Collected Works of Frances Trollope, page 205
“In that case,” replied Miss Brotherton, greatly comforted, “I have no doubt that we could get the poor little girl here, and then if you would give us leave to remain till your husband has contrived to procure some sort of conveyance for us, all our troubles would be over, and most gratefully will I repay you for your assistance.”
“I will show you the way this moment, ma’am,” said the woman, with great alacrity; and once more suspending her labours for the good man’s supper, she prepared to attend the lady by taking off an external apron, and smoothing that which was below it.
Though not quite within a stone’s throw, the spot to which Miss Brotherton was so anxious to return, was reached by a very short cut across the piece of meadow-ground on which the back part of the farm-house opened.
The joy of Mrs. Tremlett at seeing her was great indeed; and poor Fanny, refreshed by the interval of rest, declared herself quite able to walk “a good piece more.”
“Poor little creature!” exclaimed good Mrs. Roberts, the farmer’s wife; “she do look bad, sure enough! It is seldom or never that we gets a sight of the children at the mill, for they sends regular for what they wants, and bean’t over fond of having any body go near ’em; — but she puts me strongly in mind of old Sally’s stories to be sure!”
The little party reached the farm without difficulty, and then, indeed, as Mary had predicted, all their present troubles seemed over, for nothing could exceed the earnest kindness with which Mrs. Roberts administered to all their wants. Mrs. Tremlett’s appearance and manner appeared to have entirely removed the sort of doubtful impression which poor Mary’s hurried entrée had produced, and having been told that the little girl had been reclaimed by them as a relation, the whole adventure appeared to her as one of the deepest interest, and her sympathy and good-will were most fully excited.
Old Sally was sitting upon the floor exactly where they had left her. “Poor thing!” exclaimed Mary, “she has not moved an inch.”
“Not she, poor soul,” replied Mrs. Roberts, “I told her to bide still, and when we says that to her, she’d keep still, if we was to be away a whole day, I believe. Get up, Sally!” she added, good-humouredly. “There’s a brave woman! Look at that little girl, and tell the ladies what she puts you in mind of.”
The expression of the poor withered, idiot face, that was turned upon Fanny Fletcher when this was uttered, was most touchingly sad and solemn. The gentle, silly look, which her countenance usually wore, was exchanged for one full of deep mysterious meaning. She drew herself towards the little girl with a sort of stealthy movement, as if afraid of being seen to approach her, and when quite close beside her, said, “You then have done as I did — you have run away? Poor, poor little thing! Can’t you guess what will come next? Poor little thing! They will catch you! hide where you will, they will catch you.”
“I have not run away,” said Fanny, gently.
The maniac shook her head. “Don’t you scream as I did, my poor lamb, for it’s no good; they care no more for screams and groans than for the whirring of the spindles. But the screams went into my own ears, and I have never got rid of them since. I still hear them, all night long, when it is moon-time. Poor, poor little girl!”
“Come, come Sally — let her alone now, she is going to eat something.”
And Mrs. Roberts completed the arrangements upon which she had been occupied since they entered, by placing chairs at the table on which bread, butter, and cheese, were placed.
Not even did the Deep-Valley apprentice feel more disposed to do justice to these preparations than did Miss Brotherton and her old servant. They had tasted nothing since breakfast, and when a bowl of fresh milk was added to the bread-and-butter, Mary gratefully assured her entertainer that she considered it as the most delicious supper she had ever eaten.
“Now that’s different,” said poor Sally, who had perched herself on a low stool close to Fanny Fletcher. “I never had any pretty creature like that, all clothed in heavenly trappings, giving me milk; but it will make no difference in the end — you must be dragged back again, poor little thing!”
“No, no — she won’t be dragged back again,” said Mrs. Roberts; “and there’s a cup of milk for you — so now let the ladies eat in peace, Sally. You know it’s time for you to be crawling home — the master will be here in no time, and maybe he will be after asking how many stones you have picked up to-day, so you had better be off.”
The docile creature immediately shuffled off her stool, and prepared to depart.
“I should like to hear her describe her own adventures, which you say she does so faithfully,” said Miss Brotherton. “Do you think you could persuade her to repeat her story to us?”
“Yes, yes, ma’am; she will do that quick enough; it is just what she likes best,” replied Mrs. Roberts; “except now and then when she is moody. Now, Sally, if you will behave yourself like a sensible woman, you may sit down again, and tell the ladies how you ran away-from the mill, and was caught and brought back again, and all the rest of it.” —
The little cripple’s eyes twinkled, and a gleam of intelligence flashed across her countenance with a sort of Will-o’-the-wisp brightness, as she took the fragment of a hat from her closely-shorn gray head, and reseated herself.
“’Twas my knees as was the first of it,” she began; “I couldn’t bear it. The pain growed worse and worse, and my legs dipped down, and they strapped me harder and harder, and that was the reason that I couldn’t bear it. So one day,” she continued, in a deep clear whisper, “one day when the ‘prentices, and overlookers, and manager, and all was off for dinner, I stopped behind ’em, and nobody seed me — no, not one of ’em. And while they were at dinner, I slipped into the yard where the pigs bide, and then away again, all upon the sly, to the door where they takes the dirt out. I thought maybe, I might have the bolts to pull, but not a bit of it — there it stood wide open, with a barrow full of rubbish between the posts — that was fun!”
And here the poor creature laughed that dreadful laugh which none but maniacs utter.
“But the fun lasted longer than that,” she went on, “it lasted while I creeped along for a mile or more among the bushes as grows so rank t’other side the mill; and there I laid down at last in the midst of ’em, ‘cause I heard a noise, and what d’ye think it was? What d’ye think the poor cretur heard with her heart galloping just at the bottom of her throat, for all the world like the flap — flap — flap of a fly-wheel?”
“Perhaps ’twas a dog barking, Sally,” said Mrs. Roberts, humouring the maniac as she made a pause.
“No! ’twas not a dog barking, nor it wasn’t a wolf, nor it wasn’t a tiger; but it was something ten million of times worser than either — It — was — the— ‘printice-master!” replied Sally, in a slow deep whisper. “It was the divilish ‘printice-master with his eyes of fire, and his breath of flame. Oh-h! I feel him at my throat now!” and she clasped her withered neck with her pale thin hands, shuddering violently from head to foot.
“Speak soberly, Sally, and like a sensible body, or you must not go on, you know that,” said Mrs. Roberts, interposing in a warning tone, which poor Sally seemed to understand, for though her breast still heaved with a panting movement, like one who had run a race, and was out of breath, she assumed an affected air of composure, putting her hands before her primly, and shutting her eyes.
“Yes, mississ, I know that,” she replied, sedately, “I know that very well, and we won’t trouble Joe ploughman to help us home this time; but I may go on, if I speak sensible, and like a wise woman, as I am?”
The farmer’s wife nodded assent, and Sally continued more quietly.
“It was the ‘printice-master, and none but he as dragged me forth, head foremost, out of the bushes — very much like the butcher, you know, my dears, when he takes the little lamb’s head between his two hard hands — I never sees that up at Tom Blake’s shambles, without thinking of it. So he dragged me back again — and then you may guess how the strap went! But think of me! think what a spirit I must have had in those days, my dears — will you believe that I made up my mind to start again, though I hadn’t a bit of unbruised skin upon my body? — I did though. Oh, dear! oh, dear! how I used to hear the birds singing in my ears o’ nights, when I laid down, and made believe to sleep! But I don’t fancy it was sleep, not right wholesome sleep ever, as I got then; for I can mind now, yes I can, with all my moonshine, I can mind now, how I used to smell the grass, and see the dew shining, and hear the pretty sweet cows a mooing, and I all the while shut up in a stone prison-house — that was the divil tempting me, wasn’t it? But I didn’t start again for two whole years though, ‘cause why, I never found no chance for it; and by that time my legs was shocking bad, and if it was the divil as made me run, he ought to have sent me a stick to help me — for, oh, dear! I crawled dreadful slow — and then—”
“Come, come, Sally,” interrupted Mrs. Roberts, “I won’t have all that at full length, or else we shall have you off again; make an end, there’s a fine woman. Tell the ladies about the shutting up, and then go home and to bed, for ’tis time.”
Miss Brotherton ceased to wonder, as she had first done, at the chartered licence which the crazy cripple seemed to enjoy, when she observed the perfect docility with which she obeyed every word and look of the farmer’s wife. She now resumed her story, exactly at the word commanded.
“Yes, I was shut up, my dears — I shall have soon done now, for I am coming to the black gap, as I call it, and I always stops there — but where do you think they shut me up? In this room, or that room, or t’other room, perhaps? Not a bit of it. They shut me up in a little narrow place, not much bigger than a grave, and it was dark — dark — dark, all but one little narrow slip, and there was no light comed through that at first; but by and by, after I had been days and days locked in, I heard a horrid, horrid lumbering noise, and then I saw a flash of light through the narrow slip, for ail the world like the light of a candle — and the light of a candle it was too, and what do you think it showed me? Crippled as I was, I managed to scramble high enough to peep — there was beams, on bricks or something, and what do you think I saw?”
The poor creature began shaking again, but on Mrs. Roberts holding up her finger, she seemed to make a strong effort to control herself, and once more slipping off her stool she drew close to Miss Brotherton, and in a low rapid voice, hurried through the remainder of her narrative.
“I saw,” said she, “the master’s wife laid stone dead upon a truckle-bed, amost as close to me as I to you — think of that! Stone dead! Stiffened, stark, and ghastly, and blue! There was a candle that flaed full upon her dead face; but they as brought her was run away — they couldn’t bear it, I’m sure they couldn’t bear it, and I was left alone to look upon it, and I couldn’t run away; but I could not bear it either! and then it was that I screamed — hush! I must not scream now, you know!”
Here she stopped, putting her hands before her eyes, and remaining perfectly still for a minute, and then added with more composure, “After that came the black gap, and I don’t know any thing more about it; only that I watch the sun go to bed every night, and I have been going on praying for years and years, all the time I have been growing into an old woman, that he would please not to wake me in the morning.”
“Here’s the master, Sally!” said Mrs. Roberts; “so take yourself off, there’s a good woman. Here’s your mug of porridge; put on your hat steady, and wish the ladies a good night.”
Again she was most docilely obeyed, and in another moment poor Sally was gone, and the hardworking master of the premises occupied her place. The situation and wants of his unexpected guests were speedily explained to him, and his best assistance as speedily promised. While he devoured a hasty supper, one of his farm-horses was put into the shafts of a jockey-cart, and in less than an hour after his return, the comforted party set out by the light of a friendly moon, and were safely jolted to the King’s Head, without having been overtaken by the treacherous miller, who probably preferred sharing the jovial supper, in which his good friend Woodcomb indulged on this memorable evening, to forsaking it for the purpose of overtaking the ladies, from whom it was derived — as there seemed but little chance of drawing any thing more from the same source.
Great was the joy of Mrs. Prescot at seeing her guests return; for their long absence, together with the nature of the business on which they were engaged had caused the good woman to torment herself with many dark forebodings. Nevertheless, she was well prepared to receive them, and nothing was wanting that she could furnish towards refreshing the adventurers after their fatigue.
But, alas! it was only then; it was only after the anxiety, and the agitation of the enterprise were over, that poor Mary fully remembered how abortive that enterprise had been; and then she wept, wept bitterly, as she thought of the load of anguish she had to carry home to Michael’s mother and brother. Yet as she listened to little Fanny’s tearful narration of all that had passed between them, during the weeks they had worked together, she felt that when the first dreadful pang should be over, there would be something like consolation for them in listening to it also; and as she studied the delicate and expressive features of the pretty creature she had rescued, and watched the sort of timid, doubting hope, that by degrees took place of the nervous, heart-struck look, that had been so painfully legible in her sweet face when first she saw her, it was impossible not to feel that while deploring the loss of one object of benevolence, she had to rejoice for having found another.
Luckily for the respectability of their appearance, in setting forth on their homeward travels the following morning, the active Mrs. Prescot was enabled, by the aid of the heiress’s magic pocket-book, to procure from a neighbour a suit of decent apparel for the little orphan. The same freely-flowing source supplied wherewithal to reward all the friendly offices performed by the host and hostess of the King’s Head, and in addition, they were left in possession of a romance which was likely enough, from the frequency with which it was repeated, to furnish a legend to the little village to the end of time.
One single adventure occurred to Miss Brotherton on her way home, which though forming a very isolated episode in the history of her journey, shall be recounted, because the fact which it brought to her knowledge is one that well deserves publicity.
The heiress varied her road homewards, by driving through a village which, were it not infested by the plague-spot of a factory, might be considered as one of the most attractive in Derbyshire. At one point the road passes through a rocky defile of such wild beauty, that Mary, who was equally unacquainted with fine scenery, and capable of enjoying it, called to the postboy to stop, that she might get out and walk up the long ascent, in order the more thoroughly to enjoy the widely spreading landscape it commanded. Neither of her companions accompanied her. Mrs. Tremlett consenting, nothing loth, to remain in the post-chaise, upon the steepness of the road being pointed out to her, while little Fanny, though in her heart longing to spring after her benefactress, replied to the observation, that she was not yet strong enough to climb, by a look that spoke more of gratitude, than regret.
It was alone, therefore, that Mary Brotherton started forward, her active steps soon leaving the carriage behind; when cutting short the spiral ascent by making her way through the underwood which clothed the bank, she soon found herself high above the road, and on a spot of great beauty. After lingering here for a few minutes she proceeded when hearing the ever attractive sound of rushing waters, she again stopped, and then, guided by her ear, followed where it led, till she reached an opening, not far from the high-road, but apart from it, where, instead of the mountain cascade she had expected, a spectacle greeted her that for an instant seemed to petrify every nerve, and the bounding elastic movement which had brought her within sight of it, was changed to the rigid stillness of marble. A man, almost ferocious in his aspect, from the squalid, unshorn, brutal negligence of decency which it betrayed, was supporting in his arms, and on his bosom, a boy of ten or eleven years old, whose ghastly countenance showed plainly that death was busy at his heart. Before the rock from whence flowed the gushing stream, whose sound had brought Miss Brotherton to the spot, stood what looked like the fragment of a rude pillar, and on this stone the father had rested the wasted form of his dying child. Before him stood a little girl gazing on the boy with a mixture of infant fear and sisterly love, as she tended a bowl, filled from the spring, to his lips.
“He is very ill!” said Mary, addressing the father, “can I go any where to get help for you?”
The man, who had the fragment of a pipe in his mouth, and who looked rather bewildered, and fiercely angry, than oppressed by sorrow, stared at her, but answered not a word.
“What is the matter with him?” said Miss Brotherton, addressing the little girl.
“He be worked down,” replied the child, sobbing. “We have been at long hours for four weeks, and Dick couldn’t stand it — father have carried him to and from mill for a week — but he couldn’t stand it. Mother said, when we started, that he looked as if he’d never come back alive; but he’d have had to pay double fine if so be as father had left him to bide at home, so he carried him to mill; but though they strapped him, and strapped him, he couldn’t stand to his work, and he have been lying in the mill-yard till father comed to take him.”
This horrible statement was uttered amidst tears and sobs, but poor Mary lost not a word of it; and as her very soul sickened at the tale, she felt tempted to believe that she was doomed to witness every circumstance that could most painfully recall the source whence all her greatness flowed.
With clasped hands, and streaming eyes, she stood silently watching the gasping breath of this young victim of unnatural labour. The boy’s eyes fixed themselves on the face of his little sister. He might be listening to her history of his early fate — or he might be consciously taking a last look at what he loved. In either case the effort demanded more strength than was left him — his eyes closed, a shivering movement passed through all his frame, and then he became still. The quick, short, unequal heaving of the breast was seen no more, and Mary hid her eyes as the mysterious change, which no human being can gaze upon unmoved, came upon the stiffening features. It was rather instinct than feeling, which prompted her even at that awful moment to proffer what she had learned to know would be felt as consolation, did one starving member of a family alone survive amidst the dying and the dead of a whole race. Without venturing again to look at the father and his son, she dropped into the bowl, which the little girl still held, what she hated to think would soon turn natural sorrow into unnatural forgetfulness of it: but she had no power to serve them more effectually, and hastily turning into the road, she awaited the slow arrival of the post-chaise in a state of mind which left no faculty at leisure to enjoy any longer the hills and valleys for whose sake she had left it.
