep in a field, the fence of which was not fifty yards from the rocky ledge from whence the boy had sprung. Having completed his survey, and directed two men who were with him to select a score or two from the lot, the old man reposed himself upon a style in the fence above mentioned, and having chanced to turn his head from the sheep, towards the spot where Michael stood, had watched for a minute or two the boy’s agitated movements and demeanour, but without the slightest suspicion of the frightful catastrophe that was to ensue.

  No sooner, however, did he hear the splash occasioned by the plunge, than he sprang over the style with the activity of a younger man, and calling to the others to follow him, made his way with little loss of time, to a bit of pebbly ground on a level with the stream, and at no great distance from the point at which Michael had sunk. But, short as the time had been, the ripple had already disappeared from the surface of the water, and no trace remained of the object of his search. The two young men whom he had summoned to follow him, though they had not seen the accident, had gathered from his words that something terrible had occurred, and clambering down the rocky cliff, were by his side in a moment. —

  “It is too late, lads!” exclaimed the old man, wringing his hands together. “I saw the poor distracted creature take the leap, but he was sunk before I got to the bank, and I take it he will never rise again. I shall never forgive myself for not going to him when I saw him throwing his arms about in that wild way. I might have guessed what was going to happen — and may Heaven forgive me for not preventing it!”

  “Tis a man who has thrown himself in?” inquired one of the men.

  “Not a man, but a fine young lad as ever you see. Poor fellow! ’Twas early days for him to have found sorrow enough to throw himself out of life that way! If I had ran to him, as I ought to have done, and stopped the deed, who knows but we might have brought him round to a better manner of thinking?”

  “Tis ten to one but he’ll come to the top again yet, if he hasn’t done it already,” said the man.

  “But if he comes, he’ll come dead, William!” replied the old man.

  “I don’t know that,” rejoined the young shepherd.”

  “The stream runs briskish round you corner, and would carry him right away with it; but it’s worth while having a look lower down. If he rises at all, ‘twill be there.”

  And so saying, the young man set off at a swifter pace than his master could follow him; while the old man and the other shepherd-lad continued for a minute or two to watch the place where he had fallen.

  “
Halloo! Halloo! Halloo!” cried a voice at no great distance. “That’s William, by all that’s good!” exclaimed the young shepherd, and without waiting for his companion’s reply, he ran off at full speed, the old man following with no lagging step, and at the distance of a few yards, after turning the corner formed by another huge mass of sandstone rock, they perceived William, breast deep in the water, and grasping, at the utmost extent of his arm, a limb of the drowning boy. Before the old Westmorland statesman (for such he was) could overtake his young companions, the hero of our tale was lying high and dry upon the bank, but whether life was quite extinct, or still lingered in the cold, corse-like form before them, was a question which, when the old man joined the group, the young ones were not able to answer. Luckily for Michael, the old statesman had seen a man saved from drowning some thirty years before, and he remembered enough of the process he had then witnessed, to enable him to give some very useful instructions on the present occasion. They managed to make their patient discharge from his mouth some portion of the superfluous draught he had swallowed, and after bestowing patient and assiduous friction on his breast and limbs, they had the great satisfaction of seeing the chest heave with returning respiration, and all other symptoms of revivification follow in their proper order, till the eyes of Michael were once more widely opened, and fixed with perplexity, and something like terror, on the faces which were bending over him.

  “Thank Heaven!” ejaculated the old man earnestly, “he’s safe now, at least from drowning, and I have not got that to answer for. But he isn’t in a trim to be left, my lads. He would have been as well in the river, perhaps, as out of it, if we do no more for him.”