“I have no means, Miss Brotherton,” faltered poor Martha. “If all your dreadful thoughts were true, which you have no right to think they are — and still less have I — but if they were true, all true, I have no means to know it.”
“If we have ANY reason to believe them true,” said Mary, solemnly, “means MUST be taken, Martha Dowling, to stop farther wrong; and this can only be by learning where Michael Armstrong has been sent.
I apply to you for this with great reluctance, because I know the subject cannot be brought before you without causing you pain. But I feel it my duty not to shrink from this, and it is yours, my dear girl, to obtain the information I require.”
“But if I agreed with you in this, Miss Brotherton, what are my means of obtaining it beyond your own?” said Martha, rousing herself, and feeling renewed courage from remembering that there was no proof whatever of the boy’s being otherwise than well and happy.
“Nay, Martha,” returned the heiress gravely, “amongst those engaged in your father’s service, you can hardly be at a loss to find some one who must have been employed in removing him.”
“And would you have me,” replied the poor girl, indignantly, “would you have me tamper with my father’s servants, in order to obtain a knowledge of what it may be his will to keep secret? Miss Brotherton, I would rather die than do so.”
“I honour your filial feelings, Martha, and grieve to think that you are placed in circumstances which must compel you to make them secondary,” said Mary, gently.
“Nothing can make them secondary,” retorted Martha, warmly, “I love my father, and I hold my duty to him the first and the highest I have to perform on earth.”
“Save only what you owe to your own soul, Martha Dowling,” replied Mary. “Had you been yourself for nothing in this matter, I might think as you do, that your duty as a child must prevent your interfering in it, though even that, I suspect, would be but doubtful morality. But, Martha! the case is otherwise. It was by your influence that this helpless widow was induced to send her child away. She did not trust your father, but she trusted you. Do you not know, Martha, that I speak the truth? And if I do, can you for an instant doubt that your first duty is to redeem the pledge you gave to this poor trusting creature, who hazarded all that was dearest to her in life, upon your assurance?”
A passionate burst of tears, that seemed rather to convulse than relieve the bosom on which they fell, was the only answer Mary received to her cogent reasonings, and so evident was the suffering of the innocent culprit who appeared writhing under the discipline she inflicted, that nothing less deeply impressed on her heart than was the remembrance of Edward and his mother, and the grief that threatened to destroy them both, could have given her courage to persevere.
“Martha! dear Martha! Be reasonable!” cried Mary, throwing her arms round her. “If you knew what I suffered in making you suffer, you would pity me! But I have no choice left me. I am not a free agent, Martha, any more than you are; we are both bound in honour, honesty, Christian faith, and Christian mercy, not to let any feeling stop us till we have restored Michael Armstrong to his mother.”
“Restore him!” sobbed Martha. “Alas! Miss Brotherton, the poor woman herself has prevented the possibility of that! Do you not know that he is apprenticed?”
“Let us but know where he is, Martha, and if the situation be one that his mother can reasonably disapprove, there can be little doubt but means may be taken to release him. Teach us but where to find him, dearest Martha,” cried Mary fervently, “and we will all pray for blessings on your head!”
“I cannot do it,” replied Martha, with a sigh that very nearly approached a groan.
“How know you that you cannot, Martha? Will you not try to learn this cruel, this nefarious secret?”
“No, I will not, Miss Brotherton,” replied the unhappy girl with sudden firmness. “If any wrong has been done to this boy, I know that it must rest upon my head. So let it. The remembrance of it may bring me to the grave, and there I shall find mercy and forgiveness. But it shall not place me in rebellion to my father, nor force me to reveal any secrets which it may be his pleasure to keep. Now let me go, Miss Brotherton. I doubt not you have acted according to your sense of duty, and so have I. In this at least we are equal. Pray let me go; I am not well, and greatly wish to be at home.”
Mary looked at her with surprise, and almost with terror; she was as pale as death, and shook, as she stood up before her, as if she had been seized with an ague-fit.
“Alas, Martha!” she exclaimed, “I have made you very miserable, and very ill, yet have gained nothing by it! You shall go, my poor girl, you shall go instantly, but ere we part, let me implore you to examine in silence, and alone, the question of right and wrong in this case. Paint to yourself the misery of the wretched mother, and remember that yourself — I must say it, though I wring both our hearts as I do it — yourself, Martha Dowling, are the cause of it.”
“You have said enough, Miss Brotherton, to destroy my peace for ever,” replied the miserable girl, “but not enough to make me act as a spy upon my father. Farewell! Do not let us meet again! It is too painful.”
Without waiting for an answer, Martha Dowling wrapped her shawl about her and hurried to the door.
“The carriage is not waiting, Miss Dowling,” said the vexed and disappointed Mary, who had gained nothing from this painful interview, but the conviction that the well-intentioned, but erring Martha, was as much persuaded of the boy’s having been unfairly dealt with, as herself. “Let me order the carriage for you.”
“No, no, I cannot wait. I can walk. I know the way. Indeed I can stay no longer!” replied Martha, hurrying on, and closing the door of the room after her, and before Miss Brotherton could reopen it, she had already passed through the hall, and was almost running from the house.
Mary lost not a moment in summoning a servant, and ordering the carriage to follow her with all speed, an order which was so well obeyed, that the unhappy Martha was overtaken ere she had walked a mile, and gladly did she then avail herself of it; for by that time every other painful feeling was merged in the terror of having to explain to her father the cause of her having so parted with Miss Brotherton, as to return unattended and on foot. “Perfect love casteth out fear,” and perfect fear may perhaps petrify the heart into a sort of unstruggling desperation; but a union of the two reduces the mind to a state of slavery the most abject, leaving no strength whereby any healthful moral feeling can be sustained. Martha’s whole care, on returning home, was to satisfy her father that nothing particular had passed in her interview with the heiress; and, unfortunately for all parties, she succeeded.
Miss Brotherton, meanwhile, mounted a little pony phaeton with Mrs. Tremlett, and with a heavy heart proceeded to Hoxley-lane. But, painful as was her errand, her condition was a far happier one than that of Martha Dowling; for in her there was no mixture of motives to paralyze every word and act. Her kind heart sought and found counsel in her sound and upright judgment, and, sustained by it, she executed her task without shrinking. A little reflection on the subject convinced her that it was now become her duty to confess to her poor client, not only that her exertions to discover the abode of Michael had been unsuccessful, but that she began to fear that there must be some unpleasant reason for the difficulties thrown in the way of obtaining the information she had sought. It required some courage to utter this; but when it was done, Mary was surprised to perceive that its effect, both upon the mother and son was very trifling. Having candidly stated her fears, she remained silent, the eyes of both being fixed upon her with a sort of quiet hopelessness that was perhaps more painful to contemplate than more vehement demonstrations of grief.
“Our thanks are not the less due to you, ma’am,” said the widow gently, “and don’t vex your kind heart by thinking that we are disappointed. Edward and I guessed true from almost the first; that is, from when he was taken off without bidding us good-bye. Sir Matthew is known better
by his mill people, ma’am, than by the great gentry that turns their eyes away from labour and sorrow, to revel and grow fat upon our graves. You would never be like to hear the truth from them, and I am told that even now, the country round rings with praises of Sir Matthew’s goodness to Michael. ’Tis bitter to hear it. But it is God’s will our portion should be bitter here. He has power to make it up to us hereafter, and it is there we must fix our hope.”
“Most sure and most blessed is that hope!” replied Mary, fervently, “yet it should never check our efforts to put to profit the means of happiness he has granted to us here. I have now told you the very worst, Mrs., Armstrong, for I have told you not only all I know but all I fear — nor will I again pledge myself to do more than I am quite sure it is in my power to perform. I think you will believe, without my talking about it, that I shall not give up the search I have undertaken. But till some new light reaches us, we should but waste our time, and wear our spirits by speaking on the subject. Let us rather think and speak of the welfare of the dear boy that is left you; this will be no hindrance to our restoring his brother, if it be God’s will that we should have the power. Tell me, Edward, how did you get on at school to-day?”
“Every body was kind to me,” answered the boy.
“That’s well, dear boy, and every body will be kind to you. He looks nicely in his new clothes, does he not, Mrs. Armstrong?”
“He does indeed, ma’am! and I could almost fancy that he looked better in health already, for having left the mill,” replied the widow.
“And I feel better,” said Edward, looking at his mother with his soft thoughtful eyes, “and I don’t think that it would be impossible for me to grow well again.”
“My boy! my boy!” cried the poor cripple, raising herself in her bed, and throwing her arms around him. “Should I dare to complain of any thing if that were possible! But oh! Teddy! wouldn’t he have given one of his little hands to see it?”
This appeal, which in truth only echoed the thoughts of his own heart, overthrew all the courage of Edward, and his tears again flowed as fast as those of his poor mother; a renewal of weakness of which they might both have been still more ashamed than they were, had they not perceived that neither Miss Brotherton nor her old friend had dry eyes.
Mary, however, was too wise to let this last.
“This dear boy,” said she, “has said that which ought to give us all courage. I can hardly tell you the delightful feeling which the hope of his restoration to health would give me. It would repay me a thousand fold for all the pain I have suffered. Let us fix our thoughts on this hope, and trust me it shall be realized, if medical skill and kind treatment can do it.”
It was with this assurance she left them, and if any earthly promise could have healed the anguish of the mother’s heart, it would have been this. But her two children were so twined and twisted together in her thoughts, that meditating upon her hopes for Edward inevitably brought her terrors for Michael before her, and it was but with a fitful sort of satisfaction that the boy dwelt upon his anticipations of being useful to her, or that she listened to him.
Two days after this, while Miss Brotherton and Mrs. Tremlett were pursuing their usual morning occupations in the boudoir, a servant announced that a lady and gentleman were in the drawing-room.
Had the announcement been of a gentleman alone, Mary’s thoughts would have instantly suggested Mr. Bell, for they had been fixed upon him, and the hope of his coming, through both the preceding days. But the mention of the lady puzzled her. Nevertheless the gentleman was Mr. Bell, and no other, and the frank and simple kindness with which he said, as he led the lady forward to meet her, “Miss Brotherton! I wanted my wife to know you too,” rendered the introduction as agreeable as it was unexpected.
“If you and I, my dear young lady,” said he, “take to consulting together concerning what we may hope, and what we may do in aid of the suffering people by whom we are surrounded, we shall do well to take this good little woman into the committee, for she has probably more practical knowledge of the subject we were discussing when last we met, than any other lady you could meet with.”
Equally cordial and sincere was the welcome Mary gave to her new friends; and if sympathy of feeling, and a community of interest, on a subject of deep importance to them all, could have sufficed to make them happy, the long morning they passed together would have been one of great enjoyment; but they were all too much in earnest to be called happy while dwelling upon the frightful subject to which their thoughts were turned. The longer Mary listened to those whose lives were past in struggling to assuage the misery around them, and in battling with the horrid principles which produced it, the more deeply did she feel that she, too, was called upon to labour in the same thorny vineyard. Yet terrible as were the subjects they discussed, and sad as was the conviction that no power less mighty than that of the law could redress the evils they deplored, there was still something inexpressibly soothing to her feelings, in finding herself thus in intimate relation with persons who comprehended and shared in the sentiments which had become so essentially a part of herself. Though her conscience had told her, from the first moment her attention had been called to the subject, that it was her duty not to turn away from it, she had hitherto met little but opposition from those around her, and though steadfast and firm in purpose, she had often felt heavy in spirit from knowing herself to be alone, when she so much wanted assistance and support. This oppressive loneliness she could never suffer from again, as long as Mr. Bell and his excellent wife were within her reach, and fervently did she bless the courage which had led her to their dwelling. Tidings of poor Michael, however, there were none. Mr. Bell had sought information concerning him wherever he thought it possible to obtain them, but he had learnt nothing. Nevertheless he declared himself by no means satisfied that the boy might not be at some one of the Bastille-like establishments to which he had applied. “I know them, and they know me too well,” he said, “for me to place implicit confidence in any answer they may be pleased to make, to any question I may venture to ask. If I knew where to find a trustworthy stranger, who could not by possibility be recognised by any one as a friend of mine, I still think the chances would be greatly in favour of our finding the boy at some of the noted apprenticing establishments which I have named. But, in truth, I know not where to look for such a person.”
“Am I not such a one?” cried Mary, eagerly. “Hardly a creature in the world, beyond the town of Ashleigh and its neighbourhood, knows me personally, and in all such places as those you have named, the Emperor of all the Russias would not be less likely to be recognised.”
“But how, my dear young lady, could you represent yourself with any face of probability as interested in the inquiries you would have to make?” demanded Mr. Bell.
“Methinks, Mr. Bell,” replied Mary, colouring with her own enthusiasm, “methinks I could carry through an enterprise which had the recovery of little Michael for its object, with a degree of diplomatic skill that would surprise you. It should not be by downright and direct inquiry that I should proceed. Where such inquiry would be likely to excite suspicion, I would only contrive to insinuate myself and my eyes, and would ask no questions save what they should answer.”
“Many strangers, travelling, desire to see the factories, certainly,” replied Mr. Bell, musingly. “But you are so young to undertake a wandering expedition. And then, how could you be accompanied? Your servants would unquestionably announce you every where.”
“I am older, I think, than you suppose,” replied Mary; “and if I undertake this, I will be accompanied by Mrs. Tremlett, with whom I have no reserves, and by no one else.”
“You cannot travel without attendants, Miss Brotherton?” said, the clergyman, looking at her kindly, but as if doubting that she was quite in earnest.
“Do not either of you judge me harshly,” replied the heiress, with great earnestness; “do not set me down in your judgments as a hot-headed girl, indiffe
rent to the opinions of society, and anxious only to follow the whim of the moment. Did I belong to any one, I think I should willingly yield to their guidance. But I am alone in the world; I have no responsibilities but to God and my own conscience, and the only way I know of, by which I can make this desolate sort of freedom endurable, is by fearlessly, and without respect to any prejudices or opinions whatever, employing my preposterous wealth in assisting the miserable race from whose labours it has been extracted. If you can aid me in doing this, you will do me good; but you will do me none, Mr. Bell, by pointing out to me the etiquettes by which the movements of other young ladies are regulated. I cannot think that I have any right to a place among them; and I therefore feel that to check any possible usefulness by a constant reference to the usages of persons with whom I have little or nothing in common, would be putting on very heavy harness, neither effective for use, nor for ornament. But ‘something too much of this.’ I must not talk of myself,” she added, cheerfully. “Let us examine the possibility of my setting off with Mrs. Tremlett on a little home tour, without announcing the important event to the neighbourhood, or taking any servants with me to enact the part of Fame behind my chariot.”
“By what conveyance would you propose to travel, Miss Brotherton?” inquired Mr. Bell, still looking, as an American would say, “as if he could not realize the scheme.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 198
