Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Oh, good God! she is losing her senses!” were the words she uttered as she threw her arms round the person of Miss Brotherton, and vainly attempted to remove her from the spot on which she stood.

  “Fie upon you, Mrs. Tremlett!” said Mary, sternly, “do you fancy that you are doing me any good? Be satisfied that I am not losing my senses, and let me request that you will make an effort to recover yours. This woman’s head is too low. My dear mother asked for pillows.” Here the steady voice faltered, but it was now only for a moment. “I want the cushions from the carriage nurse Tremlett, will you get them, or shall I?”

  Without answering a word the terrified old woman hastened to obey her, and did so in the best manner; for calling to the tall footman, who continued to stand beside the open door of the carriage, he obeyed the summons, which he supposed to be preparatory to his young mistress making her exit, by very unceremoniously thrusting right and left the curious group that still lingered on the threshold.

  “Give me the cushions from the carriage, Jones,” she said, “make haste, for God’s sake!”

  The man stared at her for an instant in utter astonishment, and then did as he was ordered.

  “Now get upon the box and bid the coachman drive as fast as he can go, to the nearest doctor’s — that’s Mr. Thomas, think, in Cannon-street. — Tell him Miss Brotherton has sent for him, and desire him to get into the carriage directly.” —

  Having uttered these commands as rapidly as she could speak, Mrs. Tremlett carried a couple of the carriage cushions to the bed, and with the assistance of Mary and the elder child, managed to raise the woman into a position apparently less distorted and painful than before.

  “Have you any thing to give her?” said Mrs. Tremlett, addressing the child.

  The little girl without answering, stepped to a sort of cupboard in the wall, and taking thence a pitcher without a spout, and a mug without a handle, contrived to tilt up the former so as to make it discharge a portion of its contents into the latter.

  “It is water,” said Mary, watching the operation. “It will not hurt her, will it?”

  “Nothing can hurt her, my dear love!” replied Mrs. Tremlett, her eyes filling with tears as she listened to the altered voice of her gay-hearted girl, whose smiles and frolics she had watched, and indulged, for so many years; but of whose deep feeling she had never conceived any idea till now. “I don’t think any thing can hurt her now, Mary. Her pulse flutters, and her forehead is quite damp. I have sent for Mr. Thomas, and he will probably be here immediately.”

  Mary’s only answer was silently pressing the hand of her old friend as she took from it the broken mug of water, and then, kneeling on the sordid floor, she applied it to the pale dry lips of the sufferer.

  The poor woman made an effort to meet it, and swallowed a mouthful eagerly; and then, relieved probably by the change of posture, and refreshed by the cool liquid, she stretched out the hand in which she still held Mary’s half-crown, and said, “Go Betsy, buy—”

  The child she addressed, eagerly seized the money in the hand that had fingers to close upon it, and flitted through the door in an instant.

  The poor woman had again closed her eyes; but her breathing was more tranquil, and Mary hoped she had fallen asleep. With this persuasion she stood perfectly still and silent beside her, her own hand locked, though she was not conscious of it, in the grasp of her deeply affected nurse, while her whole soul seemed settled in her eyes as she fixed them immovably upon what she felt to be the most awful spectacle that a mortal can gaze upon, namely, the passing of a human spirit from life to death.

  The little girl whose swollen and discoloured arm still remained uncovered, probably because she feared the pain likely to attend the replacing it in the sleeve, stood close beside her mother’s head, childishly contemplating the cushions which supported it, and apparently as unconscious as they were, of the heavy loss that threatened her.

  But this stillness did not long remain uninterrupted. All the members of the family, who had been named as belonging to the factory, except the father, returned for the purpose of taking such rest and refreshment as one hour (nearly half of which was consumed by the walk to and from the mill) could permit. The latch was lifted by the eldest girl, a delicate featured, but dreadfully dirty creature of about seventeen, with a sort of sharp eagerness, denoting the curiosity excited by the sight of the carriage stationed before their dwelling. On perceiving the deathlike countenance of her mother, made distinctly visible by the noonday light, that streamed through the open door, she suddenly stopped, clasping her hands together, and uttering in tones that sounded like a shriek—” Oh! God, she is dead!”

  “No! not dead!” said Mary solemnly, and without turning her eyes from the object on which they were rivetted. “Not dead! — she is sleeping — Hush! — Do not disturb her!”

  Close following on the heels of the first, came a second girl, about a year her junior, but with a countenance much less prepossessing. Dirty she was too, if possible more so than the others, and there was a look of stolid stupidity about her that, but for the sort of reckless audacity which lurked in her eye, might have given the idea of an almost brutal want of animation. A thin consumptive-looking lad of about fourteen, followed after her, and closed the door behind him as he entered.

  “Oh! mother!” he exclaimed as her sunken face caught his eye, “I wish I was alongside of ye, and then we’d be buried together!” And without appearing conscious of the presence of the strangers, he suddenly threw himself upon the tottering bedstead, and nestling his face close to that of the dying woman, kissed her passionately again and again.

  “My boy, you may hasten her going by that,” said Mrs. Tremlett, gently. “Be still, be still all of ye!” But as she spoke, she, and Mary too, whose hand she continued to hold, made way for the eldest girl, who now eagerly, but silently pressing forward, dropped on her knees beside the bed, and throwing her two arms over the emaciated body, remained with streaming eyes that rested piteously on the face of her mother. The second girl looked on, till by degrees her heavy countenance appeared to stiffen into horror, and she too drew near, but with distended and tearless eyes, that seemed to speak more of fear than love.

  Mrs. Tremlett looked anxiously into the face of her charge. It was deadly pale, and wore an expression of solemnity so new and strange, that the good woman threw her arms around her in an agony of fond anxiety, exclaiming, “My Mary, my dear, dear child! come away! Mary, Mary, come away! you can do no good. This scene is not a fit one for you to witness.”

  “You mistake, nurse. It is fit for me. It is necessary for me. Do not disturb me, nurse Tremlett! do not!” Then after a short pause, during which her eyes were closed, and her hands crossed upon her breast, she again whispered, “Could she not pray with me? Shall I not ask her to pray with me?” —

  “My sweet girl, she will not hear you, I think,” said the old woman, while the tears streamed down her cheeks. “But you shall be satisfied my darling,” and approaching the bed, and leaning over the girl who knelt beside it, Mrs. Tremlett in a low but distinct voice pronounced the words, “Shall we pray with you?”

  She was evidently heard and understood, for the hands that for some minutes had lain motionless, were with an effort brought together, and clasped in the attitude of prayer. Mary who was eagerly watching her every movement, suddenly stepped forward, and gliding in between the eldest and the youngest girl, dropped on her knees beside them. Mrs. Tremlett following close behind her, knelt also, and then with trembling lips, and faltering voice, but slowly, distinctly, and most reverentially, Mary Brotherton uttered the last and most impressive of those sentences in our litany which is followed by the solemn petition for deliverance. It was with a throb of pleasure at her heart, and an exclamation of thanksgiving from her tongue, that she heard the dying woman answer “Amen!”

  Almost at the very instant she did so, the latch was again lifted, and Mr. Thomas, one of the three medical practitioners of
Ashleigh, entered. Miss Brotherton was not conscious of ever having seen him before; but he, like every one else in the neighbourhood, perfectly well knew the heiress by sight; and now, even now, in the awful chamber of death, bowed low before her.

  It would not be easy to describe the feeling with which she turned away from this ill-timed demonstration of respect. Yet it was with no harshness; for the struggle so often going on within us between our better and our worser natures, was at this moment so decidedly in favour of all that was good in her young heart, that there was hardly place for any severer feeling than pity within it.

  She had risen from her knees as he made his bow, and turning gravely towards him, said, “If any thing can be done sir, for this poor woman, let it not be delayed. I fear she is very ill.”

  “Certainly, ma’am — certainly, Miss Brotherton, my best attention may be depended on. But will you first, my dear young lady, give me leave to observe that I would much rather see you in your carriage than here. I really cannot answer for it. It is in point of fact impossible to say whether there may not be something deleterious, something noxious, in short, to your very precious health in the atmosphere of this room.”

  “I thank you, sir. Be sure I will take quite sufficient care of myself; but it is not for me that your services are wanted — it is here!”

  Sophy, the eldest girl seemed unconscious of what was going on, for she remained perfectly motionless on the spot where she had first knelt down; while the third sister, who had been sent on the poor mother’s last errand for bread, and who had crept back unobserved into the room during the foregoing scene, occupied the space on her right hand, Mary Brotherton having knelt on her left, so that there was scarcely space for the approach of the smart apothecary.

  “Move, my dear girls!” said Mary, gently laying a hand on the shoulder of each.

  They both rose; while Mr. Thomas, carefully storing the anecdote in aid of the gossiping part of his practice, looked and listened with astonishment to what seemed to him the very unnatural conduct of the rich young lady, and internally exclaimed, “A clear case of religious mania this, as I ever saw! She won’t live long, probably. What a match!”

  It required no very long examination of the poor patient, to discover that her last moment was rapidly approaching.

  “Upon my word, Miss Brotherton, I really wish I could persuade you to come away,” persisted the medical gentleman as he once more turned towards her. The air is becoming more mephitic every instant. “This woman is at the last extremity.”

  “Nothing, then, can be done for her?” said Mary.

  “No, ma’am — nothing in the world. Not the whole college, if they were present, could keep soul and body together for another hour, I would venture to say.”

  On this Miss Brotherton put a fee into his hand, and bent her head in token that his business there was ended, and that he might depart. But he did not immediately obey the hint, for pocketing the unwonted golden prize, he seemed anxious to remain a little longer where such blessings abounded, and returning to the bed, again took hold of the poor woman’s hand, and then said in a voice of authority—” Let me have some water.”

  It was Mary only who seemed to understand his words, and she immediately obeyed them, placing in his hand the broken mug which she had set aside upon the floor. The apothecary put the water to the lips of the poor woman, and she again swallowed a little of it, after which they saw her lips move as if she was making an effort to speak to them.

  Mrs. Tremlett lent over her, and then, with a stronger effort she articulated—” Let me see William!”

  “Who is William?” said Mrs. Tremlett raising herself, “Is it one of the children?”

  “It be father,” said Betsy.

  “Where is he to be found?” cried Miss Brotherton, eagerly. “Let him be sought for instantly — where is he likely to be?”

  “At the gin-shop,” replied the ungracious Grace.

  “If you know where he is, go for him,” said Mary, impressively, “and for God’s sake let him not delay!”

  The girl she addressed stared at her as upon something utterly incomprehensible; but she obeyed, and, in so short a time as to show that the gin-shop was at no great distance, returned with a man of an exterior as filthy as the rest of his race, wretchedly crippled in the legs, and a complexion that spoke both of ill health, and intemperance.

  “What! — It is come to that, is it, already?” said the man looking wistfully at her from the bottom of the bed, but with a countenance whose lines seemed too fixed in the expression of hard indifference, to permit its exhibiting much feeling.

  “She asked for you, father,” said Sophy gently, then taking one of her mother’s hands in hers she murmured, “Mother! — Dear mother! — open your eyes upon us, father is here, and all of us,” while large tear-drops fell upon the livid face as she hung over it.

  The dying eyes were once more opened, and consciousness, and recognition of them all, were visible as she suffered them to rest first on one, and then on another. The boy only, from his position, she could not see; but even then, there seemed intelligence between them, and she certainly knew he was lying beside her, for her head rested against his, and she raised her left hand till her fingers touched his cheek. The youngest child also when the mother’s eyes opened, was too much behind her, but she seemed aware of her vicinity, and pronounced the words “Little one!” probably her usual appellation, so distinctly as to make the child start, and instantly climb upon the bed to kiss her. The last movement was an effort to return this kiss; and the next moment Mrs. Tremlett removed the child’s clinging lips from a corse.

  A very awful interval of perfect stillness followed. “Can I be of any further service to you, Miss Brotherton?” from the lips of Mr. Thomas, were the first words that broke it.

  Poor Mary only shook her head, but Mrs. Tremlett replied, “No, thank you sir, nothing more and with repeated bows, and rather a reluctant step, he departed; turning, however, to give another glance at the heiress, as he passed out, for he was not without hopes that she might fall down in a fainting-fit. Nothing, however, of the kind happened, and he disappeared.

  “You will go now, Mary dear?” whispered Mrs. Tremlett, “and I will come here to-morrow to inquire about them for you.”

  “Yes, I will go now,” replied the young lady, “I cannot comfort them.” Then looking round upon the steadfast group, as if to discover which of them appeared in the fittest state to be spoken to, she fixed upon the little Betsy, and placing a couple of sovereigns in her hand, told her to take care of them, and give them to her father presently, adding, “tell your sister Sophy to come up to my house. This,” giving a card, “is the place where I live.”

  She then led the way to her carriage, Mrs. Tremlett followed, and the next moment they were driving rapidly from the abode of the most abject misery, to a residence which every quarter of the globe had contributed to render luxurious.

  It was evident that the heiress felt no inclination to converse; indeed, for by far the greater portion of — her face was concealed by the handkerchief which she held to her eyes, and Mrs. Tremlett had too much real feeling to disturb her. After driving, however, through the handsome lodge-gates, and sweeping up to the noble entrance of her mansion, where already, at the sound of her approaching carriage, two or three servants were seen waiting like a guard of honour to receive her, it seemed that her meditations had not been wholly confined to the deathbed scene she had witnessed, and that the sordid cabin, with its misery-stamped inhabitants, had made a deep impression; for the first, and for many hours the only words she uttered after her return, spoken to the ear of Mrs. Tremlett as they walked arm in arm together through the hall, were these:

  “I too am living by the profit of the factory house. Is the division just? — Oh, God! Is it holy?”

  The old woman felt that she trembled violently, but knew not what words to utter that might compose her.

  On arriving at the foot of the stairs,
Mary withdrew her arm, and mounting them more rapidly than her companion could follow, reached her bedchamber alone, which she entered, closing and bolting the door after her.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  DISAGREEABLE MEDITATIONS — A CONFIDENTIAL INTERVIEW WITH A FAITHFUL SERVANT — ANOTHER INTERVIEW, NOT QUITE SO CONFIDENTIAL WITH A DAUGHTER — MARTHA AND MICHAEL TAKE A PLEASANT WALK TOGETHER TO VISIT THE WIDOW ARMSTRONG — A CONSULTATION.

  IT will be easily believed that Sir Matthew rode back to Dowling Lodge not in the very sweetest humour in the world. “Bring up a child in the way he should go,” is an admirable proverb, and certain it is that when that “way” is agreeable, he does very rarely “depart from the same.” Thus it happens that the young gentlemen and ladies, sons and daughters of the millocrats, who pile thousands upon thousands, and acres upon acres, by the secret mysteries of their wonderful compound of human and divine machinery, do rarely or never take their way into the dwellings that shelter and that hide the sufferings of their operatives. Nothing is so distasteful to a truly elegant mill-owner as any allusion, domestic or foreign, gossiping or professional, religious or political, to his factory, or his factory people; and the gay fatherly phrase, “Don’t talk of that, for God’s sake, my dear! — it smells of the shop,” has turned away many innocent eyes from contemplating that, which had they looked upon it, could hardly have endured so long.

  To know therefore that the wilful, whimsical, rich, and independent Mary Brotherton (while still too young to understand any thing whatever of the real nature of trade, and our glorious manufactures), — to know that she was beginning to thrust herself behind the scenes, and do Heaven knows what mischief among his devilish people, instead of minding her own business, and falling in love with his adorable son, was altogether too much to be borne with patience; and had it not been that the weather was so hot as to make him long for a draught of hock and iced water, a natural instinct would have made him turn aside from his park-gates, and pursue the by path which led to his factory, where, as he knew by experience, the sort of temper he was then in could find great relief, without any body but the overlookers being in the secret.