Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  Poor Martha for a moment ceased to weep, and looked up at him. “Michael Armstrong!” she replied, “I am not conscious of ever having injured any human being but yourself; and yet you are the only one who is near to support and help me at this dreadful hour. God bless you for your kindness, my good boy! Do not go away, Michael — that is, I mean, do not leave the house till all is over — indeed, I think you may be useful to me!’

  “Miss Martha,” he returned, “will you trust me to sit here, while you yourself summon whomever you may wish to keep you company. I will keep out of sight in case—” and here he stopped.

  “His eyes will never open more, Michael!” she replied, while the tears again burst forth, “and thank God their last look at me was gentle! But I almost fear to leave the room, Michael — I would not that he should breathe his last, and I not by him.” But Michael, unskilful as he was, felt that the scene was too awful a one for the poor girl to be left alone in, and he therefore persisted to declare with the authority which such subduing sorrow gives to all around who will take the trouble to exercise it, that he would watch by the bedside of her father while she sought the old woman mentioned by Dr. Crockley.

  Reluctantly, and unresistingly she consented, and giving a look at the bed that seemed to wring her very heart, she quitted the room, leaving Michael Armstrong alone with the motionless mass of still living clay, before which he had so often trembled.

  How strangely eventful had been the interval between those well-remembered days, and the one actually present with him! How extraordinary the change in the circumstances of both parties! It was not triumph, but it was thankfulness, which Michael felt, as the sense of this came fully upon him during these moments of profound stillness; and the result of all the moving thoughts that crowded upon his mind was an earnest prayer to Heaven that he might never be placed in any circumstances likely to harden his heart, and make him the cause of suffering to others, — a fearful and a dreadful crime, which he felt, as he gazed with trembling awe on the sunken features of the living corse before him, must in the sight of God be held as one of the most daring rebellion to his heavenly will of which man is capable.

  Solemn and solitary as was Michael’s position in the chamber of Sir Matthew, the interval of Martha’s absence did not seem long. She returned accompanied by the old servant who had been nursery attendant, though never raised to the dignity of nurse, from the birth of the eldest child of the family, and who was the only one remaining of all the numerous household who retained the slightest feeling of attachment to any of them. To her, habit stood in the place of preference, and she might perhaps be said to love all the Dowling children, from the eldest to the youngest; a sentiment which led her to conceive, as in duty bound, a most hearty detestation of their stepmother. It was, therefore, with something very like pleasure that she obeyed a summons so solemn and so peremptory as to justify her, even in the judgment of Mrs. Saunderson, for laying aside the ironing-box, which she had been plying incessantly for two whole days upon the frills and furbelows of Lady Clarissa, in order to obey it. On perceiving the condition in which her master lay, Betty Parker strongly advised poor Martha to retire, urging the uselessness of her remaining to look upon what was so grievous, when a baby might see at half a glance that the poor gentleman could not tell friend from foe. But Betty Parker knew little of the intensity of Martha’s pertinacious love for her unworthy parent, if she fancied that her very reasonable remonstrance would produce any effect. Martha attempted not even to answer it, but placing herself in a chair close beside the bed, remained nearly as motionless as the faintly breathing figure that lay upon it.

  Poor Michael knew not too well what he ought to do next. He felt that he was useless there; he knew that he should be stared at, as a very incomprehensible intruder, if he descended to the offices. Yet he remembered that his benefactress had bid him not to go, and he could not have felt himself more strongly bound to remain, had the crime of high treason been involved in his departure. Yet there was something in the stupid puzzled look with which Betty Parker regarded him, that vexed his spirit. He was conscious that he had no business in that room, and therefore at such a moment he ought not to be there. After a few moments of reflection he approached Martha, and making so profound a reverence as to convince Betty, that let him be who he would, he was a very well-behaved young gentleman, he said, “I will now, Miss Martha, go to the inn for an hour or two, and then return to take your orders.” A look of gratitude was all her reply, and Michael departed.

  It was three o’clock in the afternoon when he entered the little inn, where the postboy, who had driven him from Fairly in the morning, was still waiting his orders. “I cannot tell you yet, my lad, when I shall be ready to return,” he replied, in answer to the boy’s questionings.

  “It’s all one to me, master,” said the driver. “In course I shall be paid accordingly.”

  “Certainly you will,” returned Michael; and he was then left to eat his solitary dinner with what appetite he might.

  For three long melancholy hours he employed himself in pacing backwards and forwards on the high-road before the little inn, and was beginning to think that time enough had elapsed to justify his returning to inquire how matters were going on at Dowling Lodge, when the sound of a carriage approaching as it seemed from the park-gates, caused him to stop abruptly to listen, and to look.

  The equipage that drew near was a handsome travelling-carriage, though its appearance was considerably disfigured by the prodigious quantity of luggage, which was fastened by ropes and chains to every part of it. The imperial only formed the foundation for a pyramid of trunks and bandboxes, which were piled upon it. The servant’s-seat behind was loaded to its very utmost capacity with more trunks and bandboxes, while, chained below it, was a massive coffer, that looked very like a plate-chest, having suspended round its sides, bundles, baskets, and bags innumerable. Nor was the interior by any means reserved for live lumber alone, for although the rigid figures of Lady Clarissa Dowling, and her waiting-woman, Saunderson, were visible in the midst, it appeared to be crammed with every imaginable species of property which such a conveyance could transport.

  Michael watched the overloaded vehicle roll by with great satisfaction. “Whatever happens,” thought he, “Miss Martha must be better without her.” Relieved by knowing that he should not again run the risk of encountering her delectable ladyship, Michael immediately took his way to the magnificent mansion she had forsaken, and perceiving that the hall-doors stood wide open, preferred passing through them to encountering again the motley throng that had taken possession of the offices. But instead of finding this portion of the house as quiet and forsaken as he had left it, he was startled by hearing, as he mounted the steps of the stately portico, a multitude of voices in violent altercation.

  At first he felt disposed to turn away and seek another entrance, but the vehemence of the sounds he heard excited his curiosity, and he went on. Instead of one, half-a-dozen strangers might have entered without running any risk of having their right there challenged; so great was the confusion that reigned; and Michael might have passed up the great stairs, and into the chamber which it was his purpose to visit, without any difficulty. But he was prevented from taking immediate advantage of this, by hearing words which excited new fears for the unfortunate Martha; and, ere he had listened many minutes, he became aware that a new creditor had reached the lodge after he left it, who had come, armed with proper authority, to arrest the knight, dead or alive. Nor did the discussion of this event cause all the uproar; for the agents of the parties who had previously sent in the execution were threatening with all sorts of punishment, several of the servants, whom they accused of having been bribed to assist Lady Clarissa in the removal of many valuables which she had no right to take. It was not this part of the tumult, however, that interested him; and, having obtained but too clearly the information that Sir Matthew was arrested, he once more sought for the unhappy Martha in the dismal chamber whe
re he had left her. And there he found her; but with such frightful adjuncts to her natural grief, that the state of quiet decent sorrow in which he had left her, seemed a condition positively enviable compared to that in which he found her now.

  Sir Matthew had breathed his last, and the corpse was already arranged with decency upon its stately bed; but, on each side of it stood an officer, whose duty it was to violate by their presence the solemn sanctity of that dismal chamber, and to prevent the body’s being carried to the grave, till the claims of their employer were satisfied. In front of her father’s corpse, with her troubled eyes (no longer bathed in the healing dew of natural sorrow), turning from it to its rude guardians, and back again to all that was left of the sinful being she had so fondly, blindly loved, — stood the wretched daughter, so sad a spectacle of woe, that it was evident the men themselves turned their hard eyes studiously away, because they felt a pang of pity as they looked upon her.

  “Come with me, Miss Martha!” cried Michael, unceremoniously seizing her arm. “You must not, you cannot remain here. You can do no good, Miss Martha; all is over now! You must come away, you must indeed.” The only answer that poor Martha gave, was forcibly shaking off the hand that held her, and then pointing, first to her father’s body, and afterwards to the two unseemly attendants who stood beside it.

  “It is no use, young man, to strive with her,” said Betty, who was still occupied in completing some of her lugubrious operations about the bed: “I know her better than you do. She will stay here watching him till she is as dead as he is, rather than go away, and leave his body to be tended by such as those.”

  For a moment Michael really felt all the enervating effects of despair, and stood perfectly incapable of even imagining any means of help for the agony which it wrung his heart to witness. But, as the old woman pursued her ghastly occupation, she went muttering on, expatiating on the sinful and unchristian outrage that was thus committed. “And what will the rogue get by it?” she said. “Does he mean to show the corpse for a farthing a head to his factory blackguards? Isn’t he as big a fool as he is knave?”

  “No, mistress, no, by no means,” said the friendly defender of Mr. Joseph Parsons: — for it was at his suit that the body of Sir Matthew had been arrested. “You may call the superintendent rogue, or knave, or what you will of that kind, and I don’t suppose that there’s many as would contradict you; but, as to his being a fool, especially as to the doing what he has done here, that he is not. ’Twas his only chance.”

  “And how much do you think he’ll make of it?” demanded old Betty with a sneer.

  “Why, just the four hundred and sixty-seven pounds as is due to him,” replied the man.

  To all this poor Martha appeared not to pay the slightest attention, and, in truth, neither understood nor heard a word of it; but Michael did, and with sudden animation stepped up to the man who had spoken, and whispered in his ear, “Perhaps we may be able to settle this business without any further difficulty. Step out of the room with me, will you, for a moment: your companion can do all that is necessary without you.”—” Neither I nor my employer are people to make difficulties,” replied the man; “and I am quite ready to hear you, young master, if you have got any thing to say upon the subject.” They accordingly retired together; and in a wondrously short space of time the uninitiated Michael was made to understand all the circumstances of the case, the most important of which was that if, as Mr. Parsons hoped and expected, Miss Martha could find ready money enough quietly to pay his little private account with the late Sir Matthew, the arrest would be immediately withdrawn, and the body left for her to dispose of it at her pleasure.

  “And the sum,” said Michael, “is — how much?”

  “Four hundred and sixty-seven pounds,” replied the man, “with some little matter, not exceeding four or five pounds more, for costs.”

  “Withdraw the arrest,” said Michael, “and the money shall be instantly forthcoming.”

  “Let us see the money forthcoming,” replied the fellow, grinning, “and the arrest shall be instantly withdrawn.” —

  “Here is the money, sir,” said Michael, taking out the pocket-book containing Martha’s generous donation, and drawing from it notes to the amount demanded.

  “Then the business will be soon settled, young gentleman. May I take the liberty to ask your name?”

  “My name is of no consequence whatever, sir,” replied Michael. “But lose no time in giving me the discharge. Only first enter that chamber with me once again, withdraw your companion from his frightful watch, and tell the poor young lady that it is over.”

  The man readily obeyed, and the mourning, but thankful Martha was once more left with her old servant, to watch beside her father’s corpse.

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  MR. AUGUSTUS DOWLING GIVES HIS SISTER MARTHA NOTICE TO QUIT THE PREMISES; WHICH OCCASIONS MICHAEL TO APPEAR IN A NEW CHARACTER — A LONG JOURNEY TAKEN BY NOVICES; BUT THEY DO NOT LOSE THEIR WAY, AND ARRIVE AT THE RIGHT PLACE AT LAST.

  THE circumstances which immediately followed are not of sufficient consequence to detain us long. Our old acquaintaince, Mr. Augustus, now Major Dowling of the — regiment, quartered at the distance of a day’s journey, was sent for to get through the melancholy business going on in his paternal mansion, as well as he could; to give orders respecting the funeral, and to make himself as thoroughly acquainted with the real state of his family affairs as circumstances would permit. Michael, meanwhile, had taken leave of the weeping Martha without having given her the slightest hint as to the means by which Sir Matthew’s body had been released. Had he not known that the Mr. Augustus, whose kicks and pinches he so well remembered, was expected to arrive for the protection of his sister, and of whatever property they might still call their own, he would hardly have made up his mind to leave her, however conscious he might have been of the doubtful propriety of offering such protection as he could give. But it was evident that the poor girl thought he had better go, though it was equally so that she parted from him with the greatest reluctance.

  “You shall hear from me,” she said, “my good Michael, and if it should never be my good fortune to see you more, remember me with the same forgiving kindness that you have shown through all the dreadful scenes you have witnessed here. You have a good and generous heart, Michael, and though I know you suffered much by being present at them, you will always like to remember how greatly your presence helped to support your early friend in her great affliction.”

  But it was not destined that these sad scenes should be the last in which Michael and his early friend were to be thrown together. In little more than a week after the death of Sir Matthew, and while Michael was still anxiously waiting at Fairly for such tidings from her as might put him at liberty to set off without further delay for Nice, a packet reached him from Dowling Lodge, containing two letters. One was from Martha, and contained these words:

  “Dear Michael, “My brother tells me that all of us, who are old enough, must seek our own living, for that there is nothing left to support us. Myself especially, he says, must, to use his own words, look about me directly, as my behaviour to my family has never been such as to justify my looking to any of them for assistance. This amounts to my being actually turned out of doors, an exigency which at this moment leaves me no other resource than what is afforded by the enclosed letter. Read it, Michael, and let me know if you are willing to give me your assistance and protection in reaching the amiable writer of it. I could never have accepted, even for a day, the hospitality she so generously offers, could I not prove to her, by bringing you with me, that the sad subject which interrupted our friendship some seven or eight years ago, could never again be a source of pain to either of us.

  “My dear father’s last act towards me, which was, as I think I told you, the placing a few hundred pounds in my hands for the express purpose of my leaving the country, will enable me to undertake this long journey without being a burden upon you, The green pock
et-book, Michael, so well known to Mr. Parsons and Lady Clarissa, as the repository of my father’s ready money, and so disgracefully struggled for during his last moments, will prove of no value to its possessors beyond its morocco cover and its silken lining; for the notes which he took from it to give to me, were the last he ever placed in it. My messenger has orders to wait for your reply. If it will suit you immediately to accompany me to Nice — my first stage shall be to the little inn at Fairly, which you mentioned to me. I fear you will find me a weak and troublesome traveller; but I think I have been improving in health ever since I learnt that I had not your death to answer for.

  “Your grateful friend,

  “MARTHA DOWLING.”

  The other letter was from Miss Brotherton, and ran thus:

  “Need I tell you, my dearest Martha, with what feelings I received the news of your present painful position? Your father’s marriage with Lady Clarissa was, for your sake, a source of great sorrow to me, for I was certain that your domestic happiness would be destroyed by it; and this most unexpected event of your father’s bankruptcy makes me feel quite sure that you have no longer a comfortable home in England. Come then to me, my dear Martha! The painful estrangement which grew between us, just when I was beginning to know and value your excellent qualities, has long been a source of very painful regret to me, because I am aware that I judged you unfairly, and pronounced that judgment harshly. Be generous, then, and prove that you can forgive this, by immediately giving me the pleasure of receiving you as my guest. When we are together, we will consult about what will be best for the future; but at any rate I have the satisfaction of knowing that the climate to which I am inviting you is likely to be beneficial to your health during the approaching winter: come to me, then, dear friend, without delay. On the other side you will find the route sketched that I recommend you for your journey. My quarters are roomy enough to accommodate either man or maidservant, or both, if it will suit you to be so accompanied.