Then causing Michael to sit, and examining his features, with a glance of very friendly curiosity, he said, “You don’t look like a bad boy, my poor fellow. What could have set you upon doing such a desperate action?”
The effort which the poor boy made to answer was ineffectual, and he only shook his head.
“I suppose it’s oversoon as yet, to expect any information from him,” resumed the old man, “so there’s nothing to be done, as I see, but just to carry him up between us, if he cannot walk, to the Nag’s Head, and have him laid upon my bed there, till he is in a condition to tell us something about himself. Can you feel your legs yet, my boy?” he continued, endeavouring, by the help of his man William, to make him stand up.
But Michael had no power to second their efforts; the two lads, threfore, raised him head and heels, and preceded by the grayhaired farmer, bore him between them above a mile, to the humble hostelry of the Nag’s Head. The procession was too remarkable a one to escape notice, and before it reached the shelter of the little inn a miscellaneous crowd of men, women, and children had joined it. Many of these had been familiar with the features of poor Michael in days of yore, but not one of them recognised the widow Armstrong’s boy, in the long-limbed, pallid figure, that they now gazed upon.
Muster Thornton, the Westmorland yeoman and farmer, was too substantial a customer to be refused any reasonable favour, and the ragged, dripping Michael was not only permitted to lie down on Muster Thornton’s best of beds, but accommodated promptly with dry linen, and duly comforted with more hot brandy, water, sugar, and biscuits than he had any inclination to swallow. He took enough, however, to remove the faintness of inanition; and this, together with dry linen, and a bed, sufficed, in spite of the heavy sorrows upon which his mind had not yet dared to fix itself, to sooth him into a long and healing sleep.
When he awoke from it, he was capable of answering all the questions Mr. Thornton put to him, and this he did with a simplicity of pathos that went straight to the good man’s heart. That he had been working in a distant cotton-factory, where he had been very hardly treated, and having got away to see his mother and his brother, had found them both dead, was a tale, that if it could not excuse the desperate act which he had attempted, at least accounted for it, in a manner that left as much to pity as to blame.
“Poor boy! poor boy!” exclaimed the old man, with tears in his eyes. “It was wrong and wicked, very wrong and wicked! but you must pray God to forgive you, my boy, and never think of any such desperate doings more.”
“I did not know what I was about, if I remember rightly,” said Michael. “My head seemed gone. I don’t know how I got to the river, but I am sure I did not go there on purpose.”
“So much the better — I am glad to hear it — and it’s no great wonder, sure enough, if you did lose your head, coming to such a home as that. But what are you to do next, my poor fellow? I suppose there is no other home for you, is there?”
“I have no home, nor a single friend in the whole world,” replied Michael.
“And the only work you have ever been used to, I suppose, is following the wheels in the factories?” said the farmer.
“Except once for three months and a bit that I was kept to cleaning the outhouses and yard, and wheeling away garden-rubbish and such like,” replied Michael.
“Well, but that’s better than nothing, boy. At any rate, you know bow to hold a spade, which is a long deal better than having never used your fingers, except for tying bits of thread. D’ye think you should be willing to work for me, my boy, and tend my farm-yard stock, and do a turn of work in the fields when it was wanted?”
“I should be willing, sir,” replied Michael, while a flush passed over his pale face, “I should be willing and most thankful to work for you.”
“That’s well,” said the old man cheerily, “and as to terms, I don’t expect we shall find much difficulty; you will come to me my poor fellow, much in the same condition as you first come into the world, therefore all that you want, I must find which will be about as much as I can afford to give, I take it, just at first, till you, and I too, find out what you’re good for. Will you agree to it, my lad, and give me your time and best endeavours for clothes, food, lodging, and good will?”
“It will be a blessed bargain for me, sir,” said Michael, “if you will add to all your goodness the excusing my ignorance. But if will was all that was wanting to make a good servant, you should not lose by me.”
“And will is all that is wanting, boy. You are no fool, I take it, by your looks; and if you will mind what is said, and do your best, I shall ask no more. What is your name, my good fellow?”
“Michael — Michael Armstrong, sir.”
“Well, then, Michael Armstrong, I am your master, and you are my man; And now you must eat, and then you must go to sleep again, I think, till I have got some decent clothes for you. Those you wore yesterday have had a good washing to be sure. Nevertheless, I don’t justly like the looks of them.”
* * * * *
Within six months from this time, Michael Armstrong, promoted to a place of trust, might have been seen sitting upon the hill-side in one of the most romantic spots in Westmorland, a shepherd’s maud wrapped round his person, a sheep-dog at his feet, and his master’s flocks nibbling the short grass around him on all sides. Many were the solitary hours he thus passed, and very rich was the harvest they brought him. Had the boy remained a year or two longer in the state that
“Blocks out the forms of nature, preconsumes
The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up
The infant being in itself, and makes
Its very spring a season of decay;”
had Michael remained a year or two longer at the Deep Valley factory, in the state thus admirably and accurately described, it would have been too late for any contemplation of God’s works to have roused his withered spirit to worship and to hope. But as it was, his mind seemed to awaken day by day from the long and heavy sleep in which it had been plunged. With an intellect naturally vigorous, and covetous of acquirement, and having had his first infant stretch of thought happily and indelibly directed, though with primeval simplicity, to one God and father of all, his transition from a condition in which
“Scarcely could you fancy that a gleam
Could break from out those languid eyes,”
to one
“Sublime from present purity and joy,”
was rapid and delightful. His heavy losses were not forgotten; but while he meditated beneath the bright arch of heaven on the mother and the brother he had so fondly loved, there were so many sublime and hope-inspiring thoughts mixed with his sorrow, that it could hardly have been called painful.
The worthy “statesman” to whose service he had vowed himself, though he did not, perhaps, follow Michael through all the improving processes which his mountain occupation led to, nor very clearly comprehend the elevating effect of the “skyey influences” under which he lived, was no way slow in perceiving that the Samaritan feeling he had so opportunely displayed in the township of Ashleigh, had bound to his service one of the most trustworthy, active, and intelligent lads he had ever met with. There is always, moreover, in the human heart a propensity to cherish whatever we have preserved; and this feeling, joined to his more worldly-minded approbation of Michael’s good gifts, rendered Muster Thornton exceedingly fond of the boy, and well-inclined at all times to grant him every reasonable indulgence. But Michael rarely taxed his kindness as far as it was ready to go. Once he had asked, and obtained leave to mount to the top of Helvellyn, and once to make a sabbath-day’s journey over the mountain-tops to Ulswater; these were the only occasions on which he had expressed any wish to wander beyond the immediate neighbourhood of the farmer’s sheep-walks, and, in truth, this immediate neighbourhood included so many mountain torrents, glassy lakes, stupendous crags, and sylvan solitudes, that there was little need to go beyond it, in order to gratify a passion for the picturesque. But w
hen Michael had attained the age of eighteen years, a longing, and somewhat restless desire seized him to revisit the place of his birth, to seek for the graves of his mother and Edward, to learn tidings of the kind-hearted Martha, to discover, if possible, whether his own escape from the Deep Valley had been communicated to Sir Matthew, and to ascertain whether he still stood in any danger of being reclaimed as an apprentice, in case of its being discovered that he was at liberty. As to any danger of being personally recognised at Ashleigh, he feared it not; conscious that from his remarkably tall stature and florid health, he was too unlike the factory-child of former days, to run any risk of being known.
It was, however, some months after this wish first suggested itself, before he took courage to name it to his indulgent master. When at length, however, he did so, the good man not only gave his free consent, but declared himself well pleased that such a project had entered his favourite’s head.
“It will do thee a power of good, Mike,” said he. “The only fault I have to find with thee is, that thee beest too steady for a lad of thy years, and that looks as if, with all our care and coaxing, we had not yet been able to make thee forget thy sorrowful childhood. Set off, in God’s name, my boy; stay as long as thou wilt, but only promise to come back at last, for I think it would be heart-aching work to part with thee.”
Michael gratefully promised a speedy return, and dressed in his best attire, he set forth upon his much wished-for pilgrimage to his early home. “It was the pride, the spring tide of the year,” every leaf was opened, yet every leaf retained the new-born freshness of its lovely green. The birds saluted him from every bush; the herds lowed from amidst their dewy banquet, in a note that spoke their measureless content; and every object on which his bright young eye fixed itself, seemed to echo the abounding gladness of his own heart. How elastic was the step with which he passed along! How proudly and thankfully did he feel conscious of his own high place amidst this wondrous creation! and how perfectly was he convinced, despite all he had read during his lone hours on the mountain-side, of the splendour of the cities of the earth, that nothing on its whole surface could exceed in grace and glory the majesty of the gorgeous sun, as he rose triumphantly from out his bed of gold! Had every thought of the boy’s heart been chronicled, a very poetical sort of hymn would have been the result; but as it was, all the glowing thankfulness, the heavenward rapture, and the joy supreme, was but for himself alone — yet was it not thrown away, for Michael enjoyed his own existence during these early hours with an intensity that made him feel all his former sufferings most benignantly overpaid by his present happiness. Yet in the midst of this, tears more than once started to his eyes, as he thought of his mother, and the brother he had so entirely loved. His very soul longed to have Edward by his side, as various fancies chased each other through his fertile brain; and the image of little Fanny, too, with her soft reasoning eyes, as she used to look at him when preaching patience at the Deep Valley Mill, as he fondly laboured to recall it, made him sigh in the midst of his pleasure and his freedom, to think how sad it was that all he had ever loved should have passed away from his eyes for ever.
But amidst the million proofs of tender commiseration for the sufferings, incident of necessity, to our place in creation (which those who run may read, if they are not very great dunces indeed), there is, perhaps, none more remarkable than the gradual softening of the agony which all who survive what they love, are doomed to feel. The state which follows, though as sad as the darkness of the lonely night, made visible by the pale backward glances of the parting moon, has the same soothing stillness too. Passion is over, anxiety at rest, and we feel more than consoled, we feel joyful, as we remember that we too shall pass away, and follow them.
The journey to Ashleigh cost Michael three days’ smart walking, but his pockets were no longer in the condition they had been at the time of his never-to-be-forgotten escape from the Deep Valley. He had proved himself a good and faithful servant, and the worthy yeoman paid him accordingly, so that he had wherewithal to recruit his spirits and his strength as he jogged along, and reached the hospitable Nag’s Head in his native town on the third evening, rather the better than the worse for his pleasant toil.
His first walk on the following morning was to Ashleigh churchyard; but here he was obliged to content himself by knowing that the dear relics of those he wished to honour were near him; for, of course, the only indication by which he could guess whereabouts these precious relics lay, was to be found in the want of all memorial. On the sunny side of Ashleigh churchyard, a number of handsome tombstones may be seen; many a massive monument is there, protected by its strong and stately rail; and thereon may be read, by those who list, the important fact that some one who bore a Christian appellation, lies below. To the north, where the grass grows strongest, though the sun never comes to cheer it, are a multitude of little nameless, unclaimed hillocks, closely wedged together, and rarely showing even a withy-band across the swelling sod, to testify that some one has cared for what lay hidden under it. To this green republic Michael turned himself, and knew full surely that it was there his mother lay. Another, though even as humble as himself, might, under similar feelings, have addressed inquiries to the parish-sexton, and endeavoured to set his memory to work as to the exact spot where he had buried her — but this Michael dared not do; for it would be at once losing the advantage of his incognito, and laying himself very needlessly open to the danger of being reclaimed by his old enemy, Sir Matthew, as a bound apprentice, who had run away. So he contented himself with walking carefully, and with reverential tread, through and amongst the many grassy mounds, permitting his tears to flow freely as he thought of Teddy, and the dear gentle mother who had so equally loved them both; and then turned slowly away, following a path that brought him at the distance of a mile or so to Brookford factory.
The sensation which he felt when the great many-eyed monster first met his sight, was one of unmixed pleasure. He literally hugged himself, and blessed the freedom of his limbs, the firm and healthy action of his pulse, and the delicious consciousness that he was noman’s slave.
For many minutes he stood still to enjoy this; and as his eyes perused line after line of the dusky smoke-stained windows, and recalled the early sufferings he had endured within them, his very heart swelled with gratitude for the change, and he blessed God aloud. But as her approached nearer, and perceived the dim shadowy figures slowly moving here and there, and thought upon the condition of each of them, he almost repented of his selfish joy, and blamed the ecstasy that for a while had made him so utterly forget that thousands were imprisoned still, though he was free.
On, and on, he walked with his eyes immovably fixed upon the hideous fabric till, sooner than he expected it, he stood before the gates. He had conceived no previous plan by which to enter it, and knew that without some specific business, real or feigned, it would be impossible; but while he stood weighing the danger of possible discovery against his very strong inclination to see what alteration time had made in the troop within — whether he should recognise any among them — and whether his old tyrant, Parsons, was still their chief, — the gates opened, and one of the engine-men, a grizzly fellow, whom he well remembered when his sable hair was somewhat less silvered, came forth.
He gave Michael a look, that very plainly said, “What do you want?” and in truth, his neat appearance, unstained skin, and free unshrinking eye, very naturally suggested the idea that he could have no business there.
“Is Mr. Parsons within?” said Michael boldly, and daring the inquiry as much because he knew not what to say, as from any deliberate resolution to do so.
“Yes,” replied the man; “he is about the place somewhere, I seed him not more than ten minutes ago.”
Michael nodded his head, and walked through the gate into the court, across which he had passed in trembling a thousand times. Nor was he now quite free from a slight feeling of alarm at the idea of meeting the sharp eyes of his former t
errible taskmaster, and felt much inclined to blame himself for the curious temerity which had brought him so nearly within his gripe. But it was too late to retreat, for at the distance of a dozen yards he saw Parsons before him, coming forth from the building into the court. On seeing the stranger he immediately approached him; Michael touched his hat.
“What may your business here be, young man?” said Parsons eyeing him from top to toe.
“I called in, sir, to inquire whether you happened to want a spinner, and what the wages may be,” said Michael.
“Is it for yourself?” demanded Parsons, knitting his brows, and looking at him with a sort of incredulous sneer.
“Why, no sir, it is for a kinsman who happens to be out of employ,” replied Michael, colouring from the unusual consciousness of deceit, and from the same cause casting his eyes upon the ground, thereby displaying the remarkable length of his black eyelashes, and giving to his whole countenance a look much more resembling that of former days, than he had worn when he first entered.
Parsons looked at him with a sort of vague idea that he had seen him before.
“Where do you come from?” said he.
“From Westmorland, sir. I have been living in service there for these four years past.”
“And pray what may your name be?”
“Robert Thornton, sir,” replied Michael, blushing again, as he thus unceremoniously borrowed the appellation of his worthy master.
“Have you ever worked in a factory yourself?”
“Yes, sir, I have, when I was a boy,” said Michael, from mere want of skill and hardihood in the art of lying.
“And you think you have bettered yourself, I suppose, with your fine buff waistcoat, and the rest of it. No we don’t want no spinners here.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 210