“My charming Neighbour!
“If you knew, or could at all guess, how fervently I admire the beautiful benevolence you have manifested, in trying to quiet the fidgetty spirit of poor widow Armstrong, you would be better able to appreciate the vexation I feel, at not yet being able fully to answer your inquiries concerning her boy. Think not, my dearest Miss Brotherton, that I neglected this business yesterday, on the contrary, I do assure you I gave my whole attention to it; nevertheless, I have by no means succeeded in learning what you wish to know. The facts of the case are these. A most respectable stocking-manufacturer, with whom, however, my foreman is better acquainted than myself, employs a multitude of young hands, most of whom are apprentices, in the different branches of his business. It was to this person, that the weak and wavering poor woman for whom you are interested, agreed to intrust her boy. Indentures were accordingly prepared, and I gave my superintendent orders to have the little fellow supplied with all necessaries, desiring that no time might be lost in getting him ready, as I knew that people belonging to this stocking-weaving establishment were likely to pass through Ashleigh in a day or two, and I wished, if possible, to avoid having the trouble of sending him to his destination myself. Now it unfortunately happened, that my man, Parsons, obeyed this order much more literally than I intended; for meeting in Ashleigh the persons I had named to him the very next day, he immediately mentioned the circumstance to them, and finding that they had a comfortable van, and every thing convenient with them, the whole business was arranged and done before I returned from a visit I had been making at Netherby. This was certainly being more prompt than was necessary, but it would have mattered little, comparatively speaking, had he not been such a goose as to let the van drive off, without even asking to which of the manufactories of the establishment it was going. Yet, although this is vexing, my dear Miss Brotherton, I should think it could not be very important. I have told Parsons to write about it immediately, and he shall wait upon you with the information you wish for, as soon at he receives it.
“Will you, my fair friend, join us in a little pic-nic party, projected by our young people for Thursday next, ‘under the green-wood tree in Blackberry wood?’ Lady Clarissa is, of course, to be one of our society, and she will communicate all particulars respecting place and time.
“Ever, my dear Miss Brotherton, “Very faithfully yours, “MATTHEW DOWLING.”
Having read this letter to the end, she turned the sheet, and began a reperusal of it, without uttering a word, and when she had again reached its conclusion, she put it into the hands of Mrs. Tremlett, still without speaking a word. Before, however, that excellent, but not rapid lady, had got half through it, poor Mary’s agitation broke forth —
“What do you think of it, nurse? for Heaven’s sake, give me your opinion without delay! I am quite sure, that the poor creatures in Hoxley-lane, whom I have beguiled with my presumptious promises, will pine themselves to death with this uncertainty. Tremlett! for mercy’s sake finish reading it, and tell me what I can do more!”
It might not have been very easy for any one to have satisfactorily answered this inquiry; but the good Mrs. Tremlett was altogether incapable of forming any opinion worth hearing on the subject, for in truth she neither shared, nor fully comprehended the vague fears, that were tormenting her young mistress.
Having, however, at length, despite of Mary’s interruptions, contrived to reach the end of the epistle, her first words were —
“Don’t, my darling Miss Mary! — Let me beg of you to refuse at once. There is nothing in the whole world so dangerous and cold-catching, as these foolish parties on the damp grass. And besides, the evenings are drawing in now, and I’m sure” —
“Oh! Nurse Tremlett! Nurse Tremlett!” interrupted Mary, mote angry with her than she had ever been in her whole life before, “How can you be so cruel as to trifle thus? Why won’t you try to think a little for me about this strange mysterious business, and give me your opinion?”
“Lord bless you, Miss Mary, if you were to kill me, I could no more help thinking of you first than I could fly,” replied Mrs. Tremlett. “And, indeed, my dear, I don’t see what you should put yourself into such a fuss for. What can you think is going to happen to the little boy? You’ll just spoil that poor sickly body, my dear child, if you encourage her in having such tantrums, because her boy set out upon his journey a day, may be, earlier than she expected.”
“Then you really and truly do not believe it possible, nurse, that Sir Matthew Dowling should have smuggled the boy away, without intending to let us know where he has sent him?” said Miss Brotherton.
“Good gracious, no, Miss Mary,” replied her friend.
For a moment, this opinion brought some consolation with it, simply from the decision with which it was uttered; but the next, all her anxiety returned again, for though she felt that there was, perhaps, something improbable and exaggerated in the idea of the child’s being kidnapped in the face of day, and as it were before a hundred witnesses, there was at least no delusion as to his unhappy mother’s state of mind respecting him, nor in the fact of her having in some Sort pledged her own word, that the poor woman and her lame boy should receive tidings of him.
A little further conversation with Mrs. Tremlett, convinced her that her opinion on the subject could be of no great value, inasmuch as it was founded solely on the notion, that “it was not likely, Sir Matthew Dowling should want to hide away the little boy.”
“No!” thought Mary. “Nor was it likely he should have acted, looked, and spoken as I saw him do, when his poor girl lost her senses from agony at my having witnessed it. If I misdoubt him unjustly, I will be careful that it shall not injure him. I will await his own time for information. If it comes, no one will be the worse for the impatience with which I shall have waited for it. But, if it comes not, I can be doing no wrong by taking every means of seeking it.”
In conformity with this resolution, Miss Brotherton not only waited with tolerable external composure herself, but continued in a great degree to tranquillize the spirits of the widow Armstrong, likewise; and during a whole week, Sir Matthew Dowling was permitted to remain unmolested. Miss Brotherton, indeed, did not meet him under the greenwood-tree, pleading an indisposition, which was not quite imaginary, as her excuse, but she troubled him with no more questions.
On the day fixed for this al fresco meeting of nearly the whole neighbourhood, Edward Armstrong was appointed to pay his first visit to Millford Park. During her almost daily visits to his mother, she had remarked that, though he uttered not a word in contradiction of the reasonings, by which she sought to show the improbability that any mischief could have befallen Michael, his speaking features expressed no confidence in them, and wishing upon this day of general riding and driving, to remain within her own gates, she determined to take the opportunity of conversing with him alone.
She was by herself in her pretty boudoir when he arrived, and perceiving that his pale face was flushed by heat and exercise, she made him sit down on the sofa, beside her.
There was something singularly sad in the utter indifference with which his young eye wandered over all the striking and unwonted objects that surrounded him. When bad to sit beside the young lady on her silken couch, he obeyed without seeming at all conscious that the rest he needed was now afforded in more dainty style than usual, and all the intelligence of his soul seemed settled in his eyes as he looked into the face of Miss Brotherton, and faintly murmured —
“Is there any news of him?”
“No, Edward, there is not,” replied Mary, firmly; “but surely, my dear boy, this delay cannot justify the look of misery it produces on your countenance. Tell me, Edward, what is it that you fear for Michael!”
“I do not know myself,” replied the boy. “And yet I think it over in my head day and night only to find out what is the very worst possible they can do to him.”
“But is that wise, Edward, or is it right, think you, while your
poor mother has only you left to comfort her, that you should only strive to fill your own head and hers with the very worst thoughts your fancy can conjure up?”
“I do not fill mother’s head with them,” replied Edward. “I have never told her one single word of all my dismal thoughts.”
“Then you are a good boy, and I love you for it. But what are your dismal thoughts, Edward? You may tell them to me.”
The boy hesitated for a moment, and then said—” I think Sir Matthew Dowling is a wicked, cruel man; and I think that he would be more likely to be wicked and cruel to Michael than good to him.”
“What is it has made you think Sir Matthew cruel and wicked, Edward?” demanded Miss Brotherton.
“Because he is hard and unjust to those who labour for him — and because I have seen him laugh and make sport of the tears of little children.”
There was something in the accents of the boy that startled Mary. — She felt inclined to exclaim—” How much more older art thou than thy looks!” so thrilling was the tone, and so profound the feeling with which he spoke.
“Yet still,” she replied, “it is difficult to see that he could gain any advantage by ill-using Michael in any way bad enough to make you look so miserable, Edward.”
“If he keeps him from me is not that enough?” said the pale boy, looking reproachfully at her.
“But, Edward, you knew that he was going to leave you; and your mother, at least, consented to it.”
“Yes, she did consent to it. Poor, dear mother! She did consent to it. But had I been true, as I ought to have been, she never would,” said Edward, clasping his hands and closing his eyes with a look of intense suffering.
“Explain yourself, my dear boy,” said Mary, kindly. “In what have you been otherwise than true?”
“We agreed together — poor Michael and me agreed together, never to let mother know how bad we were served at the mill — and, above all, we agreed that she should never know how miserable Michael was at the great house, ‘cause we was sure she’d have him away, and so lose the bit of comfortable food she has been having. But it was wrong and wicked to deceive her. We should have told her all, and then Michael would have never gone!”
“You acted for the best, my dear boy, and must not reproach yourself,” replied Mary; “and so far am I from thinking it wrong to keep her mind easy in her present state of health, that I strongly advise her being still comforted as much as possible by our manner of talking to her. Fear not, Edward, that I shall neglect the safety of Michael, because you will not hear me talk of his being in any danger. I will not rest till I know what has become of him.”
Mary said this in a tone that left no doubt of her sincerity; and it was then for the first time that Edward seemed to remember her greatness. He stood up before her with a look of tender reverence inexpressibly touching, and said solemnly—” Then God will bless you for it!”
“And he will bless you, my dear child!” replied Mary, with tears starting to her eyes. “He will bless and comfort you for all your duty and affection. Keep up your spirits, Edward, and, above all things, never be idle. It is for your mother’s sake as well as your own that I am so anxious you should learn to read and write, dear Edward — and by degrees we shall get you on to ciphering, and who knows but we may make a clerk or accountant of you, and so enable you to get money, even if your health is not very good.”
The boy smiled languidly as he replied, “I should like it very much, if I was to live long enough.”
“You will get stout and well, Edward,” said Mary, cheerfully, “now that you have no hard work to do. And you shall come up to the same school that all my boys and girls go to here — and when school is over, you must come every day to my kitchen with a little basket for your mother. You understand, Edward? And once every week you must come up into this room to me with your books, that I may see your writing and hear you read a little.”
A gleam of hope and joy kindled in the boy’s beautiful eyes as he listened to her, and a bright blush mantled his pale cheeks; but it was like the flitting sunshine of April chased by a heavy cloud almost before its warmth could be felt or its beauty seen. “Oh! if Michael could but hear that!” he exclaimed, while tears, for the first since the conversation began, burst from his eyes. “That was what poor Michael always wanted. If I could but learn, and so get my bread without mill-slavery, Mike always said he would not mind working himself, ‘cause he was so strong. But now that very thing is come; and he, maybe, will never know it!”
Heavy and fast the drops fell from beneath the hand which he had raised to conceal his face, till Mary, as she watched him, wept for company. This, however, was not the way to help him, and conquering a weakness so every way unwise, she spoke to him with affectionate but steady firmness of the exertion it was his duty to make at a time when his mother had none but him to comfort her. She had touched the right string — the little fellow’s nerves seemed braced, and every faculty awakened by the words she uttered; and if he took back to his mother no tidings of poor Michael, he brought to her support a young spirit strong in endurance, and an intellect that, for the first time, had whispered to its owner hopes, promises, and aspirations, which seemed to make the life he had often loathed a new-found treasure to him. Mary saw not all that passed in the young mind she had rescued from the listless languor of despair, yet she perceived enough to satisfy her that she had done him good, and that, however vain her hopes of benefiting the miserable Drakes might be, there could be no doubt that, in this case at least, her efforts would not prove wholly abortive.
It is wonderful what an energy and renewed impetus this conviction gave to her spirits! No mildew can blast more surely, or bring a more lamentable feeling of withering over the heart, than that caused by the cold and false philosophy which would check every effort to do good, lest, by possibility, success might not attend it.
The remainder of this day was by no means spent unhappily by the warm-hearted little heiress. The schoolmistress was made to expect Edward on the morrow — and the cook was made to expect Edward on the morrow. One Mercury was despatched to the town for a choice collection of slates, copies, spelling-books, and the like, and another to Mary’s tailor in ordinary, with instructions to call on the widow Armstrong, and take measure of her son. All this business, and a good deal more tending the same way, having been satisfactorily got through in the course of the day that kept all the Ashleigh world safely entangled in the thickets of Blackberry wood, Mary Brotherton lay down to rest, and slept exceedingly well, though not urged thereto by having shared in their pleasant fatigues.
She rose the next morning with a sort of pleasant consciousness of increasing power to walk alone in this busy world, and gaily announced at breakfast to Mrs. Tremlett her purpose of immediately making a visit of speculation to Mrs. Gabberly, in order to ascertain if any gossip was yet afloat respecting the disappearance of Sir Matthew Dowling’s far-famed protégé. The distance from Miss Brotherton’s mansion to Mrs. Gabberly’s cottage was not great, and the heiress traversed it without having any fear of officers before her eyes, or any other protection than her parasol.
She was, of course, received with expressions of unmitigated astonishment at her absence from the gala of the preceding day.
“What on earth, my dear child, could have kept you away?” said the animated lady.
“Perhaps I was afraid of taking cold, Mrs. Gabberly. Mrs. Tremlett took care I should remember how short the days are growing.”
“Mrs. Tremlett! — Nonsense! — Well now, I can tell you that you just lost the most delightful day that any body ever had. Such a dinner! — Game of all kinds — almost all in savoury jelly too! Think of that! So wholesome, you know, with the spice; and eating it in the open air, and all. Depend upon it, my dear Miss Brotherton, that if you suffer yourself to be boxed up by that ignorant old woman, you will very soon lose your health altogether. And do you know I can’t help thinking that you do look rather feverish to-day — your e
yes have that sort of brightness. I wish to goodness you would let me feel your pulse.”
“Nothing will do my pulse so much good, my dear Mrs. Gabberly, as your telling me all the news you heard yesterday,” said the young lady, good-humouredly shaking the hand that was extended to ascertain her state of health.
“Well now, my dear, I am sure I have no objection in the world to tell you, and certainly one does pick up a vast deal of information at such a party as that. Will you believe it? two of the Simmonses are going to be married.”
“Really! That’s very good news, I suppose. Had you a great many people there?”
“Oh! Every body, just every body, but your own dear self; and I can truly say that if you had been there, it would have been quite perfect!”
“You are very kind; but a person so very much afraid of taking cold, is always troublesome on these al fresco occasions. Lady Clarissa was there of course?”
“Of course, my dear. And such a flirtation with Sir Matthew! God knows, I ain’t over strict in any way; I despise it, because it shows such ignorance of life and good society. But I must say, I do think they carry the thing a little too far. Of course, a lady of rank and title like Lady Clarissa, is not to be judged altogether like common people. I am quite aware of that, and nothing can be more thoroughly vulgar than forgetting this. And I certainly have lived too much in really first-rate good society, not to know it. But, nevertheless, you know, there is reason in roasting eggs, and even an earl’s daughter may get talked of.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 192
