Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  Michael by no means unwillingly obeyed this dismissal, and walked away, more than half ashamed of his achievement.

  “If I didn’t know that Michael Armstrong was dead, I should swear that there chap was him,” said a girl somewhat older than our imprudent masquerader, and who had been watching him very earnestly during the foregoing conversation. The observation was not addressed to the overlooker, but to another girl, who had brought the speaker her dinner to prevent her leaving some particular work on which she was employed.

  “What’s that you say, Sykes?” said Parsons, turning quickly towards her.

  “I was saying, sir, as that boy was unaccountable like Michael Armstrong, as used to live in mother’s back-kitchen. He wasn’t above a year or two younger than me, and I knowed him as well as I did my own brothers.”

  “Stuff and nonsense, girl! All the world knows that young rascal died years ago; and fuss enough there was made about it by that mad miss at Milford, who I suppose, found out that she was their cousin, or something of the sort, for she took it so to heart, that she sold her house and lands, and ran away with another of ’em to some foreign country, for fear he should die too. Sure you must mind all that queer story?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the girl; “I remember it right well, and that’s the reason why I says that I know it can’t be him.”

  “Yet upon my soul, now you mention it, he was the very image of him. I fancied as I looked at him that surely I had seen him somewhere before. But it can’t be — a dead dog is dead, all the world over.”

  “Yes sure, sir,” responded Kitty Sykes, who being what is called a very sightly girl, was not unfrequently indulged with a little condescending notice from Mr. Parsons. “But ’twas his queer curly black hair, and his particular-looking eyes as put it into my head.”

  “And if you go on talking of it, Sykes, in that way, you will be putting it into my head too. And after all, there is nothing so very impossible in it. Nobody in these parts could really know much about it, you see, and there’s no reason, as I can tell, why the scamp might not have run away from the Deep — that is, the stocking-weaver’s manufactory as he was sent ‘printice to, and they as ought to have stopped him, might have given out that he was dead,” replied the overlooker.

  “Then if it was possible,” resumed Kitty Sykes, “I wouldn’t mind taking my bodily oath that that there young fellow was Michael Armstrong, and nobody else.”

  “Egad, I wish I hadn’t let him go!” cried Parsons, running to the gates. “He was ‘printiced till twenty-one, and if he has run away, he’s liable to be taken up and put in prison, by the first as catches him.”

  Kitty Sykes took the liberty of running to the gates also; but to say the truth, she had no wish at all that Mr. Parsons should catch him up, and put him into prison. The girl, though she had prudence enough not to communicate the opinion to her friend Mr. Parsons, thought the stranger by far the handsomest young fellow she had ever seen, and secretly determined, if she could catch sight of him again, that she would give him a hint to keep clear of his old acquaintance.

  “There he goes,” cried Parsons, watching Michael, as with upright gait, and rapid strides, he was pursuing his way by the well-remembered path, which led from the factory to Dowling Lodge. “There he goes! He don’t look like one of the mill-people any way — and yet the fellow said that he had worked in a factory. Didn’t you hear him, Kitty?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the girl, “and it was just then as I felt so unaccountable sure that, unless it was out and out impossible, it must be Michael Armstrong as was speaking. I never did see such eyes a Michael’s, nor such hair neither.”

  “And there he goes, I’ll bet a sovereign,” rejoined the overlooker, “to take a look at his old quarters at the Lodge. Kitty, I’ll give you a glass of gin and a shilling, if you’ll run after him — you can run like a hare, I know — run and bring him back, Kitty, there’s a darling, and say as I have got some good news to tell him.”

  Off started the girl with right good-will, having her own reasons for wishing to do the errand, as well as a very sufficient inclination to gain the promised reward.

  Mr. Parsons by no means over-rated her running powers; and had she been less fleet, she would have failed in her object, for Michael walked briskly, and without any inclination to remain longer in the vicinity of the mill, though by no means conscious that he had been recognised.

  He had just turned the corner of a hedge when the girl overtook him, so that their colloquy did not take place within sight of the overlooker.

  Michael heard the fair Kitty’s approach, and turned to see who it was that thus came galloping and panting after him.

  “Do you want me, young woman?” said he, civilly stopping for her.

  “Well then, you are no changeling!” replied the girl, laying her hand on his arm; “you were always out-and-out, the civilest boy in the mill.”

  A very bright suffusion dyed the clear brown of Michael’s cheek as he heard this.

  “I do not know what you mean!” he replied.

  “Come, come, Michael Armstrong,” rejoined Kitty, “you needn’t be afraid of me. Don’t you remember Kitty Sykes, as have gone to and from the mill with you and Teddy, a hundred and a hundred times?”

  “Is it indeed Kitty Sykes, grown into such a handsome young woman?” said Michael, holding out his hand to her, and feeling quite incapable of preserving his incognito, in the presence of so old an acquaintance. “And to think of your knowing me, Kitty! But you must not betray me, my dear girl. If I was found out for Michael Armstrong, I might get into a scrape.”

  “And that’s true, and no lie,” answered the faithless ambassadress, “for I am sent after you by that old beast Parsons, to tell you to come back, because he had good news for you. But his news would just be to give you notice to march into prison for having run away; and I agreed to carry his message for him. He thinks that I delight in him, the old monster! but I’d rather walk a mile to do a kindness to you Michael, than stir an inch, to please him.”

  “God bless you, my dear girl! I hope you have done me a great service now; for I think I could show him leg bail, that he would find it difficult to refuse, Kitty. So now good by, old friend; I am sorry to part so soon, but it won’t do to stay here to be caught, will it?”

  “No, truly, Mike! I’d be loath to see any friend of mine at his mercy, or at that of his master either. But you won’t go clear away out of the country without seeing me again, will you? You needn’t be feared of him, ‘twill be easy enough to put him off the scent. I’ll back, and tell that we was both of us altogether deceived, and that you bean’t no more Michael Armstrong than he be.”

  “I don’t think I ought to stay in Ashleigh now, Kitty; there’s others may know me as well as you and he, and ’twould be a terrible change, I can tell you, my dear girl, to come down from the hills where I am tending a good master’s sheep, and often feel so high and so happy, that I think I am halfway to heaven — it would be a terrible change, Kitty, to come from that, into the Deep Valley Mill again, which is as much worse than our old factory here, as hanging is worse than whipping!”

  “Lord have mercy upon ’em, then!” ejaculated the poor girl. “But I say, Michael, you needn’t run no risk at all, if I go back and say as it isn’t you, and then you might meet me after nightfall, in the town.”

  “It will not be very long, Kitty, before I am one-and-twenty, and a free man, and it’s then, please Heaven, that I’ll come back again, and pay the old place a visit. You have been kind enough to remember me so long, that I don’t think you’ll have forgotten me by that time, and it shall go hard with me but I’ll bring you a token from some of our north-country fairs.” So saying, he gave the damsel a kiss, and she wrung his hand without making any further effort to detain him.

  “God bless you!” said the retreating Michael, over his shoulder.

  “And God bless you, too, you nice boy! muttered poor Kitty. “I wouldn’t ask no better lu
ck, than just to follow you, and keep sheep too.” —

  Either from wishing to look after him as long as he was in sight, or for the purpose of giving him law, in case Mr. Parsons should determine on pursuit, Kitty Sykes remained stationary on the spot where Michael left her, till, abandoning his hardy project of a visit to Dowling Lodge, he had stretched far away over the fields towards the road he was to pursue northwards to his peaceful home; and then she walked leisurely back to the factory, where, after a sharp reproof for staying so long, and a pert reply to it, she informed the overlooker that they had both been wrong, but that the young lad said he might be found if he was wanted, at the sign of the Magpie, that was about a mile on the road towards London.

  Warned by this unexpected recognition, Michael determined to run no more risks among his townfolks; but not being disposed to lose the little bundle he had deposited at the Nag’s Head, he ensconced himself within the shelter of a small public-house, on the road-side, resolved to wait there till the evening set in, and then to venture back to his last night’s lodging, pay his bill, reclaim his bundle, and set forth upon a night-march, which he hoped would take him beyond all danger of Mr. Parsons, before the following morning.

  Having secured his welcome by the usual ceremony of ordering a meal, Michael looked about him for some means of occupation during the hours which he had doomed himself to pass there, and in despair of finding any better literary amusement, seized upon a heap of handbills, of a vast variety of external forms, but having, as he found upon examination, one and all the same object, namely, the calling together a general meeting of the whole county of York (then undivided), for the purpose of signing a petition to parliament for a law, limiting the hours of labour in factories to ten hours a day. Michael Armstrong was no longer a factory operative; free as the air he breathed upon his beloved mountain-tops, he no longer trembled at the omnipotent frown of an overlooker, nor sickened as he watched the rising sun that was to set again long hours before his stifling labour ceased. All this was over and ended with him for ever. Yet did his heart throb, and his eye kindle as he perused page after page of the arousing call which summoned tens of thousands, nay hundreds of thousands to use the right their country vested in them, of imploring mercy and justice from the august tripartite power that ruled the land.

  Very powerful was the male and simple eloquence with which many of these unpretending compositions appealed to the paternal feelings of those they addressed; and such terribly true representations were found among them of the well-remembered agonies of his boyhood, that Michael was fain to put his spread hand before his face to conceal the emotions they produced.

  He had sat in this situation for some minutes, revolving both his former sufferings, and the blessedness of his present release from them, when a man, who had been quietly sitting writing at a distant window, but had nevertheless found leisure to watch Michael’s countenance as he proceeded with his examination of the handbills, rose from his place, and gently approaching him said, in deep, yet very gentle voice, “You seem moved by the perusal of these papers, my good friend. Is it the first time you have met with them?”

  “Yes, indeed, sir, it is,” replied Michael, starting from his revery.

  “Then I presume you are a stranger in this part of the country?”

  “Why, yes, sir; the master I serve is a Westmorland statesman, and I am only come this way upon a holiday trip.”

  “Then maybe you don’t care enough for the poor factory operatives to join their meeting, and put your name to their petition?”

  “If caring for them could do them any good, master,” replied Michael, warmly, “they would be in no want of help, as long as I was near them. But I don’t think the name of a poor servant-boy like me, could do them either honour or service.”

  “Then what sort of names, my good lad, do you suppose will support this petition. Do you think the great mill-owners will sign it? — Do you think such men as Sir Matthew Dowling for instance, whom you may have heard spoken of, down at Ashleigh, maybe, do you think it will be such as he, whose first object in life is to get as many hours of labour out of the little creatures that work for him, as stripes can make them give, do you think it will be such as he, that will sign the ten hours bill?’’

  “Not if that bill is either to hurt himself, or better the children, I should think,” said Michael.

  “True enough,” replied his new acquaintance, “and not only is that true, but he and the like of him will do all that mortal men can, to prevent all others from signing it. But Heaven forbid they should succeed, young man — for if they do, the best hope of many thousand suffering, and most helpless human beings, will fall to the ground!”

  “Then, indeed, may Heaven forbid that they should have their will!” returned Michael, fervently. “When is this meeting to take place?” he added, turning his eyes again to the papers he still held in his hand. “But three days hence! — truly I should like to witness it!”

  “Is there any reason against your doing it?” demanded the stranger. “Will your services be wanted by your master before that time?”

  “He won’t expect me, till two or three days after it,” replied Michael; “I have done all I wanted — at least I have stayed as long as I wished at Ashleigh, and I don’t see any great harm there would be in witnessing the meeting.”

  “Do see it, my good lad!” said the stranger; “I predict that it will offer a spectacle such as never was witnessed before, and most likely never will, or can be seen, again. A multitude, probably amounting to above a hundred thousand overworked operatives, will meet in peace and good order, to petition for legal relief from the oppression of a system which has brought them to a lower state of degradation and misery than any to which human beings have ever been brought before. Were those in whom these poor people have confidence, less deeply anxious to preserve the public peace than they are, a different mode of redress might be sought for. But as it is, an honest man may venture to advise such a respectable young fellow as you seem to be, to stretch your good master’s leave a little, in order to be present at this great spectacle.”

  A good deal more conversation followed on the same theme, and ere Michael had ceased to listen to his companion, he felt convinced that duty as well as inclination would lead him to do all that a loyal subject and peaceable citizen could, in aid of the suffering class from whose ranks he had so miraculously escaped. In a word, Michael Armstrong determined to attend the great Yorkshire meeting, and hold up his hand for the ten hours bill.

  The extraordinary circumstances attending that enormous meeting; the unaccountable disappointments which at every halting-place attended all the precautionary efforts of the committee to procure bread for the multitude, while beer was every where found ready, and in the greatest abundance; the terror felt by those most interested, lest heat, fatigue, exhaustion, and beer, together, might lead to some disturbance of the peace; and the triumphant influence of reason and kindness joined, in inducing the hungry multitude to separate peaceably, are already matters of history, and the narrative, must therefore adhere to the fortunes of its hero, without dwelling upon nobler themes.

  In returning to Ashleigh for his bundle, Michael took good care to be as little seen as possible; he was in fact more than ever anxious to avoid detection, as the more he meditated on his recollections of Sir Matthew Dowling and Parsons, the more did he feel convinced that should he fall into their power before the age of twenty-one, matters would go very hard with him.

  At the great assembling of the people at York, he feared not that he should encounter any enemy; the only human beings whom he could so designate being likely to show themselves at the most distant part of the kingdom, rather than before the face of the multitude to be expected there. No feelings of distrust or alarm, therefore, arose to check the pleasurable excitement which this expedition was calculated to inspire; and Michael, with his stout staff over his shoulder, and the cotton handkerchief, containing a change of linen, suspended fr
om it, set out with a light heart and active step upon a walk in which he soon found himself joined by many thousand companions.

  The assurance given him by his unknown acquaintance, that he should see a wonderful and spirit-stirring spectacle, was fully verified. The very sight of the road along which he travelled, which looked like a dark and mighty current moving irresistibly along, while tributary streams flowed into it on all sides, so thick and serried was the mass that moved along it, was of itself well worth the toil it cost him, to behold its peaceful tumult. From time to time Michael indulged in a little questioning of the various individuals beside whom he found himself; but for the most part the men were too intent upon the object of their expedition, to converse idly respecting it — and by degrees our hero grew as silent as the rest, and trudged on without any other communion than that of his own thoughts.

  It was at about twenty miles distance from York, when the multitude were on their return, that a circumstance occurred, which, being of considerable importance to Michael, must be detailed somewhat at length. He had entered an inn by the road-side, which, being one of the largest post-houses on the north road, had an air of pretension and costliness about it, that caused the great majority of the host to walk on, without venturing to approach precincts so dangerous.

  But Michael was much exhausted, and having already discovered, when passing before the humbler houses of public entertainment, that no rest could be hoped from entering them, every inch of space being occupied, he deemed it wisest to disburse a splendid shilling, rather than fag on till he had no strength to go further.

  In pursuance of this reasoning, he entered the kitchen of the Royal Oak, and called for bread, cheese, and a pint of beer. Though there were not many of his fellow-travellers either rich or extravagant enough to share these splendid quarters with him, there were, nevertheless, three or four men taking refreshment in the apartment. One of these, an elderly respectable-looking personage, who had, as it seemed, exclusive possession of a snug little round-table in a corner, made a sign to Michael to share it with him. This was gratefully accepted, the loaf and cheese were already there, and the foaming tankard quickly followed.