Part 5

A repeated call to breakfast now obliged them to go in. Young _Fairform_ paid his compliments with that grace which distinguished him upon all occasions, and without embarrassment sat down by Mr. _Sedley_. _William_ placed himself in the windowseat, and could scarcely answer the enquiries which were put to him about his health. He had lost the confidence of an innocent mind; and his behaviour was confused, bashful, and silent. _Harry_ soon took his leave, and Mr. _Graves_ invited his grandson to take a walk. Master _Sedley_ would at that time have willingly been excused; but having no reason which he could urge against it, he prepared to go: when just as they were ready to set off, little _Bob_ came out of the garden in great distress, saying, “he did not know _how_, or _where_; but he had lost his medal!”—_William_ coloured like crimson!—He made him no answer, but turning round, stooped down at the same time, as if looking for something.—“O! there is a good boy, do look for it,” said _Bob_: “you are very kind, but I do not think I lost it here: I know I had it this morning.” “You have not kept it long for my sake,” said his grandfather: “I dare say _William_ and _Nancy_ can both shew theirs.”—Miss _Sedley_ pulled hers from her pocket. Her brother was going to do the same, but his conscience would not let him draw forth his hand. He held the medal between his finger and thumb, but did not dare to bring it out to view.—“Do not cry, _Bob_” said Mr. _Graves_, “you are a little boy, and are not used to be entrusted with money: I will get you another, and your brother shall take care of it. He loves me so well, that I dare say he will be able to produce his, when I am dead and gone.”—_William_ could not answer—but the tears trickled down his cheeks.—His grandfather embracing him, told him not to be concerned. “I am an old man, my dear boy, and cannot expect to live many years longer; but do not grieve for that circumstance: when you look at the medal which I gave you, though but a trifle in itself, let it remind you how much I loved you, and how earnestly I wished to promote your happiness. Remember, my child, that you can never be comfortable, unless you have a clear conscience; and let every testimony of your friends affection to you, be a remembrance to act with honor, generosity, and integrity.”

_Sedley_ made no reply, but by his sobs. The caresses of Mr. _Graves_ wounded him more than the keenest reproaches. He would have confessed all, but the fear of drawing _Fairform_ into disgrace kept him silent; and he set forward on his walk with an uneasiness too great to be described. In vain did his venerable companion endeavour to engage him in conversation: he was too conscious of deserving blame to join with his usual freedom and gaiety. At length, as they ascended to a rising ground which opened to a very extensive prospect, Mr. _Graves_, pointing to the village where _William_ had lately been in search of his chimney-sweeper acquaintance, enquired, “When he had seen him? and whether he had yet fulfilled his intention of giving him any money?”—This question was too important to admit of immediate answer: if he told _when_, he might be asked _where_ he had met him? and that would amount to a confession of all he had taken such pains to conceal. He hesitated for some time, till his grandfather observing his confusion, took his hand, and with tender seriousness thus addressed him.—“I have seen with uneasiness, my dear boy, that some secret burthens your mind, nor do I wish for your confidence, unless you can _willingly_ repose it in my affection. Perhaps I may be able to advise you—speak your difficulties, and let not mistrust or anxiety overspread your features.” “I do not deserve,” said the repentant _Sedley_, “that you should treat me thus kindly; nor am I at liberty to tell you the subject which distresses my heart. Another is concerned, or greatly as I have been to blame, I would this moment confess it all.” “You best know, my love,” returned Mr. _Graves_, “whether you have made any promise which honor would oblige you to keep sacred; but remember, that you may be drawn into guilt, by a too steady adherence to a bad cause; and be assured, that person cannot be your real friend, who would engage you to conceal from your parents, what you think they ought to be acquainted with.”—A pause now ensued, and _William_ after debating some time, was going to confess the whole: when a man with a little girl came in sight; whom upon a nearer view, they discovered to be _Fanny Mopwell_. They immediately renewed their acquaintance; and she informed them that she had come the morning before on a visit to her uncle, who kept a little shop in the village of _Boxley_, and had invited her to be present at the fair. _William_, with his grandfather’s leave, asked her to pass the day with him; and as Mr. _Sedley_’s family was well known in that part of the country, her uncle who was with her, consented to her going.

Our young gentleman was much rejoiced at having a companion whose presence might interrupt any farther conversation; though to take such a walk with his grandfather was at any other season what he most wished for. At their return he presented _Fanny_ to his mother and sister, who both received her with great pleasure. As for little _Bob_ he sat weeping in the window, sucking the corner of his pockethandkerchief, and now and then gently touching a fly on the glass of the window, to see it walk from place to place.——Again, _William_ felt the stings of remorse. He went out into the garden, and taking the pocket-piece once more in his hand, determined to restore it to its right owner. “My brother shall not be thus distressed for my crimes: I will not be so base, let the event be what it may.” With this resolution he again rejoined the company; and going up to master _Robert_, said with a smile, “Will this cheer your spirits? I have found your treasure.” _Bob_ eagerly jumped down to take it, and throwing his arms round his brother’s neck, held him almost double to receive his caresses. “Where did you find it? said he. Thank you! thank you a thousand times!”

_William_’s delight was damped with the recollection of how little he deserved his acknowledgments.—A bad action interrupts the enjoyment of every satisfaction, and transforms all our pleasure into pain.—He was then obliged to give an account of the place where he had discovered it; but carefully concealed how long it had been in his possession; leaving every one to imagine he had but just picked it up. His feelings, however, on the occasion were so uncomfortable, that he retired to his own apartment to think of the occasion in solitude. _Bob_, in the mean time, skipping and jumping about with the lighthearted pleasure of innocence, carried his dear medal to _Fanny Mopwell_, desiring her to observe its beauties, and declaring he would always carefully guard it for the future. The girl looked at it some time, and then said, “she had one just like it, which a man of her uncle’s acquaintance had given her that morning;” and taking it out of a little iron box which she had bought at the fair, said, “it was too large to go in a red striped one in which she kept all the rest of her money.”

Mr. _Graves_ begged he might see it, as those he had given his grand-children were of great age, though they had been so well preserved, and he thought were extremely scarce. So laying it down on the table while he put on his spectacles, he afterwards took it to the window, and examined it very minutely; and turning round, begged _Fanny_ would tell him if she knew how the man had gotten it. _Fanny_ replied, “she had heard him say, he received it the night before from a saucy boy who was going to steal a book from his stall; but that she knew nothing more about it.” The old gentleman thanked her, and went out of the room. He walked up stairs, and going into his grandson’s chamber, found him writing at his bureau.—“I do not wish to interrupt you, my dear,” said he, “but pray lend me your medal for a moment, as I want to compare it with one I have in my hand.”——_Sedley_’s cheeks were the colour of crimson: he was too honest to tell a falsehood; but his confusion left him not a word to say.—“I-I-I,” stammered he out, “I-I-I have not”—and burst into tears. “_William!_” said his grandfather gravely, “Tell me the truth.”—He could make no answer for some time but by his sobs, till the question being again repeated, he took Mr. _Graves_ by the hand, and in an agony of grief proceeded as follows:

“Indeed Sir, I will not _deceive_ you. I have been very much to blame; and one crime has involved me in many others; but if you can now forgive me, I think I shall never do so again. When I went to Captain _Fairform_’s yesterday, _Harry_ wanted me to go with him and _Tom Wilding_ to the fair. His father had desired him not, and I thought it wrong to go; but they laughed at me so much for my squeamishness, and would have it I was afraid only of _punishment_, knowing _that_ not to be my motive; against my _conscience_ I consented. When we got there I took hold of a _plaguy_ pocket-book intending only to ask the price; and finding it to cost six shillings, I laid it down again, as I could not afford it. The man soon after said I had _stolen_ it. I knew I was innocent, and denied the charge. He wanted to feel in my pockets; which I thought very insolent, and would not let him. However, among them, they would do so, and my resistance was in vain:—and to be sure _there_ it _was_!—and _Brestlaw_ must have conjured it there, for I cannot imagine how else it was done. So then, Sir, there was such a mob about me you cannot think; and I was abused and called a thief, and I do not know what; and he declared he would send me to the justice, unless I would give him a guinea: and amongst us _all_ we could not muster one, and so at last I was forced to let him have my medal; but indeed, Sir, I did not till the _very last_; and I have been miserable ever since.” “The _guilty, William_, will ever be so,” returned Mr. _Graves_ very seriously; “and I am sincerely sorry to rank you in that number; but tell me when you felt for it in the morning, was it in your pocket? You know it could not be, why then did you suffer me to think the contrary, and to commend you while I partly blamed your brother?” “You have taught me, Sir,” replied he, “that an honest confession is the best reparation for a fault. I wish I had done it sooner, but _Harry Fairform_ persuaded me to keep it _secret_ for his sake. I do not wish to lay the blame upon _him_ to make _myself_ appear less guilty; but his bad advice made me take my brother’s medal, which he found in the garden, and I have kept it till just now, when I could not be easy longer to detain it. And now, Sir, you know the whole;—if you can trust my promise for the future, I will never again behave so unworthy of your affection; and if you knew what I have suffered for my present fault, it might incline you to pity and forgive me.”—Here he ceased, held down his head, nor had courage to look up.—

Mr. _Graves_, with great kindness, took him by the hand, “Your _honesty_,” said he, “pleads much in your favor, and as you feel a conviction of your fault, I hope I may rely upon you for the future. The end of reprehension and punishment, is but to _amend_ the offender: and if your heart is truly _generous_, an immediate _forgiveness_ of your error, will bind you most strongly to future watchfulness. Let this instance, however, teach you that _candor_ of disposition which you ought to exercise for _others_; and remember that although, as you justly observed, “every one may be good if they _please_,” yet that circumstances do sometimes arise, where the best hearts may be _seduced_ or surprised into guilt: and therefore, though you should guard your own conduct with peculiar care, yet you ought never to forget every charitable allowance for the faults of _others_. It is rashness, presumption, and folly, to condemn those actions of which we know not the cause, the temptation, or the motive. But as to the character of _Harry Fairform_, you may fairly conclude it to be improper for your imitation. Vice cannot be divested of guilt; and he must be extremely wicked who can laugh at a parent’s prohibition, and wilfully persuade another to do wrong. His advice this morning was founded in _meanness_, _selfishness_, and _deceit_; and thus, my dear boy, have you been led on step by step from the commission of one bad action to another; till you have lost the calm peace which _innocence_ only can bestow, and feel your mind a prey to the uneasy sensations of _guilt_. Be assured, my child, that if you pursue that course, it is still more thorny. Had you added to your crimes a _lie_, I should have detected you immediately, as the man to whom you gave the medal, presented it to _Fanny Mopwell_, and I have it now in my hand. This _W. S._ I scratched on it myself in this particular place, that I might know in case either of them were lost to which it belonged; and the initials of your brother and sister you will find in theirs. Consider then the improvement that you may reap from this transaction.—However in secret any ill action may seem to be committed; yet some unthought of and unexpected circumstance may discover it. Little did you think this morning of seeing the child who is below; and still less was you apprehensive when you invited her home, that she would be the person to bring your medal to me. Let this convince you, then, that if you do wrong, you are ever liable to _detection_ by the most unlikely means, and in consequence are open to _disgrace_. _Security_, my dear child, is the certain attendant on _Virtue_: an _honest_ heart has no mean secret to _conceal_; and therefore, is at all times free from those uneasy cares, with which you have this morning been so much distressed: it needs no evasion, and is above the use of any. Cherish, therefore, this openness of character which is so truly amiable, by avoiding every thing which your _conscience_ tells you is improper. That inward monitor is in such cases your best director. If you feel _uneasy_, and are conscious you are acting as your friends would condemn, be not afraid of _ridicule_. You may suffer from its shafts for a few moments, and may find it disagreeable to be laughed at by those who are more foolish and more wicked than yourself; but in a little time this will be over, and afterwards you will enjoy the approbation of your friends, and your own heart: and this, my boy, is a noble recompence. As for doing wrong from the principle of not fearing _punishment_, it is the weakest argument that can be urged. A boy who is not afraid to _deserve_ chastisement, must have lost every principle of honor: and though your friends have always treated you with generosity, it is because you have hitherto been _obedient_ and _good_ in return. Nor would it be to their credit to let you escape with impunity, if you should pursue a different conduct. Never, therefore, boast that you are not _afraid_ of the rod, but that you are determined never to incur the smart: that you will never be persuaded to a _mean action_, and _therefore_ it is an object which can cause you no terror. I know your heart is generous, but you are easily persuaded. You must fortify yourself in this particular, or you will be in great danger of error in your future life. _Steadiness_ of _principle_, my dear _child_, is absolutely necessary to form a great and good man. You love your brother,—but to oblige a worthless boy, you consented to _injure_, to _deceive_, and to _distress_ him. Did not his unsuspecting innocence wound you, when he begged you would _look_ for his medal, and thanked you for your trouble?—Thus it is, that wickedness of any kind, hardens the heart. However, I flatter myself, you will take warning from this instance of your misconduct, and be taught, that it is impossible to fix bounds to a _bad action_, or to say, I will go on so far in error, and then I will stop: when once you consent to the smallest deviation from innocence, it is not possible to determine how deeply you may be involved in guilt, or to what lengths of mischief or wickedness your first fault may conduce.”

_William_, with the greatest contrition, promised to be more cautious for the future; and his grandfather after sealing his forgiveness with repeated embraces, left him to recover his former composure.—His mind now in some measure relieved from the heavy burthen with which he had been oppressed, soon regained a sufficient degree of calmness to rejoin his friends; though still the consciousness of the late transactions abated his vivacity, and made him bashful and silent. His thoughts during the morning had been wholly engaged with his own concerns; but when dinner was over, he recollected that he had promised to return the shilling to _Tony_, which he had so generously lent him in his distress. Unwilling to renew the subject with any of his relations, he was again distressed for money; but resolving to keep his promise, he applied to his sister for two shillings, which she immediately gave him, and he set off full speed on his way to the village, to find his sooty friend. For some time before he arrived at the place, he heard the screams of an object seemingly in violent pain. As he approached, they sounded fainter and more exhausted; and when he reached the spot, they ceased entirely.—But judge of his disappointment, terror, and compassion, when he beheld the unfortunate _Tony Climbwell_, unbound from a tree by his inhuman master, who had been beating him with a leather strap, and had afterwards given him a blow on the head with his brush, which had stunned and deprived him of sense, in consequence of which he fell to the ground, and was left there with a kick from the same brutal wretch, and threatened,—“that if he did not soon get up, he would come and rouze him with a vengeance.”

_William_ went to him with an intention to raise him; but found he could not stand, nor return him any answer to his enquiries. At a little distance, however, he discovered the boy who had been _Tony_’s companion at their first meeting; and after calling him some time in vain, went up to him, and begged to know for what crime his fellow apprentice had been so cruelly used. “I am afraid of going to help him,” said _Jack_,—“but Master has beat him because he did not bring home the shilling which he had yesterday for sweeping ’Squire _Nicely_’s chimney. He told master as _how_ he could bring it him to-day; and master did wait till the afternoon; but now he _was_ in such a passion, that he said, “he would kill him;” and I was afraid as _how_ he would, and I believe he has, I do not see him stir; and sure he would get up if he could, for fear of a second drubbing.” “And has my crime been the occasion of _this_ evil too?” said _William_: “Well might my grandfather say I did not know where the mischief of an error may stop. My poor _Tony_! what shall I do to recover thee? and how shall I recompence thy sufferings? sufferings too which _I_ have occasioned!”—With this lamentation he returned to the unfortunate object of his pity, who after a heavy groan opened his eyes.—“_Tony!_” cried _Sedley_, endeavouring to raise him, “my dear boy, how do you do?”—The voice of compassion sounded so strange to him, that he looked amazed at his friend; who repeating his question, begged him to get up, and if he could, to walk forward with him a little way.

A chimney-sweeper is accustomed to ill usage; and _Tony_ had not fallen into the hands of a master who would spare him his full share of suffering.—He arose, however, with _William_’s assistance, and crept on till they came to a field-gate, over which he scrambled with difficulty, and then sat down under a hedge, which concealed him from observation.—_Sedley_ with tears entreated him to forgive him for not having sooner discharged his debt, and for being the occasion of bringing him into so much trouble; “but why,” said he, “did you not come to me, and you might have been sure I would have paid you immediately.” “Ah! master,” replied _Tony_, “I thought you would; and so this morning I went to his honor’s at the great house, where I first saw you, and the gay coach, and the long tail nags; and so I _axed_ for young master, for I did not know your name; and the coachman I fancy it was, said, “I was a pretty fellow to _axe_ for young master truly; but that, however young master, was not at home.” I then said you owed me a shilling, and begged him to pay it for you, and I dared to say you would return it. Upon this he bid me go about my business for an impudent knave; and giving me two or three hearty smacks with a long horse-whip he had in his hand, sent me out of the court-yard.” “How very unfortunate!” cried _Sedley_; “this must have happened while I was out with my grandfather; but I will now pay you immediately,” added he, giving him the two shillings he had brought. “I have no more at present; but the first money I get, you shall share it I promise you.” “I lent you but _one_,” said _Tony_, “so you have given me this too much.” “Keep it, keep it,” replied _William_, “I only wish that I had more to give.”—