Collected Works of Frances Trollope, page 184
As it was, however, Sir Matthew Dowling reached his home; and the first thing he heard from the man who threw wide its portals was, that Mr. Parsons was waiting for him in his study.
“Bring me a biscuit, a bottle of Stein, and some iced water,” said the knight in the accent of one not born to “enter the venerable presence of hunger, thirst, and cold,” nor into that of heat or vexation either.
“What’s the matter now, Parsons?” said he, throwing himself into a delicious arm-chair, and perceiving by one glance at the sour visage before him, that something or other had gone wrong. “The mill’s not burnt down I suppose, is it?”
“And I’m not sure that would be the worst thing that could happen Sir Matthew, if it was,” replied the confidential servant. “It is well insured you know, sir, and would bring in a famous sum, as sure as the bank, and that’s more, I take it, than we can say of all our debts.”
“Who the devil has been gossiping with you about the debts? What business is that of yours, I should like to know? Mind your billy-rollers Mr. Parsons, and take care your hands keep up with your machinery, that’s your work; — and I can tell you, if you don’t know it already, that the success of the concern depends more upon that, than upon any other thing whatever. The building is paid for, and the glorious machinery is paid for — mind that, sir, and where’s the interest of it to come from if you let the hands go to sleep over it? I tell you what, Mr. Parsons, an overlooker is not worth his salt if he does not continually keep it in his head, that the more the machinery is improved the faster must the brats move to follow it. And you may rely upon it that where this is remembered early and late, day hours and night hours, the concern will answer, and every manager of it, master or man, will live well. But, by the Lord Harry! where it is not, they are as sure to go the wrong side of the post, as you are to go to bed tonight. It stands to reason, Parsons. If one man knows how to drive, and another doesn’t, the one man’s team will pay, and the other’s won’t; and I will be much obliged to any man who will tell me how I am to help being undersold in the market, if I don’t contrive to make my machinery go as fast, and as long too, as the best of ’em. That’s the business you are to attend to, Mr. Parsons, and I won’t trouble you about any other.”
“All true, Sir Matthew, every word of it. And I can’t but say, though I scorn to be a boaster, — I can’t but say, that I think I have given you reason to trust me. I am noted for being able to keep the children awake, and going longer than any other man in the mill. There isn’t an overlooker in Ashleigh that can equal me with the strap or the billy-roller either, when I chooses to make ’em tell.”
“I know all that, my good fellow, and I value your services accordingly. But I have been devilishly put out this morning, and that makes me snappish; besides, I am quite sure you have got something disagreeable to tell, by your face. So out with it, man, and make an end of it.”
“Make an end of it, Sir Matthew?” replied Parsons, repeating the last words of the sentence with marked emphasis, “by the Lord, sir, that is exactly what I’m come to beg you to do. You must make an end of your charity job, Sir Matthew, for it don’t answer in any way: we have lost one of the nimblest set of fingers we had, that wanted nothing but the strap to keep ’em going for sixteen hours out of the four-and-twenty, and I wish you could just hear what gratitude you have gained in return for it. There is not a single day comes round that the rickety little Armstrong don’t blubber over his work like a church spout. And I overheard him, the young villain, when he didn’t think I was so near — I overheard him when the scavenger-girl, as was cleaning under the mules, looked up and asked, why for he cried, when his brother had got such good fortune — I heard him answer. And what do you think he said, Sir Matthew?”
“How the devil should I know?” replied the chafed capitalist. “Don’t stand mumming there, but out with it.”
“Neither more nor less than this, Sir Matthew: ‘Don’t talk of his good fortune, Bet,’ says he, ‘he’s the most unhappiest boy in all the world,’ says he.”
“Pestilent little vermin!” exclaimed Sir Matthew through his closed teeth. “Infernal fool that I was to listen to that idiot woman! — and Crockley too, who ought to know better, has been badgering me exactly with the same execrable nonsense. Never again as long as I live will I be persuaded to try any other scheme with the people than what we have always acted upon. Brutes and beasts they are, and like brutes and beasts they should be treated; — and so they shall by me, as long as my head’s above ground.”
“Well, sir, I can’t but say I am glad you are come back to your right mind, as one may call it. Such romantical goings on can never answer in a factory, Sir Matthew. It an’t the way to do business, and business is what we have got to do. And so, sir, I hope you will send that scamp Mike back to the mill to-morrow morning, for they can’t say no worse of it, let us pay him off as we will, than that he’s the most unhappiest boy in all the world. And that’s what they says already.”
“It won’t do, Parsons. That boy must be got rid of. — What do you stare for, you ass? Do you think I am going to get hanged for him?”
“Oh! dear no, Sir Matthew — you know the value of your own life better than that, any how, — God forbid you should not. Only I did not overwell understand what you meant by getting rid of him.”
“I must contrive to send him out of the way, at least out of this neighbourhood; and moreover with his own consent and his mother’s too. That is what I meant, Mr. Parsons.”
“You must know best, Sir Matthew. But it seems to me you are taking a deal of trouble about him. If you’ll just let me have him back in the mill, I think I’ll venture to say that he shall never get within reach of plaguing you any more — and I’d get a pennyworth out of him into the bargain.”
“For a tolerably sharp fellow, Parsons, you’re devilish dull about this business. Can’t you guess that I should not be taking all the trouble you talk of, about such a beggar’s brat as that, unless I had reasons for it. There’s that lord’s daughter that got me into the scrape, won’t she be ferreting and ferreting till she finds out that the sweet little master has not found himself comfortable here? And ten times worse than her, — ay, a hundred fold, is that obstinate headstrong girl of old Brotherton’s. My Lady Clarissa might be troublesome from mere folly, and might perhaps be stopped short in any mischief she was doing, by a few words from me. But not the old one himself could stop Mary Brotherton if she got a whim in her head. You should have seen her just now, Mr. Parsons, raving at me with her colour up and her eyes dashing, for all the world as if she had just escaped out of Bedlam, only because I cautioned her against going into Joe Drake’s pigsty, — a pretty place wasn’t it for a girl of her fortune to go visiting? But in she went, by heaven! and you may rely upon it, if such a girl as that, who cares for nothing, and nobody, once gets it into her head to go about among the factory people, she’ll kick up more dust than we shall find it easy to lay again. I’ve been told already by one who I suspect wanted to put me on my guard, that this Mary Brotherton wished to have a little talk with Michael Armstrong. I can put two and two together as well as Miss Mary. She was at our cursed play last night, and I’ll bet my life to a rotten egg that she wants to ask him what he cried for.”
“Likely enough, sir,” replied the overlooker with a grim smile. “I heard of the crying, I won’t say that I didn’t. You may guess, Sir Matthew that it was a good deal talked about among the servants — and then t’other of ’em blubbering away at the mill, must give a pretty notion, mustn’t it, sir, of your goodness to ’em?”
“Say no more about it, it makes me mad!” exclaimed the knight. “One or both of ’em shall be sent to Deep Valley mill, Parsons, if I die for it!”
“There’s none but ‘prentices taken in at the mill in the deep hollow, Sir Matthew, if you mean that.”
“Yes, sir, I do mean that,” replied Sir Matthew with a very ominous frown, “and there Master Michael Armstrong shall go, ‘prentice or no ‘prentice, or I’ll give him up my place, and take his.”
“That’s all, then Sir Matthew,” said the overlooker, preparing to depart. “I com’d to put you up to the boys ingratitude, and have nothing further to say at present.”
“You need not trouble yourself any more about that, Mr. Parsons. I will take care of him,” replied the knight. Whereupon Mr. Parsons made a bow, and departed.
Sir Matthew Dowling had already taken one tumbler of hock-and-water. He now took a second, and then throwing himself back in his arm-chair, indulged for several minutes in very deep meditation. At the end of that time it seemed as if the good Rhine wine had done its office, for suddenly the knight’s countenance became animated; the heavy gloom which had rested upon it disappeared, and springing to his feet he rang the bell with a sort of lively jerk which showed he had some project in hand that he greatly relished.
It was the lively Peggy who answered the summons; but though she entered almost out of breath from the eagerness with which she had traversed the passage which led from the kitchen to the study, and though she brought into immediate activity all the agaceries of which she was capable, a smiling nod was all she got in return, so eager did Sir Matthew appear to say, “Go to Miss Martha, Peggy, as fast as you can, and tell her to come here to me this very minute. Go, my dear, and make haste, there’s a good girl.”
Peggy was disappointed and angry, for she had a great deal to tell Sir Matthew about Michael Armstrong’s ungratefulness, and all that the servants thought and said about it; but the command she had received was too peremptory to be trifled with, and though she very nearly slammed the study door in shutting it, she failed not to deliver her message, which was instantly obeyed with the most dutiful alacrity by Martha.
“Did you send Peggy for me, papa?” said she in entering.
“Yes, Martha dear, I did. How are you to-day, my dear girl? I have not seen you before this morning. Sit down, love, sit down; I want to talk to you, Martha, I have got something upon my mind that vexes me, and I am going to open my heart to you about it.”
“Oh, my dear, dear papa!” returned Martha, “I should be so glad if I could be of any use to you!”
“You can, Martha — you can be of great use and comfort to me. In the first place you must be my father confessor, and let me confess my faults to you, and I hope you will give me absolution if you can; for I really am very uncomfortable.”
“What can you mean, papa?”
“Why, my dear, I mean that I have been foolish enough to put myself in a great pet, when I ought not to have done any such thing. It is always wrong to let temper get the better of one; but in this case it was particularly so. You know the fuss that has been made about this little fellow that I have taken out of the factory — I do assure you, my dear girl, that I really intended to be a very kind friend to him. But I got so provoked at his crying upon the stage last night in that beautiful speech that was written for him, that I cuffed him soundly for it when he came off — and I am sadly afraid that I frightened the poor little fellow so violently that he will never feel comfortable, and at his ease with me again. You cannot think how this vexes me.”
“Oh! my dear papa, he will never remember it any more if you will please to forgive him.” And Martha’s heart bounded with joy as she spoke, to think how completely Miss Brotherton’s opinion would be changed could she but hear her father speak thus amiably of what had passed.
“No, Martha, no; I cannot bear to see his frightened look. And besides, my dear, I shall never be sure of myself — you know how hasty I am! — I should live in perpetual terror lest any thing should tempt me to give him a cuff. There are other reasons too, my dear Martha, which induce me to think that I should be doing the little fellow and his family infinitely more service if I apprenticed him to some good trade, than he could ever gain by running about Dowling Lodge.”
The excellent good sense of this observation struck Martha as very valuable, and she uttered the most cordial approbation of the wisdom and goodness from whence it proceeded.
“I am exceedingly glad you agree with me, my dear child,” proceeded Sir Matthew, “for I have an idea that you could be very useful in making the arrangement. Do you happen to know where the little boy’s mother lives, my dear Martha?”
“No, papa — but Michael could show me.”
“Then you should have no objection to pay her a visit on this business, my dear?”
“Oh! dear no! I should like it so much!”
“Very well, my love — then you shall set out immediately if you will. Or stay — it would perhaps be better to get you the paper first that they will have to sign. You must remember to tell them, Martha, that I shall undertake to pay all the fees. It certainly is an excellent thing for a poor family like Armstrong’s, to have a boy ‘prenticed to a good trade. I trust the mother will not refuse her consent from any selfish notion, that she may lose the boy’s help thereby, it would be really very wicked. You may tell her, my dear, that I shall continue to send her down nice and nourishing food, and that little Michael shall be taught to write, and well instructed every way; so she may be quite easy about him, and he will be sure to send her a letter every now and then.” The knight concluded with a smile of kindness, that perfectly enchanted his daughter. “Oh! my dear, dear papa!” she said, “how few people there are who know you as well as I do! Let me go and look for Michael now, papa, shall I? I should like to go down to his mother with him at once, and tell her of your great goodness. The papers could be sent afterwards, you know.”
“Very well, dear, trot away then; — get your bonnet and parasol, find your little squire, and then come back here to me to receive my last instructions.”
As soon as the happy-looking Martha had left the room the bell was again rung, and on this occasion answered by a footman, — the lively Peggy choosing to turn herself another way as soon as she heard it.
“Is Parsons gone?” demanded Sir Matthew of the servant.
“No, Sir Matthew, he is in the servants’ hall,” was the reply.
“Desire him to step here directly.”
Though the overlooker was enjoying some very comfortable refreshment, he promptly obeyed the summons, and as soon as he had again entered the study, and shut the door behind him, his master said, “Do you know, Parsons, whether the woman Armstrong can read?”
“Yes, sir, I know she can — and that’s one reason why she is so outdacious about the workhouse and every thing. There’s nothing on earth does so much mischief among the mill people as making scholards of ’em,” said the man. —
“I know that well enough, who doesn’t? But you may go now, I Only wanted to ask you that one question,” replied the master.
Once more alone, the knight again took to meditation. Profound as was the state of ignorance respecting all things beyond their own wretched dwellings in which the operatives at that time were kept, Sir Matthew had some misgivings as to the possibility that the name and fame of Deep Valley mill, might have reached even Hoxley-lane. If it had, the sending to a woman who could read, indentures by which her child should become bound to that establishment till the age of twenty-one, was running a risk of more opposition than he wished to encounter. But he had a ready wit, and seldom remained long at a loss how to manage any business on which his mind had fixed itself. When Martha returned, therefore, he was quite ready with his last instructions.
“Have you found the little boy, my dear?” said he mildly.
“Yes, papa, he is waiting for me in the hall. Foolish little fellow! I believe he fears that you are very angry with him, and he looked so much alarmed that I would not bring him in.”
“Poor child! But you were quite right, my dear Martha. It is better not to harass him in any way. Now then, Martha, what you have got to do is this: Explain to the poor woman that it is my wish to keep my promise of providing for her boy; but that I am come to the persuasion that the apprenticing him to some respectable business will be better than letting him run about the place here learning nothing. You may talk to the little boy, you know; he is a sharp child, and I have no doubt will come to the same conclusion himself, if you state the thing to him properly.”
“I have no doubt of it, papa,” answered the innocent Martha; “I will do my very best to make him understand it. And what trade shall I tell Mrs. Armstrong you have chosen for him?”
“Stocking weaving, my dear, I really don’t know a better; and we may be able to help him in that if he behaves well as he goes on.”
“Well then, papa, now I may go?”
“Yes, my dear, now you may go — and you may just tell the woman, Martha, that if she approves the plan, I will call upon her myself some day with the papers. A pleasant walk to you! Good bye.”
It was a very pleasant walk, for Martha was delighted with her companion. She opened to him kindly and clearly the plan for his being put apprentice to a respectable trade, and pointed out to his young but quick capacity the advantage this would give him in after life, and the power he might hope to possess, if he behaved well, of providing for his mother and brother.
“Tis that what I should like best of all things,” said Michael. “Because, please ma’am, I know I must help ’em, as they beant neither of ’em so strong as I be.”
“You are a good boy, Michael, for thinking of them so much as you do. That is the reason I take notice of you, and love you.”
‘The little fellow nestled closer to her side, as they walked on, and raising the hand that held his, he laid it upon his shoulder, and pressed his cheek upon it with very endearing fondness.
“What an affectionate little heart it is!” thought Martha, “and how very happy I shall be if I can help to get this business settled for him!”
