began to repent his frolick; but had not the courage to own it, as he
was afraid of drawing a share of the condemnation on himself. He
therefore left poor _William_ to bear the blame as well as he could, and
only stood by a silent spectator of those inconveniences which he had
himself been the cause of. The man still continued in a great passion,
and declared he would take young _Sedley_ before a justice of peace.
Terrified at this threat, and shocked at the thought of going to a
prison for a supposed offence, he begged on his knees for mercy, and
offered all he had about him as a compensation for a crime of which he
knew he had not been guilty. For a guinea the owner of the book agreed
to let him go; but nothing less should be the price of his liberty. Such
a sum the unfortunate youth had not to give. He had spent six-pence for
his trumpet, and three-pence for plum-cakes the day before; so that nine
shillings and nine-pence were all he had remaining; but this would not
satisfy the person he had offended. His companions offered to lend him
all they were worth, but even that was insufficient for the demand.
_Fairform_ had half-a-crown: _Tom Wilding_ could find but three-pence
three farthings, though he felt in all his pockets, and kept the
expecting _William_ in an agony of suspence. _Jack Careless_ threw down
two-pence, but said his father would be angry if he parted with his
silver. _Sedley_ looked at him with displeasure. “Your _father_ angry,”
said he: “if these scruples had been urged _sooner_, it would have
become you better.” “You shall not _have_ the two-pence,” returned
_Careless_, taking it up again and putting it in his pocket: “if you do
not chuse it, I will not oblige you against your inclination.” _Will
Sportive_, desirous to repair the damage he had done, offered him all he
was possessed of, which amounted but to thirteenpence-halfpenny.
The distressed _Sedley_ had nothing left, except a silver medal which
his grandfather had given him that morning, and told him to keep it for
his sake. He took it from his pocket, looked at it, and bursting into
tears, exclaimed, “No! not even to save me from _prison_ would I part
from this.”—A poor chimney-sweeper, who had come to see the merriment of
the fair, and who watched the event of the uproar which this affray had
occasioned, recollecting the features of _William_ as he turned his head
with the eagerness of despair, knocked his brush and shovel together,
and feeling in the tatters of his waistcoat, produced a shilling. “Will
this help you, master,” said he: “I took it to-day for sweeping Squire
_Nicely_’s chimney; but you shall have it, be the consequence what it
will.”——_William_’s conscience smote him.——“I would not change my
half-guinea for thee, _Tony_”—and the tears trickled down his blushing
and repentant cheek.—The man insisted on having the medal; but _William_
would not consent. For a long time he refused, till at length it growing
late, he was terrified with apprehension, and his companions declared
they would stay no longer. So overcome by their importunity, he yielded
it up, thanked _Tony_ for his kindness, which he promised to repay the
next day, and with a melancholy countenance accepted his discharge, and
went back to Captain _Fairform_’s.
As they did not chuse to return directly from the village, they were
obliged to go a farther away about; so that it was near the dusk of the
evening when they reached home. _Harry_ told a plausible tale to excuse
their stay, and said, “they had met with their two play-fellows, and
been walking with them.” Young _Sedley_ sat in silent vexation without
uttering a syllable, and soon after took his leave, and returned to his
father’s.
As he drew nigh the gate, he began weeping afresh; and instead of the
pleasure and alacrity with which he usually entered; and the joy which
he always felt at meeting with his friends, he crept softly along,
oppressed with the consciousness of having acted _wrong_; and finding
the coach gates open, sneaked unobserved into the house. He stood for
some time in the hall, wanting the courage to meet his assembled
friends; till hearing his grandfather’s voice, he listened to know what
he was saying. Mr. _Graves_ was speaking to little _Bob_. “Yes,” said
he, “I have given your brother and sister a medal exactly like that; and
now I shall see (_for my sake_) which of you will keep it the longest.”
To express what the poor fellow felt at that moment, is almost
impossible. He ran up into his own apartment, and throwing himself with
his face upon the bed, sobbed out, “What shall I do? What can I say?” At
length after weeping some time, he determined, as he really felt a
violent head-ache, to plead that as an excuse, and to go to-bed
immediately. With this resolution he composed his countenance as well as
he could, and slowly walked into the parlour. His brother, with that
fondness which he always expressed, directly brought the present Mr.
_Graves_ had given him, and jumping as he spoke, pressed _William_’s
arm, and looking up in his face, “Is it not a _nice_ medal?” said he,
“Let me look at your’s, to see if they are _exactly_ alike.”—The poor
boy was covered with blushes; and as _Robert_ repeated his question, he
peevishly replied, “I have not got it about me.” He then mentioned the
pain in his head, and wished his friends good night.—The kind concern
which they expressed for his indisposition, added greatly to his
uneasiness. “How little,” said he, “do I deserve their tenderness! and
how unworthy do I feel of their solicitude! If they knew in what manner
I have behaved out of their sight, they would think me deserving of
punishment and contempt. How will _they_ be able to rely upon me, when I
cannot depend upon _myself_? I _knew_ it was wrong to go with
_Fairform_, yet I went:—and now all these troubles are the consequence
of one bad action. I think I will never more be persuaded to do what is
not strictly right.”—Such was his firm resolution at that instant; but
though his heart was noble, generous, and open to conviction, it was
_weak_ in the moment of temptation. He wanted _resolution_ to complete
his character; for with many virtues, and an excellent disposition, he
was easily persuaded to act contrary to his judgment. Hence he was
frequently seduced by his companions into such errors as gave him
lasting cause for repentance. In the present instance his regret for his
fault was sincere. He wept till he fell asleep; and his first thoughts
in the morning were an earnest wish that he had returned to school. “All
the pleasure I have felt on this addition to my holidays, does not pay
me for my present pain; since nothing,” said he, “is so terrible as a
guilty conscience!”
Who now would have imagined, that under the sense of this conviction and
suffering, from _one_ deviation, he would directly have sunk into
another of a worse kind?—With a melancholy countenance he left his room,
and was going through the hall into the garden, when _Harry Fairform_
entered at the opposite door, and joining him, they walked out together.
“Why you look still more pitiable,” said his visitor, “than when we
parted last night: surely your old square-toes did not give you a
drubbing! I came on purpose to know how you came off after the loss of
your money?” “A drubbing!” returned _William_ with indignation: “no
indeed! neither my father or grandfather ever beat me in their lives: I
am not afraid of _that_, I assure you. At present they do not know how
much I am to blame; but I would give any thing in the world that I had
not gone with you to the fair.” “Why then, _Sedley_,” replied his
companion, “you are a greater fool than I thought you. My father is
pretty free with his horse-whip; and when he finds out that I have
disobeyed him, he makes me feel what he calls _military discipline_,
till I can neither sit, stand, or go; but had I nothing more to fear
than one of old _Graves_’s mumbling preachments, it would be a great
while before I should look thus dismal.” “For shame!” exclaimed
_Sedley_, who loved his grandfather to the highest degree, “for shame!
do not utter such sentiments: if you can only be governed by a
_horse-whip_, you _deserve_ to feel its strokes: but I would have you
know, that I scorn to be kept within bounds merely by the fear of
punishment. I wish my friends to _depend_ upon me in their _absence_, as
well as if they could _see_ all my actions; and it is from the
consciousness of having abused their confidence, that my looks shew that
sorrow which you so much ridicule. The loss of that _medal_ too,” added
he, bursting into tears, “which my grandfather gave me to keep for his
sake, what must he think of my _affection_, when he knows on what
occasion I parted with it?”
_Fairform_ in vain used every argument to afford him consolation; his
distress encreased as the hour of breakfast approached; and neither
ridicule or advice had the power to render him composed. When just as
they were returning to the house, _Harry_ stopped, and in the middle of
the gravel-walk picked up little _Bob_’s medal, which he had a few
minutes before dropped from his coat-pocket, in taking out his
handkerchief. “Here,” said he, his eyes sparkling with pleasure; “now I
hope you will dry your tears: take this, and have no further dread of
detection.”—_William_ stretched forth his hand in a transport of
delight; but immediately recollecting himself, “It is not mine,” said
he: “_O that it were!_ I dare say my brother has lost it.” “And will you
not take it then!” exclaimed the astonished _Fairform_: “What a
ridiculous scruple is this! If _Bob has_ lost it, it is but a piece of
_negligence_; and no creature need be acquainted that you have found it;
as they are exactly alike you cannot be discovered; and only think how
angry they will be, if they know all the circumstances of our last
night’s frolick.”——Poor _Sedley_ paused—every reproach which he
deserved, and the reproof which he dreaded, rose in sad prospect to his
mind. _Harry_’s persuasions seconded his inclination, and encreased his
fears. The moment was critical to his virtue. Honor forbad him to do
such a base action, while his apprehension of his friend’s displeasure
inclined him to run the hazard of _future_ remorse to escape from
_present_ shame. The struggle of his mind was great, and it ended nobly
for a moment.—“No!” said he with firmness, “I have suffered enough
already from doing wrong, I will not be so ungenerous as to injure my
brother, and deceive my friends: I will trust to my grandfather’s
indulgence: I will honestly confess the whole truth, and let my sorrow
expiate my fault.” “For pity’s sake,” returned _Fairform_, “do not be so
rash: if you have no regard for yourself have some consideration for me.
You agreed to be of our party, and now you will involve me in distress.
If you tell the whole to Mr. _Graves_, he will say, that I seduced you
to do what you would not otherwise have been guilty of, and will prevent
our meeting in future. I know his rigid notions of obedience: he will
tell my father, and his punishments are so severe, that my heart sickens
at the thought—Cruel, unkind _Sedley_! I came on purpose to give _you_
comfort, and you will heap these evils upon me in return. I may have
acted wrong last night; but I am sure I would not be thus unfriendly to
you.”
This argument was directly suited to the generosity of _William_’s
disposition. He could not bear to give pain to another. To make his
companion suffer through _his_ means, seemed to him so mean and
cowardly, that all the more powerful reasons of truth and virtue were
considered as inferior to this one consideration; while from motives of
the highest good-nature, by viewing the affair in a false light, he at
length yielded to _Fairform_’s persuasions; and what no temptation on
his _own_ account could effect, the solicitude for _Harry_’s safety
induced him to comply with.—A striking lesson to young persons, of the
danger which must arise from bad company; and an alarming caution to
all: since without _prudence_ and _resolution_ a good disposition may be
led into the commission of evil, even when they intend to do right.—For
a long time they debated on the subject; till at length overcome by his
companion’s entreaties, he put the medal in his pocket, and added, “I
shall keep this as a monument of my _folly_, in first yielding against
my conscience to go with you to the fair: _that_ has been the foundation
of every inconvenience, and now I see not _where_ the evil will _stop_.
Let this warn _you, Harry_, for the future, that however you may escape
detection, every disobedience will bring its own punishment.”—
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.—