“Be so kind, my dear,” said Mr. Bell to his wife, without immediately replying to Michael’s question, “be so kind, my dear, as to find Miss Brotherton’s last letter for me. I think you took possession of it, and I doubt not have preserved it among other treasures of the same kind.”
Mrs. Bell immediately left the room, and presently returned with the letter in her hand.
“Take that letter, Michael,” said Mr. Bell; “take it into the garden, my dear boy, and read it alone, and without interruption. You will find a shady seat where you may be very comfortable, and when you have finished the perusal come into my study, and tell me what you think of it.”
Michael’s hand trembled as he took the letter, and silently obeying the instructions he received, he walked out to an embowered spot where he could not be seen from the house, and seating himself on a garden-bench perused the following letter with a mixture of trepidation and eagerness which may easily be imagined:
“Have you thought it long since last you heard from me, dear friends? I hope you have, for it has seemed very long to me since last I wrote to you. But what a thief of time is occupation! I have been so very busy in drawing plans for the repairing and beautifying my old castle — you would certainly call it a castle in England — and so constantly called upon by Edward, to give my approval to his earte du voyage for our Italian tour, and by Fanny, to sanction her plans for our future flower-garden, and by Mrs. Tremlett to settle some point of enormous difficulty respecting the packing up of the things to be left, and the things to be taken, that though day by day I have told myself, for at least a month past, that I was behaving most abominably in not writing, I have never before found a leisure hour to set about it. But if I have not written, I have drawn for you — witness the view from my beautiful terrace which I shall send with this letter. I wish I could have put my own phiz in it to show you how healthy and well I look; but unfortunately, you know, there is no point of sight from which an artist can catch a peep at himself without the aid of a looking-glass, and though I pretty nearly live upon my terrace, I have not yet taken either to sleeping or dressing there, so no mirror was at hand. But instead of myself I have given you Edward; sometimes I do feel a little glorious as I look at him,” and remember the delicate paleface and feeble limbs that greeted my first sight of him in Hoxley-lane. He is now — but you will laugh at me if I attempt to describe him in words — the sketch I send is no bad likeness, and may give you a tolerably correct idea of the alteration that has taken place. As to my sweet Fanny, though the attempt would have been a bold one, I meant to have given you a likeness of her too, but her attitude was so picturesquely pretty as she stood, unconscious of what I was about, that I contented myself with the back of her curly head — you shall have her face another time.
“How can I be sufficiently thankful to Providence for having redeemed my isolated existence from the state of uselessness in which I vegetated before I met Edward Armstrong and Fanny Fletcher! Not an hour now passes by me, without leaving behind it some trace of my having advanced in the precious labour of making these two beloved beings happier. Were they merely ordinary young people, with average hearts and average capacities, I should still bless Heaven with a grateful heart, for having permitted me to be the means of changing their condition, from one of great suffering to a life of innocent enjoyment. But as it is, I know not how to be thankful enough!
“It seems to me, dear friends, however much I increase my acquaintance with other human beings, that Edward and Fanny are the noblest creatures in the world. Is it that suffering, being of necessity a part of our earthly nature, we cannot arrive at the perfect development of all our faculties without it? Where it arrives in later life, perhaps, the effect, though inwardly healthful, may not show fruits so beautiful. There is in the minds of both of them, a brightness of intelligence, and a delicious calm of temper that I have never met elsewhere. It is as if a heavy weight that had been painfully crushing them, was suddenly removed, causing all the ordinary sensations of human existence to be felt as a luxury. Young as they are, they are full of instruction, right thinking, pure feeling, and a firmness of integrity which it is the best joy of my life to contemplate — and all this built on so firm a foundation of religious principle, that I can have no fears for its endurance. After this, it would be very weak and womanish folly to dwell much on their personal advantages, or even on the peculiar charm of their manners and conversation — yet they are gifts which bring a charm, to which it is difficult to be quite insensible.
“Is it not strange, dear friends, that being such as I describe them, and having passed so large a portion of their lives together in the mutual contemplation of each other’s excellence, is it not strange that they should not by this time be lovers, instead of friends? Yet such is not the case. That they love each other sincerely is most true, and I could give a thousand proofs that either would at all times gladly renounce amusement or pleasure of any kind, for the sake of the other; but they are not in love. If I did not believe it impossible, considering the age of the parties when they parted, I should think that Fanny’s little heart had been buried in the grave of Michael, the poor little fellow, whose early sufferings under the tender patronage of Sir Matthew Dowling, first roused my sleepy existence into action. She cannot yet hear his name mentioned, without betraying a degree of emotion that it is painful to witness; and when, as sometimes happens, Edward is taken for her brother, it seems to delight her. ‘Yes, yes, indeed he is my brother! I love him as such; and if you ask him, he will tell you that I am to him a dear and loving sister,’ I have heard her say, and if Edward had been asked, I do believe he would have answered, and truly too, in the same strain.
“Edward is now twenty-one, and my pretty Fanny nineteen; but, notwithstanding the variety of captivating young people with whom they are perpetually associating, I cannot believe that the heart of either has as yet received any tender impression — though in more cases than one, I have had reason to know that they have not been looked at with indifference. Yet, sometimes I am puzzled about Edward! I think he is less gay and joyous than he used to be. At any time, indeed, the name of Michael has ever been sufficient to bring an expression of profound and hopeless sorrow upon his fine countenance, which it wrings my heart to see; for, alas! how vain must be all my affection, all sisterly love, to help him there! But, incontestably of late, his spirits have been less gay than formerly. This, to tell you the truth, is the only drawback to the happiness I enjoy. Could Fanny and Edward learn to forget poor Michael, I should hardly have a wish left; but I have little hope of this — his memory, I truly believe is too deeply engraven on their hearts, for any subsequent events to efface it. Sometimes, when I meditate on this sadly-enduring sorrow, I fancy that I should rejoice if they were both of them to fall in love, as a cure for it. But, alas! whenever that happens, what a breaking up of happiness it will be! for I can hardly hope to find a continental wife or husband for my adopted children, sufficiently English in habits and character, to permit my inviting them to make a part of my family. Yet marry abroad they must, I think, if they marry at all — for I will never by my own free will expose them to the mortification likely to ensue upon such an explanation respecting their origin, as must be the consequence of any matrimonial negotiation in England. On the continent, the ample fortunes they will possess, with their good education, and great natural advantages, will suffice to make them very desirable alliances to almost any one. But these are anxieties, which though they must come upon me sooner or later, I suppose, I shall endeavour to push from me, and forget as long as I can.
“And now I must bid you farewell; for during the next month, or perhaps longer, our course will be directed by circumstances that we are not fully acquainted with as yet. But I will write as soon as I can tell you with certainty where your letters can reach us.
“Mrs. Tremlett, Edward, and Fanny, send affectionate greetings to you all. And should it fall in your way to see, or convey a message to poor Martha
Dowling, I will beg you to tell her that I shall ever remember her with great affection and esteem. Adieu!
“Ever dear Mr and Mrs. Bell, “Your grateful and affectionate, “MARY BROTHERTON.”
Did one reading of this epistle suffice for Michael? did two? did three? It is difficult to say, for he remained in his shady and obscure retreat so long, that Mr. Bell, notwithstanding his previous determination not to disturb him, began to think that it was time to see whether all the good news it contained had not killed him with joy. And when he reached the bench, Michael still sat with the precious letter in his hand, and his eyes fixed upon it, so that it appeared as if he had not yet finished the perusal of it. Michael looked up as Mr. Bell approached him, and immediately rising, stepped forward to receive him. It was not, however, any wild excess of joy that his features expressed, but there were traces of very strong emotion on his countenance, and his hand trembled as he stretched it forth to receive that which was kindly extended towards him.
“You have remained too long alone, my dear boy, in this cold nook,” said Mr. Bell, taking the young man’s arm within his own, and leading him towards the house. “What makes you look so pale, Michael? You are not ill, I hope?”
“No, sir, I think not,” was the reply, “but I can hardly tell you how I feel. At one moment the idea that my dear brother still lives, and that it is possible I may again see him, hear him, hold him in my arms, seems to make me too happy to breathe — and then again, a sort of doubt and sadness takes hold upon me, and I do not feel as if it were possible I could ever make one in the happy party on the terrace.”
“And why not, Michael?” demanded Mr. Bell somewhat reproachfully; “after reading that letter, can you find it in your heart to doubt that the party on the terrace would receive you joyfully?”
“Will not the happiness be too great?” cried Michael. “Oh! how can I deserve it?”
“Not by doubting the goodness or the affection of those who love you,” replied Mr. Bell. “But come, I must not preach to you now, I believe, for I suspect that you are not in a condition to profit by it. Come into the house, sit down, and grow reasonable as fast as you can, and then we will talk of the time and the mode in which you must set off to join your family — for your family they are, and will be, Michael, you may depend upon it.”
“Can I throw myself upon Miss Brotherton, sir, without her permission?” demanded Michael, while his paleness was changed for a moment into a glow of the deepest red.
“I am afraid you have a very proud heart, Michael,” said Mr. Bell, looking at him; “and that is not right, it is not christianlike.”
“Oh, Mr. Bell!” replied Michael, with strong feeling, “have I not already eaten the bitter bread of dependence, and can I, at my age, and with my power to labour, submit to it again?”
“You have a notion then, young man, that benefits conferred by a Sir Matthew Dowling, and a Miss Brotherton, are the same thing?” said Mr. Bell.
“Not so, sir,” replied Michael, “I cannot doubt that she who wrote this letter, must be both great and good, and I well know that Sir Matthew Dowling was neither. But I only know Miss Brotherton as one of the fine folks visiting at his house, and I cannot feel that I should like to start out suddenly upon her, from the tomb, as it would seem, appearing to expect that she should adopt me too, as she has done my brother Edward.”
“Well, Michael, I must not blame you for this, because I believe it is very natural; yet, nevertheless, I feel quite sure that you will forget all such notions when you see Miss Brotherton,” returned Mr. Bell, smiling. Michael shook his head, but he returned the smile, though rather languidly; and when they had reached the house, and were again seated in the study, he said, “What does Miss Brotherton mean, sir, by calling Miss Martha Dowling ‘poor Martha?’ I trust that no misfortune has befallen her? she was very kind to me, and shall always love her, although her name is Dowling.”
“I believe she deserves it, Michael,” returned Mr. Bell, “and, by the by, you have it in your power to show your love, and do her a great kindness by the very simple process of letting her know that you are alive. Poor girl! She has suffered dreadfully from believing that she caused your death by the advice she gave to your mother about signing your indentures, and I fancy that letting her know that you did not perish in consequence, would be conferring a real blessing on her.”
“Dear, good Miss Martha!” exclaimed Michael, “how well do I remember the walk we took together when she went to Hoxley-lane, to give my dearest mother that advice. She did it for my good, and for my good it would have been, if what she advised had been the thing she thought it! I owe her still, notwithstanding the misery she brought me to, the deepest gratitude; for her kind and careful teaching during the short time I was in her father’s house first gave me the ambition and the hope to learn, and, spite of my degraded condition, I have never lost sight of it — and this it is, which, if any thing can, may reconcile me to presenting myself as a poor shepherd-boy before my well-taught brother.”
“You are right there, Michael,” replied Mr. Bell; “it is very clear to me that you have profited greatly by the feelings so inspired, notwithstanding the adverse circumstances in which you were placed during the four terrible years passed in the Deep Valley; and such feelings I can tell you, will make a vast difference in the degree of happiness you are likely to enjoy in a reunion with your brother.”
“And to Fanny Fletcher too!” said Michael, with the eagerness of reviving hope heightening his colour, and darting its brightness from his eye, “to Fanny Fletcher too, I owe the suggestion of thoughts which have saved me from being too utterly degraded to meet her again with pleasure. It is to Martha Dowling, surely, that I owe all the little book learning I have been able to acquire, as well as the power of writing down the thoughts and meditations to which it has given rise; but it was Fanny who made me feel that however lowly our condition and state on earth, we may yet retain as good a right as any of the kings of it, to open our hearts before God, and ask for His Spirit to help us. How many mornings have I watched the sun rise, how many evenings have I seen him set in glory behind the mountain-tops, and thought as I lay amidst the heather, and worshipped his Almighty Maker, that, but for her, I should never have known the comfort of loving and trusting, as well as of adoring him. It was that dear patient little girl who taught me this, and perhaps I may yet live to thank her for it.”
“I trust you will, my dear boy,” replied Mr. Bell, touched with the earnest energy of the boy’s manner; “I trust you will, Michael: and if I mistake her not, she will receive such thanks as ‘ a very welcome reward for all the pains she took to comfort you. Such kindness as she showed you is, indeed,—’ twice blest.
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:’ and I doubt not that she, as well as yourself, has been the better for it, from that time to this.”
“May I look once more at that drawing, sir?” said Michael, with some little embarrassment.
“There it is, Michael,” said the clergyman smiling, and once more laying it before him. “Were it not that I think you will so soon see the dear originals, and that we shall not, I would ask my wife to give it you.”
“I think I shall learn every line, and every shade of it by rote,” said Michael, “if I do but look at it a few minutes longer. There, sir,” he added, after an earnest gaze, and resigning it into his hands; “I feel as if it were my own now.” Then, after one deep sigh, he seemed to rouse himself; and, as if endeavouring to shake off some feeling that oppressed him, he said, “But you have not told me yet, sir, the reason why Miss Brotherton calls my first benefactress ‘poor Martha!’” —
“I am sorry to say,” replied Mr. Bell, “that there are more reasons than one, for applying that pitying epithet to Miss Martha Dowling. In the first place, she is greatly out of health, poor girl; and in the next, her father’s affairs are said to be in a very tottering condition, in consequence of his having overloaded himself with a greater quantity of
spun cotton than he can get any sale for. He is said to have lent out money, too, on some speculation which has not answered: and, in short, that it is rather a nice question, whether he will be able to get through his difficulties or not. Another misfortune is, that Sir Matthew, as soon as he possibly could after the death of his first wife, thought proper to marry the Lady Clarissa Shrimpton, who, strange to say, thought proper also to marry him; and it is said also, that poor Miss Martha, who is the eldest of the daughters unmarried, is not permitted to enjoy much peace under the rule of her noble step-mother.”
“Lady Clarissa Shrimpton?” said Michael, with the air of one to whom some long-lost image is brought back—” Lady Clarissa Shrimpton? Why, surely, that was the name of the tall, thin woman who had to practise the laying her bony hand upon my unfortunate little head, when the terrible play was about?”
“I dare say it was,” said Mr. Bell. “But, at any rate, Lady Clarissa Shrimpton is now Lady Clarissa Dowling.”
“Poor Miss Martha! — and she is out of health too? How can I manage to pay my duty to her, Mr. Bell, without running the risk of being recognised by Sir Matthew, as the unfortunate boy who escaped from the Deep Valley? He would be able, I suppose, to make me serve out my time?”
“I do not think he would attempt it just now, Michael?” was the consolatory reply. “Thank God!” continued Mr. Bell, there has been a good deal said of late concerning the abominations of the Deep Valley Factory, and I don’t much think Sir Matthew Dowling would run the risk of having it proved that he had kidnapped a boy away to it, in the style he managed you. I should have no fear whatever, of your presenting yourself at Dowling Lodge; only I think it is ten to one her ladyship will not let you get a sight of Miss Martha without her being present, — unless you were to write a line to the young lady first, and then perhaps she might contrive it.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 214
