Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  But in the room they entered, the dirty, ragged, miserable crew, were all in active performance of their various tasks; the overlookers, strap in hand, on the alert; the whirling spindles urging the little slaves who waited on them, to movements as unceasing as their own; and the whole monstrous chamber, redolent of all the various impurities that “by the perfection of our manufacturing system,” are converted into “gales of Araby” for the rich, after passing in the shape of certain poison, through the lungs of the poor. So Sir Matthew proudly looked about him, and approved; and though it was athwart that species of haughty frown, in which such dignity as his is apt to clothe itself, Dr. Crockley failed not to perceive, that his friend and patron was in good humour, and likely to be pleased by any light and lively jestings in which he might indulge. Perceiving, therefore, that little Michael passed on with downcast eyes, unrecognised by any, he wrote upon a slip of paper, for he knew his voice could not be heard “Make the boy take that bare-legged scavenger wench round the neck, and give her a kiss while she is next lying down, and let us see them sprawling together.”

  Sir Matthew read the scroll, and grinned applause.

  The miserable creature to whom the facetious doctor pointed, was a little girl about seven years old, whose office as “scavenger was to collect incessantly from the machinery and from the floor, the flying fragments of cotton that might impede the work. In the performance of this duty, the child was obliged, from time to time, to stretch itself with sudden quickness on the ground, while the hissing machinery passed over her; and when this is skilfully done, and the head, body, and outstretched limbs carefully glued to the floor, the steady-moving, but threatening mass, may pass and repass over the dizzy head and trembling body without touching it.

  But accidents frequently occur; and many are the flaxen locks, rudely torn from infant heads, in the process.

  It was a sort of vague hope that something comical of this kind might occur, which induced Dr. Crockley to propose this frolic to his friend, and probably the same idea suggested itself to Sir Matthew likewise.

  “I say, Master Michael!” vociferated the knight in a scream, which successfully struggled with the din, “show your old acquaintance that pride has not got the upper hand of you in your fine clothes. Take scavenger, No. 3, there, round the neck; now — now — now, as she lies sprawling, and let us see you give her a hearty kiss.”

  The stern and steady machinery moved onward, passing over the body of the little girl, who owed her safety to the miserable leanness of her shrunken frame; but Michael moved not.

  “Are you deaf, you little vermin?” roared Sir Matthew. “Now she’s down again. — Do what I bid you, or by the living God you shall smart for it!”

  Still Michael did not stir, neither did he speak; or if he did, his young voice was wholly inaudible, and the anger of Sir Matthew was demonstrated by a clenched fist and threatening brow. “Where the devil is Parsons?” he demanded in accents that poor Michael both heard and understood. “Fine as he is, the strap will do him good.”

  In saying this, the great man turned to reconnoitre the space he had traversed, and by which his confidential servant must approach, and found that he was already within a good yard of him.

  “That’s good — I want you Parsons. Do you see this little rebel here, that I have dressed and treated like one of my own children? What d’ye think of his refusing to kiss Miss No. 3, scavenger, when I bid him?”

  “The devil he does?” said the manager grinning; “we must see if we can’t mend that. Mind your hits, Master Piecer, and salute the young lady when the mules go back, like a gentleman.”

  Sir Matthew perceived that his favourite agent feared to enforce his first brutal command, and was forced, therefore, to content himself with seeing the oiled and grimy face of the filthy little girl in contact with that of the now clean and delicate-looking Michael. But he felt he had been foiled, and cast a glance upon his protégé, which seemed to promise that he would not forget it.

  Having made known to the superintendent, that it was his pleasure to enter the room where the brother of Michael was at work, Mr. Parsons led the way to the fifth floor of the building; Sir Matthew, however, ordering the door of each chamber, as he passed up, to be opened for him, that he might look in upon his stifling slaves, and satisfy himself that neither wheels nor sinews were loitering in unthrifty repose.

  The air that issued from each, was nauseous; and on entering the room, at the farther end of which Edward Armstrong was em ployed, Dr. Crockley secretly resolved, that when making the final arrangements for his promised appointment, it should be specified that he should never enter the working portion of the establishment. For though by no means a particularly scientific practitioner, the little doctor knew quite enough of the business he followed, to be aware that, in his own case at least, the air which filled it, could not be breathed with impunity.

  “Now then, sir,” said Sir Matthew, addressing himself to Michael, while Parsons opened the door on the fifth floor, and announced that this was the room that contained Edward. “Now, sir, walk on, and find your brother; and, if your pride does not stand in your way, let him be made to understand all the extraordinary kindness I have shown you. Take care that you let him and all his companions know that I have adopted you as one of my own family; and that henceforward, they will always see you dressed as well as you are at present.”

  All that Michael clearly understood from this harangue was, that he had permission to go forward and speak to this brother; and though not venturing quite to run, he moved onward at a pace that speedily brought him within sight of Edward. The little fellow who, despite his gay disguise, immediately recognised him, uttered a cry of joy.

  “Love conquered fear;”

  and dropping the reel he had just taken between his fingers, he rushed from the place he occupied before the mules, and the next moment was fondly clasped in his brother’s arms.

  Every labourer in the factory, within sight of the spot where this meeting took place, forgot all standing orders in their astonishment, and stood with gaping mouths and eyes fixed upon the astounding spectacle. Sir Matthew, too, forgot for an instant, that every movement made within that crowded chamber, not having for its object the transmutation of human life into gold, was a positive loss to him; for the display of his extraordinary benevolence was, he conceived, of high importance, and he looked round with great contentment on the multitude of wondering faces which he saw peering over the machinery in all directions, to gaze on the sight he had prepared for them.

  “This will be talked of, or the devil is in it,” thought he. “I should like to know who would dare to mention night work and hard usage now. A capital scheme this, as ever was hit upon.” And from the gazers, he now turned his eyes upon the object that fixed their attention, when, to his inconceivable astonishment and rage, he perceived that the two boys, who still stood locked in each other’s arms, were both weeping bitterly.”

  “Not loud, but deep,” were the curses that he breathed against the unfortunate object of his affected bounty; and faithfully did he pledge a promise to his own heart, that he should pay for the vexation he thus occasioned him. But for the present, he condescended to veil the feeling by a smile more bland than any one ever before witnessed from him within those walls; and striding forwards to the sobbing children, he laid a hand on the shoulder of each, while he said in a voice that seemed endowed by nature with an especial power of competing with the thunder of a cotton-mill —

  “Come, come, my dears ! I know you are crying for joy; but you must not go on so, or it will look as if little Michael was ungrateful for all I have done for him! Have you told your brother, dear, how I ordered you to take some nice things home to your mother? That will make him look up, I’ll answer for it! There, now I’ll leave you here that you may tell all your friends that you have been made a gentleman of, on account of your good behaviour, and because you was faithful to your master. Let them have ten minutes, Parsons, with the
mules standing still, that they may all hear the story.”

  Sir Matthew then turned about, and hastened out of the factory, followed by Dr. Crockley; and as they slowly rode homewards by some round-about lanes that were shaded from the sun, they discussed high thoughts,

  — “Such as Lycurgus loved,

  When he bade flog the little Spartans.”

  And ere they reached the luxurious abode of the knight, had between them sketched such a scheme of political, moral, and religious defence for the factory system in all its branches, and in all its bearings, that the doctor as he descended from his horse, snapped his fingers triumphantly, exclaiming, “A fig for them all, Sir Matthew! If they mine, egad we’ll countermine, and we start with a pretty tolerable advantage. You are a man of science, Sir Matthew Dowling; and I need not tell you, that a powerful movement once in action, is devilish hard to stop. The vis inerties will work for us, my friend — not to mention that when the animals find out their only alternative is labour or starvation — labour, such and so much as you in your bounty will be pleased to bestow — they will all grow as patient as so many sucking doves.”

  These words were spoken as they slowly mounted together the steps of the stately portico; Sir Matthew, as a reply, shook his friend cordially by the hand, and leading the way to the cool and lofty library, ordered iced water and claret, to wash away the effect of their half-hour’s visit to the factory

  CHAPTER IX.

  SOME PARTICULARS RESPECTING MISS BROTHERTON — A DEMONSTRATION OF NEIGHBOURLY FRIENDSHIP AND ANXIETY — THE WILFULNESS OF AN HEIRESS — A GLEAM OF LIGHT CAUGHT IN THE DARKNESS.

  THE mansion of Miss Brotherton, at the distance of three miles from the town of Ashleigh, though less splendid in external appearance than that of Sir Matthew Dowling, was quite as elaborately elegant in its interior, and moreover, incomparably superior to it in every point in which taste was concerned. To this superb home we must now follow the young heiress, as circumstances will hereafter frequently blend her name with that of Michael Armstrong.

  The position of Mary Brotherton was a very singular one, and in many respects far from being fortunate. At the age of twenty-one years and eight months, she found herself, by the death of her mother, in the uncontrolled possession of two hundred thousand pounds. Her father, dead some six or seven years before, had been a manufacturer of the old apprentice-system school, and his fortune made long before the humane bill of Sir Robert Peel, the elder, had, in some degree, weakened the chains which bound thousands of friendless orphans to unmeasured and unmitigated drudgery. (It was not till after the first number of this work was printed, that the author learnt that the name of Brotherton existed among the capitalists of Lancashire. But when in that county, she heard it mentioned with great esteem.)

  But of all these circumstances, his daughter was totally and altogether ignorant. Educated, from a very early age, at a fashionable London boarding-school, she knew nothing concerning the neighbourhood of her home, but that its hills and valleys were deformed by tall chimneys and dirty smoke; and that none of the young ladies who paid her visits during the holidays, were at all like her schoolfellows in London.

  Of course, the little lady soon learned to know that she was a person of great consequence; and at the age of fourteen, had most completely acquired all the airs and graces of a spoiled child. But the death of her father was a great advantage to her; as his only child, and the only heir of his immense wealth, he rather worshipped than loved her, and the attentions he paid her, seemed more like acts of homage than of affection. Had she not given herself airs, he would have been miserable; and had it been possible that any act of hers could bring upon her a reprimand, it would have been something indicating her belief, that she was formed of the same sort of materials as the wretches who toiled for him.

  Fortunately, however, she was fond of her mother, who, being a great invalid, lived quietly in the midst of her splendour; and the holidays of her daughter were thus passed quietly too, which saved her from much early adulation. She had remained at school till nearly eighteen; and from that time, to the period of her mother’s death, which happened about fifteen months before the opening of this narrative, she had led a life of great retirement, dividing her time between attendance in her sick mother’s chamber, galloping about the country on horseback, and reading every book she could get hold of, good, bad, and indifferent.

  On first finding herself alone in her own great house, the poor girl wept bitterly. Her mother’s increasing sufferings had long made her release from them an event to be ardently desired by the only being who loved her; but when at last it came, and she had herself to think of, and nobody else, there was something almost terrible in her utter loneliness. She was personally acquainted with very few in the neighbourhood, and felt no affection for any of them. Of relations, to the best of her knowledge and belief, she possessed not one in the world; and with all her advantages, for she had many, being young, pretty, talented, and rich, she would gladly have changed places during the first weeks of her dismal mourning, with any girl of her own age who had father, mother, brother, and sisters to love, and be loved by.

  Mrs. Gabberly was the nearest neighbour she had on one side, and Lady Clarissa Shrimpton on the other, and both these ladies had occasionally been admitted to see her mother till within a few days of her death. When, therefore, this long-expected event at length took place, they both thought themselves privileged to assume the freedom of intimate friends, and penetrate to the lone boudoir of the mournful heiress. Fortunate for her it was, that they did so; for though neither of them possessed any single quality of sufficient value to win and wear the esteem, or even the liking, of an acute, clearsighted observer, such as the half-spoiled heiress certainly was; it was better to hear the sound of almost any human voice uttering words of kindness, than to sit lonely and apart, and hear none; so that neither the twaddling larum of Mrs. Gabberly, nor the absurd affectation of Lady Clarissa were without their use.

  It might, however, have been somewhat dangerous to the moral development of the young lady’s character, had she long continued to find her only relief from sorrow and solitude in the society of persons who could only amuse her by their absurdities. Almost the first time she exerted herself for the purpose of pursuing some of her ordinary occupations, she drew forth her drawing-box, and produced a caricature of Lady Clarissa reciting verses from the pen of Mr. Norval; and the first observations she committed to paper, were the result of a tolerably accurate counting of the number of times Mrs. Gabberly had uttered “Well now!” during her last visit.

  At length, the first dismal fortnight being over, Miss Brotherton appeared at church; and then the whole neighbourhood rushed in to express their sympathy, till her very soul sickened under the cuckoo-note of sorrowless lamentation. Nevertheless, there was so much of real sadness in the spectacle of a young girl thus left utterly alone in the world, that despite the golden light her wealth threw around her, many among her herd of visiters might have felt more for her, perhaps, than she gave them credit for. But, unfortunately such persons are not those who make their “griefs and clamour roar” most audibly, so she knew nothing about it, if it were so, and thereby lost any advantage which her temper might have gained from emotions that soothe and soften.

  Instead of this, she had to undergo what she felt to be a very severe persecution, from the prodigiously active interest which Mrs. Gabberly took in her, and her concerns. As some of the singularities of Miss Brotherton’s character, will eventually produce results of considerable importance to our hero, it may not be amiss to recount the particulars of a scene which took place in her boudoir exactly three weeks after the death of her mother.

  On the morning in question, Mrs. Gabberly had as usual made her way unannounced to the young lady’s presence, by dint of that assumption of extreme intimacy in her manner of inquiring for her, which in this case, as in a multitude of others, succeeded in putting to the rout the protecting discretion of her servants.r />
  “Well now, dear child!” she exclaimed on entering; “how are you to-day? Upon my word, Mary, you are too pale. You know my dear, the palor, as we call it, is not natural to your complexion, and therefore the symptom must be attended to. Have you any camphor in the house, dear?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gabberly; but I want nothing of the kind.”

  “Well now! then I must think of something else.”

  “Not for me, ma’am, I shall not take any medicine whatever.”

  “Dear child! How very odd that does seem to me! We people of science, Mary, are so used to turn to it upon all occasions, that it almost looks like losing one’s wits altogether, to go on so, and take nothing.”

  “People of no science, ma’am, do not require it.”