All he now seemed to fear was that his imagination should cheat him into the persuasion that all he wished was true. Edward! Fanny! (for of her identity with Miss Brotherton’s protégée he could hardly doubt, when he remembered the history of her departure from the Deep Valley) — these names seemed to ring in his ears, and to be inscribed in starlight on the heavens as he raised his eyes towards them. And thus the sixteen miles were traversed before he had half chewed the cud of all the sweet thoughts that thronged upon his fancy. When he reached Fairly, it was still much too early to find any one stirring, so Michael unceremoniously walked into a cart-shed, and clambering up into a vehicle that had the sweet savour of newly-carried hay to recommend it, he placed his bundle under his head, and despite both hopes and fears, fell into a sound sleep, nor waked till cocks, hens, cows, pigs, and ploughboys, all joined in chorus to arouse him.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW — DOUBTS AND PEARS.
MICHAEL’S first recollections on opening his eyes were not of the clearest kind, and it required at least a minute’s looking about him, after seating himself upright in the cart, before he could perfectly understand where he was, or why and how he got there. But no sooner did all the events of the day before rush back upon his mind, than he felt conscious of being near the most important moment of his life. Again he closed his eyes, but not to sleep, and fervently prayed that whatever might be the tidings which awaited him, he might have strength to receive and bear them as he ought. Then, springing from his resting-place upon the ground, he inquired of a lad near him the way to Mr. Bell’s, and set off to follow the directions he received with no greater delay than was necessary for a short halt beside a little streamlet on the way, which offered a welcome opportunity of washing his face and hands before he petitioned for admission to the presence of the good clergyman, to whose words he looked forward with an intensity of interest which almost amounted to agony.
Though it was still early, Mr. Bell was already in his garden, and when the gate opened, it was himself who turned towards it to learn the errand of the young stranger. Michael felt at the first glance that the gentleman who stood before him was the person from whom he was to learn whether the brother he had so long mourned as dead was still alive, and he trembled so violently from head to foot that he could not articulate a word.
“What ails you, my lad?” said Mr. Bell, gently laying a hand upon his shoulder, and looking earnestly in his face. “You have not the look of one who has done mischief, or else I could fancy that you had some terrible tale to tell. Come into the house and sit down, my boy, for it is very clear you are not quite able to stand.”
Michael, still silent, followed his considerate host into the house, and thankfully received from his hands a glass of water, which did him good service, for in a minute or two he was able to say, “I want you to tell me, sir — may God give me strength to hear your answer, let it be which way it may! — I want to know — if Edward — if my brother, Edward Armstrong, is alive or dead?” But notwithstanding Michael’s torturing eagerness to hear the answer, he put his hand before his eyes, because he had not courage to bear the look that might forestal it.
“Your brother? Edward Armstrong your brother? Who then are you, boy, in the name of Heaven?” said Mr. Bell, eagerly.
“I am Michael, sir, Michael Armstrong. But oh! for pity’s sake, tell me what I ask!”
“Yes, boy, yes. But compose yourself, my dear fellow! Edward is alive, and your friend Fanny Fletcher too.”
Michael sunk from his chair upon his knees, and lifting his clasped hands towards Heaven, seemed breathing thanksgivings for this assured confirmation of tidings which, till now, he had not dared to believe true. But, startled as he was, the anxiety, the excitement, and the fatigue of the preceding night and day, had been more than enough for him, and at the moment when every thought would have been joy, and every sensation delight, he ceased to think or feel at all, — the colour forsook his lips, his eyes closed, and, greatly to the dismay of Mr. Bell, he sunk prostrate on the floor.
No time was lost before the usual means of restoring suspended life were administered; and the uncared-for factory-boy, the mountain-braced Westmorland shepherd, lay extended on a sofa, with essences at his nose, and the opening of his dark eyes watched for, as tenderly as if he had been a delicate young lady.
A deep-drawn sigh announced to Mr. Bell, who stood by, anxiously watching him, that his remedies had been successful, that the boy so long mourned as dead, was really and truly alive, and a very handsome, well-grown fellow into the bargain.
“This is a strange history, Michael, as ever I chanced to hear,” said he, taking the boy’s hand, and ascertaining that his pulse again made ‘healthful music.’ “Why we have all been mourning for you as dead for this many a year, and now you drop down, as if from the clouds, and by what I can make out, have been fancying on your side that Edward was dead too. The first thing to do, must, I think, be to give you some breakfast, and then, if you are strong enough, you shall tell me how all this has come to pass.”
Full as his heart was, and eagerly as he longed for the conversation in which he had so much to learn, as well as to tell, Michael gratefully submitted to this arrangement, till having received from the bands of the deeply-interested Mrs. Bell herself the refreshment he so greatly needed, he felt his young strength return, and if he trembled as he turned his eyes towards his kind host, with a look that seemed to say, “Now, sir, I can talk to you,” it was from eagerness, not weakness.
Mr. Bell understood the appeal, and well inclined to answer it, said, “Having told you that Edward is alive and well, my dear boy, and only wants the sight that I see now to make him perfectly happy, I think you ought to be satisfied, and not expect me to tell you any more till my curiosity is gratified by hearing your own history. How in the world did it happen, Michael, that when Miss Brotherton went to the Deep Valley Mills, on purpose to look for you, she should come back persuaded that you were dead, though the charming little girl she brought away with her had seen you there, and seemed to know you well?”
Michael Armstrong told his own story more succinctly than I have been able to do it, and probably much better too; for he beguiled Mrs. Bell of many tears as she listened to him; and bare as the sad narrative was of events, her husband also hung upon every word of it, as if, contrary to the theory which seemed to be pretty generally established in his neighbourhood, he thought the feelings and the sufferings of a factory-child might be capable of exciting interest.
When the history had reached its conclusion, and Michael had fairly brought himself into Mr. Bell’s breakfast-parlour, he paused, and with a very eloquent look of entreaty said, “Now, sir, may I not listen to you?” —
“Yes, my dear boy,” replied his new friend, in the happy tone with which a kind heart inspires words calculated to give pleasure. “Yes, you have much to hear, and a wonderful story it is, I promise you. But it shall be all true Michael, so don’t fancy that I am telling you a fairy tale, and that Miss Brotherton is the fairy. But first tell me, be fore I go any further, what sort of a boy was your brother Edward when you saw him last?”
“Oh, sir! he was the dearest, kindest fellow that ever lived!” replied Michael, his fine eyes beaming with tenderness and well-remembered love.
“But what sort of a boy was he to look at?” demanded the clergyman.
Michael closed his eyes as if the better to contemplate the inward picture engraven on his memory.
“His face was a sweet face,” said he, “but his dear limbs were crippled. He was a slighter boy than me, and could not stand the labour of the mill; and I fear — I fear,” he added, shuddering, “that my poor Edward must live and die a cripple.”
“What is your opinion about that, my dear?” said Mr. Bell, turning to his laughing wife.
“Why, I am inclined to think that Michael will have some difficulty in identifying his brother when he gets to him,” she replied.
; “Instead of being a cripple,” resumed Mr. Bell, “I suspect that your brother is a handsomer fellow than you are, Michael. Every thing promised well for it when he took leave of us, and since then my wife has had letters from Miss Brotherton, which do not speak of any falling off in his improvement.”
“Nay,” said the lady, “I have had more than letters to speak for it. Shall I show him Miss Brotherton’s drawing, George?”
“Most certainly, my dear; it will save me a vast deal of description, and you may trust to Miss Brotherton’s pencil, Michael, as implicitly as to my words, for there never was a more faithful limner.”
Mrs. Bell then opened a little portfolio, secured by a key, and drew thence a drawing in water-colours, the composition and finish of which would have done no discredit to a professional artist. How the stout nerves of the young and athletic Michael trembled as he received it! At first his eyes seemed to fail him, the outline, the colouring, the whole group was indistinct. “I am a fool, sir!” he said, letting the hand that held it drop beside him; “I positively cannot see.”
“I don’t much wonder at it,” replied Mr. Bell; “but try again, Michael, it is worth looking at.”
And so thought Michael, as he once more placed it before him, and gazed upon it with an eye as eager as that of Surrey might have been, when contemplating the magic mirror that was to show him what he loved “in life and limb.” The drawing represented a terrace-walk, along which ran a handsome stone balustrade partially covered by vine-leaves; while beneath it in the distance, stretched to a far horizon a glorious river, careering through a rich and varied landscape. All this was fair to look upon, but the boy’s eyes saw it not — they were riveted upon two figures that occupied the foreground of the terrace. One of these was a slender girl, whose bright curls seemed just released from the restraint of a straw-hat which she held in her hand. But though the head was thus uncovered, the features were not visible, for the other hand was placed upon the balustrade, over which she hung, as if in earnest contemplation of some object below. But the head of the other figure, a young man of some twenty years or so, was so turned as fully to meet the spectator’s eye; and if the pencil that drew it flattered not, it was one of the handsomest that nature ever formed. The large expressive eyes, beaming with mingled softness and animation, were directed to some object out of the picture, but at no great distance; for the sweet smile that played about the mouth seemed to indicate that he was listening to pleasant words from some well-loved companion. The figure of the young man thus represented, was tall and graceful. His dress was the light summer garb of a southern climate — an open book was in his hand, his straw hat lay at his feet, beside which stood a basket of newly-gathered grapes, and a small Italian greyhound, its bright eye looking in the same direction as his own, completed the group, which spoke in every part of it a sort of graceful ease and enjoyment, that it was very pleasant to look upon.
“Can this indeed be my Edward?” said Michael at length, after a long silent examination of the drawing. “How beautiful! — how noble! — how happy — how healthful — how intelligent he looks! Is it my own dear, pale, sickly brother? Can this be true?”
“As true as that you stand there to look at it,” replied Mr. Bell. “Is there nothing in the face, Michael, that recalls your brother to you?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied quickly; “the eyes and the sweet smile are so like my own Edward, that strange as it is to see him so healthy, tall, and graceful as he is represented here, and looking, too, so greatly like a gentleman, I do quite believe that this was never drawn for any one but him; for never, never since I saw him last, have I seen such eyes, or such a smile as that.”
“You are quite right there, Michael. The face is one not easily forgotten, and I can trace it here, notwithstanding all the change of age and circumstance. But who do you think that slender girl may be? It seems a pity not to see her face; the form, the pretty attitude, the bright waving locks, all plainly tell that it must be worth looking at. Can you guess who it is?”
“I suppose it is Fanny Fletcher,” replied Michael, colouring.
“And there, too, you are quite right. But does it not puzzle you to think how all this has been brought about? How does it happen, think you, that those whom you remember in a state so different, should now be living as you see them here, looking as if their existence were made up of sunshine and sweet air?”
“And now again I shall answer, as they say the fortune-tellers do,” replied Michael, smiling, “by telling you, sir, what you have before told me. It is Miss Brotherton, whose name I well remember at Dowling Lodge, it is she who has done all this, and may God bless her for it! But yet, truly, it still seems a mystery. How did it happen, sir, that this rich young lady should have left her grand house, and all her fine acquaintance here, to go into foreign countries with two poor factory-children?”
“You may well marvel at it, Michael, for it is no common act. But will you not think it something stranger still, if I declare, as I can do with all truth, that you are yourself the primal cause of it?” said Mr. Bell. “You look incredulous, yet so it is. Do you remember the play, Michael?”
“Sir Matthew’s play?” cried Michael, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, sir! can I ever forget it?”
“It was a vastly gay thing, too,” returned Mr. Bell, smiling, “and all the performers were exceedingly admired; but you do not seem to remember it with any great pleasure?”
“Pleasure, Mr. Bell?” returned Michael, with something like a groan; “I have suffered a good deal, considering how few years I had lived before my sufferings were over; but, excepting the coming home to mother’s, and finding her and Teddy gone, and, as they told me, dead — both dead! excepting then, I never was so very, very wretched as while Sir Matthew was making me practise for that play!”
“Do you remember the very night it was acted, when you, and he, and Dr. Crockley were in a room by yourselves, somewhere behind the scenes; do you remember, Michael, his beating and abusing you because you had cried upon the stage?”
“As well as if it had happened yesterday,” replied the young man. “I had to utter false and lying praise about him, and something I am sure there was about loving him as well as my dear mother. That I could not bear — and then it was that the tears burst out, though well I knew what I should pay for shedding them.”
“They were the luckiest tears that ever boy wept, so pray do not quarrel with them,” replied Mr. Bell. “While you were paying for them, as you call it, in the green-room, Miss Brotherton by accident heard and saw every thing that passed; and from that hour she has never forgotten you, Michael, though more than seven long years have passed, if I mistake not, during which you have never profited by it in your own person. I will not enter now into any description of what her feelings were. An accident prevented her seeing your mother immediately, and when she did, my poor boy, you were already beyond the reach of any help. But she never ceased to inquire, by every means in her power, whither you had been conveyed, and it was then she came to me, so that it is to you I owe the pleasure of knowing one of the purest and noblest-hearted human beings it has ever been my lot to meet with. It was in consequence of — not information, for I had none to give — but of a hint I gave her as to the nature of the place, that she set off on her exploring expedition to that horrid den of sin and suffering, the Deep Valley Mills, in Derbyshire. There she met the pretty creature whom she has since adopted. Little Fanny believed that you were dead, and this was the dismal news they brought to Hoxley-lane. — Your poor mother, Michael! But let it comfort you to know that every want and every hardship were relieved from the first hour that Miss Brotherton saw her — and she died with the comfort of knowing that her poor Edward would never have to labour more. Soon after her death, Miss Brotherton took your brother to London for the purpose of consulting the most able surgeons about his lameness. Their science did not fail them; for they predicted that with proper treatment he would outgrow it — and so he has
, completely; being at this time not only the graceful well-made personage you see him represented there, but healthy, active, and gifted, as I hear, with a most rare intelligence. For reasons which it is not very difficulty to guess, Miss Brotherton thought that she and her young protégées would find themselves better off on the continent than in Lancashire; and from the time she first left Milford Park to visit London, she has never returned to it The place is now sold, and Miss Brotherton has no longer any possessions in this neighbourhood. And now my dear boy, I think I have told you all, excepting the exact spot where they now are; and this I cannot do, because our last letter from her informed ns that they were just setting off upon a tour through Italy. She resided some time ago, for one year, at Paris, that the young people might acquire the language; but for the most part, Germany has been their home. It is there that your brother has received his education, and I think it very probable that it is there they will finally settle; for it is in the far-famed valley of the Rhingau that Miss Brotherton has purchased a spacious mansion, large enough, as she tells me, to accommodate half-a-dozen rich English families, with extensive and very beautiful grounds around it, and all capabilities for being converted into a delicious residence.”
Here he ceased, and it was several minutes before poor Michael was capable of uttering a single word in return. The mention of his mother — the hint that she had not long survived the hearing he was dead, wrung his heart anew, with grief as fresh as if he had lost her yesterday; and spite of his manly stature, the tears flowed silently, but plenteously, down his cheeks. Yet, even when he had conquered this, there was something so surprising in the present situation of his brother, something, that notwithstanding all the fond yearnings of his own heart, seemed to place them so widely asunder, that the joy which Mr. Bell looked for, was less obvious, than an expression of almost timid embarrassment, as he said, “Alas, sir! what shall I seem like amongst them? You speak of my dear Edward’s education in Germany — of his learning a foreign language in France — while I! — my best, and truly my only education has been looking at nature from the mountain’s side as I kept sheep, and all my learning, what I have gathered from a few strangely-mixed volumes that I have bought or borrowed during the last four years. How can I present myself before them? How they can welcome me?”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 213
