Though after hearing Mr. Bell’s decided opinion that no further danger was to be feared from Sir Matthew Dowling, Michael would himself have felt not the least desire to run away from him, yet it was impossible not to perceive that Martha was of a different mind, and that for some reason or other she was exceedingly anxious that he should not remain near Dowling Lodge, or, in other words, within her father’s reach. Whether she were right, or wrong, in fancying that it was necessary for his safety that he should keep out of the way, he felt that it would be cruel to oppose her; and with the unexamined roll of bank-notes thrust into his coat-pocket, he ‘gave but one farewell look at the retreating drapery of poor Martha, and then with rapid strides, and thoughts so full of the scene which had just passed, that he followed the right path rather mechanically than from judgment, he set off upon his return to the humble lodging he had secured for the night.
CHAPTER XXX.
MICHAEL GROWS RICH, AND TAKES A VERY DELIGHTFUL WALK BACK TO WESTMORLAND — HIS PREPARATIONS FOR A LONGER JOURNEY ARE SUDDENLY STOPPED — HE MAKES A PAINFUL VISIT, BUT MEETS MANY OLD ACQUAINTANCES. —
THE morning’s walk had been a long one, even for Michael Armstrong, and right glad was he to find himself again in the neatly-sanded kitchen of his little inn, with a loaf and cheese before him, of sufficient dimensions to resist any attacks he could make upon them. A moderate proportion of beer, in addition to the solid meal these afforded, refreshed him so effectually that he determined to take his leave of Mr. Bell that night, preparatory to setting off on his return to Westmorland on the following morning, in order to bid farewell to his good old master there. On the subject of Martha’s bank-notes he meant to be entirely guided by the advice of the clergyman, being equally fearful of offending, or rather of paining their generous owner by refusing to accept them, or of depriving her of what might be hereafter useful, by agreeing to do so.
“I have seen Miss Martha, sir!” were his first words on entering Mr. Bell’s parlour, and both look and accent showed that the interview had been an interesting one. “But, alas! she is greatly altered,” he added, restraining with difficulty the tears that rose to his eyes. “I fear she is very ill; — but she was glad — oh! so glad to see me, sir! She has been fretting, poor dear young lady, under the false notion that she had been to blame about me; but, thank Heaven! think she knows better now, and perhaps when her mind is at ease again she may recover health. I can’t bear to think how pale and thin she is grown, and all about me, to whom she was the best and kindest friend that ever poor boy had. And see, sir, what she has done now!” continued Michael, drawing forth the roll of notes from his pocket. “Here is a large sum of money, I believe. She did not rightly know how much it was herself, she told me, because she had kept on putting by what she did not want, and had never counted how much it came to — and I’m sure I have not counted it either; but whether it is little or much, I don’t feel quite certain whether I ought to take it.”
Mr. Bell smiled at the unusual manner in which the rich-looking, but carelessly-packed roll of paper had passed from one hand to the other. Before he examined the contents he questioned Michael as to all that the generous-hearted girl had said to him, on bestowing it, and the young man’s faithful answers soon convinced him that there would be little kindness to the self-reproaching Martha in refusing a donation which she evidently considered as an atonement, and which would, he doubted not, by its application to Michael’s necessities, do more towards healing her wounded mind than any other thing whatever.
“You must not refuse the gift, Michael,” said Mr. Bell, after hearing his narrative to the end. “I do not wonder, little as she has been to blame in the matter, at her having suffered greatly for all that she innocently made you suffer; nor am I at all surprised, since it was in her power to do so, that she should wish to make you this atonement. It comes at a lucky moment, my dear boy, for not only will it enable you to present yourself before Miss Brotherton, without throwing yourself, as you said yesterday, upon her charity, but I suspect it may go far in assisting your hopes of entering into some business, which may enable you to support yourself.”
Mr. Bell then opened the bundle of notes, and found that they amounted to rather more than five hundred pounds; a sum which, to Michael, appeared so enormous that he uttered something like a remonstrance against the opinion which advised his appropriating the whole.
“Did you not tell me, sir,” he said, “that Sir Matthew Dowling’s affairs were not considered to be in so flourishing a state as they had been? And may not this money be wanted by Miss Martha in case he should really become involved in difficulties?”
“I think there is no danger of her wanting it, Michael,” returned Mr. Bell. “Let what will happen, I have no doubt that Sir Matthew will be able to secure sufficient from the relics of his enormous wealth to maintain his family in easy circumstances. A sum like this, my dear boy, is but a drop in such an ocean.”
Michael resisted no longer, and this point being settled, his plan of operations was soon arranged. In deference to Martha’s fears for his safety, he decided not to visit his good friend Richard Smithson, at Milford, Mr. Bell undertaking to settle the matter of the loan, and moreover to convey to the kind-hearted man the assurances of Michael’s well-doing, of his gratitude, and hearty good wishes. The letter from the travellers, which was to settle the happy Michael’s road, would probably arrive within a week or two, and Mr. Bell recommended that, having paid his farewell visit to Westmorland he should return to Fairly, and there equip himself in such a manner as would be suitable for presenting himself before Miss Brotherton. Mr. Bell agreed to take the custody of his treasure, till his return, and with his bundle again on his shoulder, and five pounds in his pocket, Michael set off to walk over the fells and moors he had to traverse, with a lightness of spirit that seemed to strew the deserts with flowers, and made every blast that blew upon him as soft and sweet as the gales of Araby. It was not the least, perhaps, of his pleasures, as he strode sturdily along, to compare his present walk with that which had conducted him from the Deep Valley to Ashleigh, four years before.
The suffering, the terror, and the final agony of that expedition could not come over his mind, however, without throwing a shade over his gladness; but it chastened without obscuring the bright combination of objects that glowed in the prospect before him; and, altogether, it would be difficult to find any walk on record more replete with enjoyment than this of Michael to the humble mountain-home that had so kindly sheltered him.
It was with a very flattering mixture of joy and sorrow that the good statesman and his family accepted Michael’s farewell, and listened to his happy hopes; and it was amidst blessings and hearty good wishes that once again he sallied forth to wend his way for the last time over the mountains, and bid a fond and lingering adieu to his beloved lakes and tarns. He felt that those had been to him as teachers and preachers, elevating his heart and imagination, and preparing him, more effectually perhaps than any other school could have done, for the different sphere of life in which he now hoped to move.
On reaching Fairly, he found that a letter had arrived from Miss Brotherton, enclosing one to Martha Dowling, which had been forwarded immediately; and which, by what the kind-hearted heiress said to her Fairly friends, seemed to have been written in consequence of the reports which had reached her respecting the failing fortunes of Sir Matthew. Miss Brotherton was at Nice, where it was her purpose to remain for some months. To Nice, then, the thrice happy Michael prepared to go; a respectable wardrobe, and all other necessary equipments were easily procured in the neighbourhood, his place to London taken, and all things ready for his setting off, save that he still expected an answer to a very cautiously-worded epistle which he had ventured to address to Martha, informing her that he was setting off for Nice, and that any letter or message she might wish to convey to Miss Brotherton, should be carefully delivered by her faithful humble serrant, M. A.
Michael was at breakfast with his kind and hospitable
friends, when a lad, bearing great marks of hasty travelling in his appearance, made his way into the room, and with a look that seemed to prophesy eventful tidings, if he were but asked for them, delivered a letter to Mr. Bell. This proved, however, to be only a blank cover, enclosing one to Michael, which was handed to him, while the eyes of his host and hostess fixed themselves with some anxiety on his face. Michael tore open the despatch, and changed colour as he read it. Then, giving an intelligible glance at the messenger who ceased not to wipe his forehead with one arm, while he held his hat squeezed to his side with the other, he said, “I should like to speak to you about this, Mr. Bell.”
“Go into the kitchen, my lad,” said the clergyman, “and get some breakfast. You shall know when the answer is ready.”
Though evidently disappointed at being thus dismissed unquestioned, the boy consoled himself with the hope of a kitchen audience, and making his reverence, retired.
“What in the world have you got there, Michael?” demanded Mr. Bell. “Not good news, I am afraid?”
“No, indeed, sir,” replied Michael, “very far from it.’ It is from Miss Martha Dowling, who seems to be in great distress.”
“Read it to us, my good fellow, will you? If there is no reason to the contrary.”
“What is written here, sir, cannot long be a secret from any body. This is what she says:
“‘ Dear Michael!
“‘ Pray come to me at Dowling Lodge directly. There is no longer any danger to be feared from my poor dear father, for he is very, very ill — and I think you can be useful to me, which I am sure you will be if you can. Alas! Michael, you will witness a dreadful scene! My poor father has kept every thing secret to the very last; meaning, I am sure, to prepare his family for it as well as he could. I could not think what it was made him send ail my sisters away to Arabella and Harriet. The two little ones, indeed, as well as the three youngest boys, are all at school, so that I am the only child he has left with him, my elder brothers being all away in their different professions. I tell you all this now, Michael, because I shall, I suppose, have no time to say any thing but on necessary business when you come here. Do not delay, I am sure you can be useful to me.
“‘In great sorrow, your friend, “I MARTHA DOWLING.’”
“Poor girl! This is sad indeed!” cried Mr. Bell. “I imagine, though she does not explain herself, that her father’s affairs are fallen into confusion. Yet I cannot guess what you can do for her. However, you must go immediately of course; and you had better hire a chaise that no time may be lost. And I would advise you, Michael, to take with you the pocket-book which Mrs. Bell packed up for you so carefully last night. I fear that it is but too likely your prediction will be fulfilled already, and that the poor young lady may be glad to have some of her notes returned.” —
“Thank God! that I was not gone,” replied Michael, fervently. “It will be the greatest pleasure of my life, if I can be useful to her!”
Little time was lost in setting off; and certainly much before his Arrival had been hoped for by Martha, Michael, who left his postchaise at a public-house near the lodge, was walking towards the mansion by the same path in which he had so lately parted from her. On entering the kitchen, the scene which met his eyes, explained at the very first glance the nature of the business carrying on upon the premises. A number of men were standing about, some few occupied in sticking slips of paper inscribed “Lot No. — upon a variety of articles which appeared to have been collected there for the purpose. Others, with black canvass aprons and paper caps, were coming and going with no very apparent purpose; while another set, with cold meat and beer-flagons before them, sat round a small table in a corner, discoursing upon themes which appeared to occasion them much merriment.
Bu t among all these, there was not one that looked like a servant of the house; and taking advantage of the confusion which seemed to license the freedom, he walked on without speaking to any of them, and determined to trust to his memory for finding the small morning-parlour which used to contain all poor Martha’s little literary personalties, and in which ail his reading and writing lessons had been received.
Neither his recollection nor his conjeture deceived him; he found the apartment he sought, and on opening the door, discovered Martha sitting there. But she was not, as he had hoped to find her, alone. On a sofa placed opposite the windows sat a figure, bolt upright in the middle of it, with a sofa-table before her entirely covered with trinkets, delicate Sèvre china, miniature bronzes, and other valuable nick-nacks. A quantity of cotton-wool lay on the sofa beside her, and her long lean fingers were actively employed in selecting the most precious articles, enveloping them in the wool, and then cramming them into a large basket that stood before her, — sometimes selecting one, either smaller or more precious than the rest, and thrusting it into her pocket or up her sleeve. A large Indian screen was spread before the door, which induced Michael, on hearing a voice that certainly was not that of his friend Martha, to remain unseen long enough to decide whether his entrance would be likely to occasion her any embarrassment.
“I tell you, Martha, that you talk like a fool, and that is what you always were, and always will be!” said the upright lady, in a shrill voice, but in a tone that she was endeavouring to reduce to a whisper. “What right can any one of these horrid dirty fellows have with what is mine, I should like to know? I am not going to be made bankrupt, or sent to jail, or have my property seized, because your abominable, wicked, low-born, brutal, treacherous, false father, has been found out, and is going to be treated as he deserves. As for you, and all the rest of your family, there is nothing to be said or done, I suppose, but to submit, and just do what you can to get your bread. With such blood as you have got in your veins, there will be no great harm done if you were all to go out as housemaids and footmen. The thing happens among low people continually, if the father gets into distress; but I should like to know who ever heard of a woman of quality, the daughter of an earl, being treated in the same sort of unceremonious way?”
“But indeed, Lady Clarissa, it will be a great deal worse for my father, if it is found out that his wife has been endeavouring to secrete property,” said Martha.
“His wife, indeed! A pretty soft of husband he has made me, hasn’t he? Having my noble arms painted on his paltry carriages, and engraven on his plate, not a single ounce of which had been twenty years in his possession; and then, vulgar wretch! insisting upon seeing my housekeeper’s account, for fear I should save any thing out of the money he allowed me! Pitiful, cheating, brutal, manufacturing savage! But thank Heaven! my slavery is at an end! — To-morrow will see me many a good mile on my way to Scotland! The monsters say I may take my clothes and my money — and my clothes and my money I will take, I promise you, Miss Martha; so I would really advise you to go and collect your own things, and see them put together decently. You may be able to sell some of them perhaps, which might be very useful, and that would be spending your time much more profitably, and decently too, than sitting there lecturing me upon what I may, and what I may not take. I shall take every thing that belongs to me, and there’s an end of that; and I wish to my heart you would just go away and leave me in peace.”
“Did I not know, Lady Clarissa, that my father would suffer for it,” said Martha rising, “I would not have troubled you with my remonstrances; but I am certain that you are now occupied in abstracting things that of right belong to my poor father’s creditors, and if it is discovered, it may be the means of their refusing his certificate, and he may be thrown into a jail for life.” —
“And where could he be better, Miss Martha? I am sure I don’t know. My belief is that he is mad, or going to be mad, and I don’t see but a jail is as comfortable as a mad-house, and as it must be a great deal cheaper, it will suit his circumstances a great deal better. I wish you would go, child, and see if there is such a thing in the house as a basin of soup for my luncheon. I may ring and ring, but there is not a creature that wil
l answer the bell now.”
Martha made no reply, but she rose from her chair, and Michael stepped back into the passage, that she might not meet him within hearing of her selfish step-mother.
“You are come, then!” exclaimed the poor girl, on catching sight of him. “This is very kind of you, Michael! If you will walk this way with me — there is nobody in the great drawing-room now — I will explain my reasons for sending for you.”
Michael followed her to the well-remembered drawing-room, which had so often witnessed the display of Sir Matthew’s munificent charity, by showing him off to all the neighbourhood. The recollection was very hateful to him, yet the right-hearted lad felt a pang as he accompanied his benefactress into this greatly-altered scene of former splendour. The whole house was under preparation for a sale by auction, and nothing could exceed the speaking state of gilded desolation which this fine room exhibited. —
Never mind the confusion, Michael! Just step over these curtains — we can sit down, up in that corner of the room — take care of the mirrors, my dear boy! Surely they have thrown these costly things about more heedlessly than was necessary!” said poor Martha, as she led the way rather over, then through the scattered mass of splendid furniture with which the room was strewed.
“It is strange, Michael,” she resumed, as soon as they had seated themselves in a clear space of six feet wide, where two chairs were standing near one of the windows, “it is strange, most strange, that you should be the only person that I could think of to assist my poor father in his misery! You who have suffered so severely from — from his displeasure. But I found out, Michael, that you had a kind, good heart, when you used to talk to me of your mother and poor Teddy. It was that which made me take notice of you then, and it is that which makes me ask for your assistance now.”
“And happy and thankful shall I be if I can do you any good, Miss Martha!” replied Michael, eagerly. “I have brought back the notes, all but about twelve pounds, that has been laid out for me. It is a very large sum, Miss Martha, and I trust it will be useful to you.”
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