Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “I marked you at the meeting,” said his sociable companion. “It did my heart good to see a sprinkling here and there of them that come out of pure love and kindness to their poor fellow-creatures, having nothing themselves to gain. Tis a pity and a sin too, that so many Englishmen stand idly by, when such a business as this is afoot, just as if they had nothing to do with it. But they are one and all mistaken, and that they may chance to find out, too, one of these days.”

  “You give me credit for more than I deserve, perhaps,” replied Michael; “that is, if you think my heart was enough with the poor factory-folks to make me take a long roundabout to sign with them, without having had some knowledge of their sufferings myself. You are right in thinking that I am not one of them now; but I have been, and Heaven forbid I should ever forget it! for the keeping that time mind, is quite enough to make every thing that comes to me now seem light and easy.”

  “You have worked in a factory?” said the other in an accent of surprise; “I should never have guessed as much — but you are very right to be thankful for the present, instead of ashamed for the past. But I don’t think,” he added, eyeing the fine person of Michael from head to foot, “I don’t think I ever saw a lad who showed So little signs of having suffered in health and limb from it. Some lucky accident must have taken you away early?”

  “I have seen many a boy and girl crippled for life,” replied Michael, “before they were as old as I was when I ran away.”

  “My good fellow,” whispered his companion, “don’t you use them words again. You are safe with me, I promise you; but if you ran from indentures, you won’t do wisely to tell of it.”

  “You must blame your own kind and friendly looks,” said Michael, smiling; “I know well enough that what you say is true, and it isn’t a thing I should have told to many. But excepting just now that I took a fancy to come back, and take a look about the old place where I was born, I have got so clear and clean away from mills and mill-owners, that I have grown rather bolder, maybe, than I ought to be. My business now, thank Heaven! is sheep-tending upon the beautiful free hills of Westmorland.”

  “You may well be thankful for such a change,” replied his friendly companion. “It must have been some unaccountable good luck; for in general, a runaway factory ‘prentice is hunted down and caught long before he has got among the good hill-folks.”

  “It was, indeed, a blessed chance for me!” said Michael, with deep feeling. “I fell into the hands of the best man and the best master that ever a wretched runaway hit upon.”

  “I almost wonder at you then venturing to come within sight of your own place again. You can’t be one-and-twenty yet by your looks, and you would not over-well like to work out your time in a factory, I should think,” said the other.

  “I don’t think I should,” replied Michael, laughing; “and I have run some risk, I promise you, already, of the very thing you talk of, since I left my master’s house. Nothing would content my foolish fancy for calling back old times, but going to look at the very factory where I first worked, and talking to the identical tyrant who tortured me there.”

  “But he did not know you, I hope?” said the old man.

  “I can hardly say that he did not,” replied Michael; “for some notion or other came into his head, and after I left him he sent for me to come back again. It was, however, by a friendly messenger who knew well enough who I was, and gave me pretty plainly to understand which way I had better walk — and that was good luck again. But I was sorry, too, to have to turn away from the old place without learning any news of my former acquaintance. I found the same overlooker at Sir Matthew Dowling’s mill, and that was all I could find out.”

  “Sir Matthew Dowling’s mill at Ashleigh? that’s my country, too. My wife keeps a school at Milford,” replied the man, “and we have heard enough of Sir Matthew.”

  “Can you tell me any thing about his daughter Martha?” demanded Michael, with the appearance of being greatly interested in the inquiry. “She was very kind to me, and I loved her next best, I think, to my own dear mother and brother. Do you happen to know any thing about her?”

  “Not just at present,” replied the man; “though they do say, that all the family are likely to have a downfal, owing to Sir Matthew’s getting into a scrape about bad bills, or something or other, t’other side of the water. But I do well remember something particular about Miss Martha that you talk of, a matter of seven years ago; and if she was good to you, it was more than she was to every body, for it was all along of a cruel piece of treachery of hers, that I lost the best mistress that ever man had. I dare say, if you come from Ashleigh, you must know the name of Miss Brotherton, though it’s long since she left Milford. I was her coachman, and if it had not been for Miss Martha Dowling, I believe I might have been so still.”

  “I was but just turned ten years old, at the time I knew Miss Martha,” returned Michael; “but I shouldn’t have thought she could be treacherous to any body.”

  “She was though, for all our people knew the whole story from first to last, and a queer story it was too, when one thinks of the end of it; which was neither more nor less than sending our dear young lady away out of the country.”

  “I never happened to know any thing about the lady who owned the park,” replied Michael; “except that she was one of the fine folks as I have seen at Dowling Lodge, but I should like to hear the story, because of Miss Martha.”

  “Why the short and the long of it was, that there was a poor widow called Armstrong—”

  Michael started so violently, that his companion stopped.

  “Did you happen to know her, my lad?” he added, after a pause.

  “Yes, sir, I remember her very well — but please to go on.”

  “Well then, this widow Armstrong had two sons, and one of them was had up to the great house, Dowling Lodge, I mean, for some nonsensical reason or other; and Sir Matthew pretended to make the greatest fuss in the world about him, and the whole country was talking about it. But for some offence of the poor boy’s, I never rightly heard what, the old sinner determined upon sending him ‘prentice to the most infernal place, by all account, that the earth has got to be ashamed of. And how do you think the poor widow was coaxed over to sign the indentures? Why by your friend, Miss Martha, and no one else, and that I know upon the best authority. Well, ’tis a long story, the ins and outs of it, and I can’t say that I ever rightly understood the whole, but this I know to be fact: that our young mistress took the whole thing so much to heart, that she actually set out to look after the boy; but when she got to the murderous place the poor little fellow was dead! And what did she do then, dear, tender-hearted lady! but bring back a pretty little girl instead of him, because, as we all guessed, she was determined to save somebody.”

  The emotion of Michael Armstrong on hearing this, was so entirely beyond his power to conquer, that he lost all capability of utterance, and instead of asking the name of the little girl — an inquiry which he in vain strove to make — he sat pale and gasping, with his eyes fixed on the speaker, and every limb trembling.

  “The Lord have mercy on us! what is the matter with you, my good fellow?” said Miss Brotherton’s ci-devant coachman. “You look cruel bad! Is it my tale as turns you so? or is it that you have walked too much and too fast?”

  “No, no, no! Pray go on!” murmured Michael, making a strong effort to articulate.

  “’Tis the story, then? and you knowed the poor Armstrongs, beyond all doubt!” said the kind-hearted coachman. “Well then, you shall hear the end of it. When my mistress brought back the news of the little fellow’s death, his poor mother, who was but a sickly, cripply sort of body, just broke her heart and died; whereupon Miss Brotherton took home the other boy, put him to school to my wife, and then took to teaching him herself, and treated him for all the world as if he had been her own brother; and then she began to fancy that he wanted a doctor—”

  “And then,” groaned Michael, suddenly
interrupting him, “and then he died!”

  “You don’t say so?” said the coachman, in an accent of regret. “Did he indeed, poor boy? Well now, I’m sorry for that; for it was a pleasure to see him growing taller and stouter every day, almost, as one may say. And when was it he died? It’s carious that we should never have heard of it.”

  “Heard of it?” said Michael, while a sort of wild uncertainty took possession of his mind, that gave him the feeling of one whose reason-threatened to leave him. “Heard it? Why did you want to hear it? Could you not see it, and know it, if he was living in the same house with you?”

  “For certain I could, if he had died while Miss Brotherton remained at the park; but that he did not, for I drove him off the first stage myself, alive and well, and looking as beautiful as he always did, poor lad, for he was to be sure the handsomest-faced boy, that ever I looked upon. But what might have happened to him afterwards, is of course more than I can say; for when the place was sold, and all of us paid off, all we heard was, that our dear young lady was set off to travel in foreign countries, and had left pensions to every one of her servants according to their length of service. So we know nothing since.”

  “Is there no one can tell me where she is gone, and in what land my brother died?” said Michael, violently agitated.

  “Your brother?” said his companion. “Who do you mean by your brother, my lad?”

  “Teddy! — my brother Edward! — I am Michael Armstrong!” was the convulsive reply.

  “God bless my heart and soul! And you be the boy as Miss Brotherton went to look after? And she got into the wrong box, then, about your being dead? Was there ever any thing like that? But who was it, my boy, that told you as your brother was dead?”

  “A woman in Ashleigh — one living in the house where my mother died. She told me that my mother was dead, and my brother too.”

  “Did she know who she was speaking to? Did she know you was Michael Armstrong?” said the old coachman with quickness.

  “No, she knew me not,” replied Michael; “but she knew that the widow Armstrong and her boy were dead.”

  “Then I’ll be hanged if I believe as your brother is dead,” replied the other eagerly. “When she said the widow’s boy, she meant you, I’ll lay my life on it; and there is nobody in Ashleigh, if they had told of her death, but would have named that of her boy too; but it would have always been meaning you, because every body knew that one followed close upon the news of the other. And I don’t believe that your brother’s dead, and that’s a fact.”

  Michael clasped his hands rigidly together, and closing his eyes, remained so long motionless, that his good-natured companion became alarmed, and laying his hand upon the poor lad’s arm, shook him gently, as he said, “Any how, my good fellow, there is no cause for you to break your heart with thinking about it all. Talking about your poor mother, and her love of you, has made you turn as pale as a sheet; and natural enough, too, perhaps. But my notion that your brother is alive and well, ought to comfort you — oughtn’t it?”

  Michael opened his eyes, and fixing them on his companion, said, “The joy of it is more than I can bear!” and then the tears bursting forth, he wept copiously; a timely relief, for which he had great reason to be thankful.

  “Well, well, I don’t mind seeing you cry a little — that won’t do you no harm; and thank goodness your colour is coming back again! I declare I thought I had been the death of you,” said his new friend, “But I’ll tell you something more, and that is the name of him as knows more about Miss Brotherton and your brother too, I’ll be bold to say, than any body in the whole country, and that’s Parson Bell, of Fairly.”

  “And where is Fairly?” said Michael, starting up. “How long shall I be in getting there? The hope is only hope yet, you know — there is no certainty. Edward! dear, dear, Edward! Is it God’s pleasure that I should see him again in this world? Is it possible that such a heavenly dream can ever come true? Oh! how often have I sat upon the hill and watched the clouds, and thought that he was above them all!”

  “Poor boy! But ‘twill be better still, for a few years to come, that he should be upon the earth along with you, won’t it?”

  “Where is. Fairly?” reiterated Michael. “How long shall I be in getting there?”

  “Longer than you’ll like, my dear boy,” replied the coachman. “It’s a good sixteen miles from this very house; I should not wonder if they was to charge seventeen, and you must not think of trying to compass that to-night, for you are not in any wise in a fit condition for it, changing colour, as you do, every minute. Your best course will be to rest here for the night, and set off again by times to-morrow morning, and that will bring you in easy by about the middle of the day, you know.”

  “Impossible!” said Michael. “I owe you more than I am able to thank you for, and I would be willing to show my gratitude by following your advice — only, sir, I am quite sure I could not sleep a wink. And I don’t think it would do me any good to lie tossing from side to side, unknowing, for certain, whether my own dear Teddy was alive or dead! So if you please, I must set off directly, that I may know the best and the worst at once.”

  “I suppose at your age I should have done the same; therefore I won’t pretend to quarrel with you for it,” replied the good man; “but I suppose it would be just prudent to call for an ink-horn, and to set down upon a bit of paper the name of the good clergyman that you are to call upon, as well as his place of residence.”

  “There is no need of that, sir,” said Michael; “Parson Belly of Fairly, are the words you said, and they, as well as all the rest you have spoken, seem as if they were stamped upon my very heart. But yet, before I start, I should like to use the ink-horn too, that I might write a line or so to my good master. I know he will be troubled in his mind about me if I don’t get back, and I don’t know rightly how long it may be. God bless him, good man!” continued Michael; “it was he that had me taught to write, and he shan’t be left with any doubts or fears upon his mind for want of a letter from me.”

  This was a measure that the coachman greatly approved, and observing that he was well known in the house, and sure to be minded, he undertook to order the writing-materials, as well as something substantial by way of a supper; declaring that though he had come into his young friends wild scheme of walking off straight away for Fairly, instead of putting up for the night, either where they were, or at Leeds, he should not part with him without a quarrel, if he refused to accept, and do justice to the good cheer he should provide. This kindness on the part of the man who had so strongly influenced his destiny, was both kindly intentioned and wisely devised; for greatly did the agitated young man stand in need of recruited strength and tranquillity, before he set off upon a new expedition, which was to lead to information so vitally important to his happiness. Though it was somewhat against his inclination, he accepted the friendly invitation gratefully, and the materials for writing being set before him, he addressed the following epistle to Mr. Thornton:

  “Honoured Master!

  “Your goodness to me, in all ways, would make any abuse of it on my part a heavy crime indeed — too heavy, I think, for me to commit, or you to suspect me of. But I cannot be at the supper-table at Neckerby, on next Saturday night, according to my promise. A very strange thing has happened to me, dear master, which may, perhaps, come to nothing, and in that case I know you will hear my story, and pity me too much to think of anger. But if all I hope comes to pass, your generous heart will rejoice with me, and you will bless your own goodness, for bringing me to the knowledge of the very greatest joy that ever fell to the lot of a human being, by giving me this holiday.

  “I am, honoured Master,

  “Your faithful and grateful servant,

  “MICHAEL ARMSTRONG.”

  Having finished his letter, and committed it to the post, Michael felt somewhat more tranquil, and endeavoured to assume with his new acquaintance an air of greater composure, and self-possession
. But his heart beat, his temples throbbed, his thoughts wandered, and when he and his friendly companion sat down to supper, the poor boy felt that he could almost as easily have swallowed the board itself as any portion of the substantial fare which was spread upon it. But he quaffed a long and refreshing draught from a pitcher of cold water, and putting, at the suggestion of the worthy coachman, a crust in his pocket, he sallied forth with the agitating consciousness that on the information of which he was in pursuit, hung all his earthly hopes.

  His new friend shook his head as he felt his feverish hand, and marked his heightened colour, and his eager eye.

  “God bless you, boy!” said the good man. “Remember, if you fall sick by the way, that my name is Richard Smithson, that I live at Milford, near Ashleigh, and that I’ll hold myself ready to come to you at a pinch, if you should happen to have need of me. And here, Michael Armstrong, are three sovereigns, that I give you to keep for two reasons. One is, that you may use them in case you have need. The other, that if you don’t want them, I shall be sure to see you, when you bring them back, and that you will do, or I’ll never trust a lad’s face more; and now good bye. It is but a wildish sort of boy’s trick though, setting off this way at night, when you ought to be in bed.”

  “The air and the walk will do me more good than all the beds in the world!” replied Michael. “God bless you, sir! See me you shall, if I continue to live and so saying, he strode forth into the night, with a longing for greater space to breathe in, than could be found in the kitchen of the Royal-oak.

  The boy was right as to the effect which this bodily exertion would produce upon him. The very darkness calmed him; he took his hat off that the cool air might bathe his temples with its dewy breath; and though his pace was rapid, and scarcely relaxed for a moment during many miles, the action of his pulse became more healthy, and the aching of his throbbing temples passed away.