not for all the world miss going to the fair, for at least it will be
something to talk of for half a year after—come, you'll go, won't you?"
"No," said Jem, still looking as if he did not like to talk before the
ill-looking stranger.
"Then what will you do with all your money?"
"I'll tell you about that another time," whispered Jem; "and don't you
go to see that cock's eyes pecked out; it won't make you merry, I'm
sure."
"If I had anything else to divert me," said Lawrence, hesitating and
yawning.
"Come," cried the stable-boy, seizing his stretching arm, "come along,"
cried he; and pulling him away from Jem, upon whom he cast a look of
extreme contempt, "leave him alone; he is not the sort. What a tool you
are," said he to Lawrence the moment he got him out of the stable; "you
might have known he would not go, else we should soon have trimmed him
out of his four and seven-pence. But how came you to talk of four and
seven-pence? I saw in the manger a hatful of silver."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Lawrence.
"Yes, indeed—but why did you stammer so when we first got in? you had
liked to have blown us all up."
"I was so ashamed," said Lawrence, hanging down his head.
"Ashamed! But you must not talk of shame now. You are in for it, and I
shan't let you off; you owe us half-a-crown, recollect, and I must be
paid to-night, so see and get the money somehow or other."
After a considerable pause, he added, "I'll answer for it he'd never
miss half-a-crown out of all that silver."
"But to steal," said Lawrence, drawing back with horror; "I never
thought I should come to that—and from poor Jem too—the money that he
has worked so hard for too."
"But it is not stealing; we don't mean to steal, only to borrow it; and
if we win, as we certainly shall, at the cock-fight, pay it back again,
and he'll never know anything of the matter; and what harm will it do
him? Besides, what signifies talking, you can't go to the cock-fight,
or the fair either, if you don't; and I tell ye we don't mean to steal
it; we'll pay it again on Monday night."
Lawrence made no reply, and they parted without his coming to any
determination.
Here let us pause in our story—we are almost afraid to go on—the rest
is very shocking—our little readers will shudder as they read. But it
is better that they should know the truth, and see what the idle boy
came to at last.
In the dead of the night Lawrence heard somebody tap at his window. He
knew well who it was, for this was the signal agreed upon between him
and his wicked companion. He trembled at the thoughts of what he was
about to do, and lay quite still, with his head under the bed-clothes,
till he heard the second tap. Then he got up, dressed himself, and
opened his window. It was almost even with the ground.
His companion said to him in a hollow voice, "Are you ready?"
He made no answer, but got out of the window and followed.
When he got to the stable, a black cloud was just passing over the
moon, and it was quite dark.
"Where are you?" whispered Lawrence, groping about. "Where are you?
Speak to me."
"I am here; give me your hand."
Lawrence stretched out his hand.
"Is that your hand?" said the wicked boy, as Lawrence laid hold of him.
"How cold it felt!"
"Let us go back," said Lawrence; "it is not time yet."
"It is no time to go back," replied the other, opening the door;
"you've gone too far now to go back;" and he pushed Lawrence into the
stable. "Have you found it? Take care of the horse—have you done? What
are you about? Make haste, I hear a noise," said the stable-boy, who
watched at the door.
"I am feeling for the half-crown, but I can't find it."
"Bring all together." He brought Jem's broken flower-pot, with all the
money in it, to the door.
The black cloud was now passed over the moon, and the light shone full
upon them.
"What do we stand here for?" said the stable-boy, snatching the
flower-pot out of Lawrence's trembling hands, and pulling him away from
the door.
"Goodness!" cried Lawrence. "You won't take all—you said you'd only
take half-a-crown, and pay it back on Monday—you said you'd only take
half-a-crown!"
"Hold your tongue," replied the other, walking on, deaf to all
remonstrances. "If I am to be hanged ever, it shan't be for
half-a-crown."
Lawrence's blood ran cold in his veins, and he felt as if all his hair
stood on end. Not another word passed.
His accomplice carried off the money, and Lawrence crept, with all
the horrors of guilt upon him, to his restless bed. All night he
was starting from frightful dreams; or else, broad awake, he lay
listening to every small noise, unable to stir, and scarcely daring to
breathe—tormented by that most dreadful of all kinds of fear, that fear
which is the constant companion of an evil conscience. He thought the
morning would never come; but when it was day, when he heard the birds
sing, and saw everything look cheerful as usual, he felt still more
miserable.
It was Sunday morning, and the bell rang for church. All the children
of the village, dressed in their Sunday clothes, innocent and gay, and
little Jem, the best and gayest among them, went flocking by his door
to church.
"Well, Lawrence," said Jem, pulling his coat as he passed, and saw
Lawrence leaning against his father's door, "what makes you look so
black?"
"I!" said Lawrence, starting. "Why do you say that I look black?"
"Nay, then," said Jem, "you look white enough, now, if that will please
you; for you've turned as pale as death."
"Pale!" replied Lawrence, not knowing what he said; and turned abruptly
away, for he dared not stand another look of Jem's conscious that
guilt was written in his face, he shunned every eye. He would now have
given the world to have thrown off the load of guilt which lay upon
his mind; he longed to follow Jem, to fall upon his knees, and confess
all. Dreading the moment when Join should discover his loss, Lawrence
dared not stay at home, and not knowing what to do, or where to go,
he mechanically went to his old haunt at the stable-yard, and lurked
thereabouts all day, with his accomplice, who tried in vain to quiet
his fears and raise his spirits by talking of the next day's cock-fight.
It was agreed that, as soon as the dusk of the evening came on, they
should go together into a certain lonely field, and there divide their
booty.
In the meantime, Jem, when he returned from church, was very full
of business, preparing for the reception of his mistress, of whose
intended visit he had informed his mother. And whilst she was
arranging the kitchen and their little parlour, he ran to search the
strawberry-beds.
"Why, my Jem, how merry you are to-day!" said his mother, when he came
in with the strawberries, and was jumping about the room playfully.
"Now keep those spirits of yours, Jem, till you want 'em, and don't
let it come upon you all at once. Have it in mind that to-morrow is
fair-day, and Lightfoot must go. I bade farmer Truck call for him
to-night; he said he'd take him along with his own, and he'll be here
just now—and then I know how it will be with you, Jem!"
"So do I!" cried Jem, swallowing his secret with great difficulty, and
then tumbling head over heels four times running.
A carriage passed the window and stopped at the door. Jem ran out; it
was his mistress. She came in smiling, and soon made the old woman
smile too, by praising the neatness of everything in the house. But we
shall pass over, however important they were deemed at the time, the
praises of the strawberries, and of "my grandmother's china plate."
Another knock was heard at the door.
"Run, Jem," said his mother; "I hope it's our milk-woman with cream for
the lady."
No; it was farmer Truck come for Lightfoot.
The old woman's countenance fell. "Fetch him out, dear," said she,
turning to her son.
But Jem was gone; he flew out to the stable the moment he saw the flap
of farmer Truck's great coat.
"Sit ye down, farmer," said the old woman, after they had waited about
five minutes in expectation of Jem's return. "You'd best sit down, if
the lady will give you leave, for he'll not hurry himself back again.
My boy's a fool, madam, about that 'ere horse."
Trying to laugh, she added, "I knew how Lightfoot and he would be loth
enough to part—he won't bring him out till the last minute; so do sit
ye down, neighbour."
The farmer had scarcely sat down, when Jem, with a pale wild
countenance, came back.
"What's the matter?" said his mistress. "God bless the boy," said his
mother, looking at him quite frightened, whilst he tried to speak,
but could not. She went up to him, and then, leaning his head against
her, he cried, "It's gone! It's all gone!" And bursting into tears, he
sobbed as if his heart would break.
"What's gone, love?" said his mother.
"My two guineas—Lightfoot's two guineas. I went to fetch 'em to give
you, mammy; but the broken flower-pot that I put them in and all's
gone—quite gone!" repeated he, checking his sobs. "I saw them safe last
night, and was showing 'em to Lightfoot; and I was so glad to think I
had earned 'em all myself; and thought how surprised you'd look, and
how glad you'd be, and how you'd kiss me, and all!"
His mother listened to him with the greatest surprise, whilst his
mistress stood in silence, looking first at the old woman, and then at
Jem with a penetrating eye, as if she suspected the truth of his story,
and was afraid of becoming the dupe of her own compassion. "This is a
very strange thing!" said she gravely. "How came you to leave all your
money in a broken flower-pot in the stable? How came you not to give it
to your mother to take care of?"
"Why, don't you remember," said Jem, looking up in the midst of his
tears, "why, don't you remember you your own self bade me not to tell
her about it till you were by?"
"And did you not tell her?"
"Nay, ask mammy," said Jem, a little offended; and when afterwards the
lady went on questioning him in a severe manner, as if she did not
believe him, he at last made no answer.
"O, Jem! Jem! Why don't you speak to the lady?" said his mother.
"I have spoke, and spoke the truth," said Jem proudly, "and she did not
believe me."
Still the lady, who had lived too long in the world to be without
suspicion, maintained a cold manner, and determined to wait the event
without interfering, saying only, she hoped the money would be found;
and advised Joni to have done crying.
"I have done," said Jem. "I shall cry no more."
And as he had the greatest command over himself, he actually did not
shed another tear, not even when the farmer got up to go, saying he
could wait no longer.
Jem silently went to bring out Lightfoot.
The lady now took her seat where she could see all that passed at the
open parlour window.
The old woman stood at the door, and several idle people of the
village, who had gathered round the lady's carriage examining it,
turned about to listen.
In a minute or two Jem appeared, with a steady countenance, leading
Lightfoot; and when he came up, without saying a word, put the bridle
into farmer Truck's hand.
"He 'has been' a good horse!" said the farmer.
"He 'is' a good horse!" cried Jem, and threw his arm over Lightfoot's
neck, hiding his own face as he leaned upon him.
At this instant a party of milk-women went by; and one of them, having
set down her pail, came behind Jem, and gave him a pretty smart blow
upon the back.
He looked up.
"And don't you know me?" said she.
"I forget," said Jem.
"I think I have seen your face before, but I forget."
"Do you so? And you'll tell me just now," said she, half opening her
hand, "that you forget who gave you this, and who charged you not to
part with it too."
Here she quite opened her large hand, and on the palm of it appeared
Jem's silver penny.
"Where," exclaimed Jem, seizing it, "O where did you find it? And have
you—O tell me, have you got the rest of my money?"
"I don't know nothing of your money—I don't know what you would be at,"
said the milk-woman.
"But where, pray tell me, where did you find this?"
"With them that you gave it to, I suppose," said the milk-woman,
turning away suddenly to take up her milk pail.
But now Jem's mistress called to her through the window, begging her to
stop, and joining in his entreaties to know how she came by the silver
penny.
"Why, madam," said she, taking up the corner of her apron, "I came by
it in an odd way too. You must know my Betty is sick, so I come with
the milk myself, though it's not what I'm used to; for my Betty—you
know my Betty," said she, turning round to the old woman, "my Betty
serves you, and she's a tight and stirring lassy, ma'am, I can assure—"
"Yes, I don't doubt it," said the lady impatiently; "but about the
silver penny?"
"Why, that's true. As I was coming along all alone, for the rest came
around, and I came a short cut across yon field—No, you can't see it,
madam, where you stand, but if you were here—"
"I see it, I know it," said Jem, out of breath with anxiety.
"Well—well—I rested my pail upon the stile, and sets me down awhile,
and there comes out of the hedge—I don't know well how, for they
startled me so I'd like to have thrown down my milk—two boys, one about
the size of he," said she, pointing to Jem, "and one a matter taller,
but ill-looking like, so I did not think to stir to make way for them,
and they were like in a desperate hurry; so, without waiting for the
stile, one of 'em pulled at the gate, and when it would not open, for
it was tied with a pretty stout cord, one of 'em whips out his knife
and cuts it. Now have you a knife about you, sir?" continued the
milk-woman to the farmer.
He gave her his knife.
"Here now, ma'am, just sticking as it were here, between the blade and
the haft, was the silver penny. He took no notice, but when he opened
it out, it falls. Still he takes no heed, but cuts the cord as I said
before, and through the gate they went, and out of sight in half a
minute. I picks up the penny, for my heart misgave me that it was the
very one husband had a long time, and had given against my voice to
he," pointing to Jem; "and I charged him not to part with it; and,
ma'am, when I looked I knew it by the mark, so I thought I would show
it to he," again pointing to Jem, "and let him give it back to those it
belongs to."
"It belongs to me," said Jem; "I never gave it to any body but—"
"But," cried the farmer, "those boys have robbed him—it is they who
have all his money."
"O, which way did they go?" cried Jem. "I'll run after them."
"No, no," said the lady, calling to her servant; and she desired him to
take his horse and ride after them.
"Ay," added farmer Truck, "do you take the road and I'll take the field
way, and I'll be bound we'll have 'em presently."
Whilst they were gone in pursuit of the thieves, the lady, who was now
thoroughly convinced of Jem's truth, desired her coachman would produce
what she had ordered him to bring with him that evening. Out of the
boot of the carriage the coachman immediately produced a new saddle and
bridle.
How Jem's eyes sparkled when the saddle was thrown upon Lightfoot's
back!
"Put it on your horse yourself, Jem," said the lady; "it is yours."
Confused reports of Lightfoot's splendid accoutrements, of the pursuit
of the thieves, and of the fine and generous lady who was standing at
dame Preston's window, quickly spread through the village, and drew
every body from their houses. They crowded round Jem to hear the story.
The children especially, who were all fond of him, expressed the
strongest indignation against the thieves. Every eye was on the
stretch; and now some who had run down the lane came back shouting,
"Here they are! They've got the thieves!"
The footman on horseback carried one boy before him, and the farmer,
striding along, dragged another. The latter had on a red jacket, which
Jem immediately recollected, and scarcely dared to lift his eyes to
look at the boy on horseback.
"Good heavens!" said he to himself. "It must be—yet surely it can't be
Lawrence!"
The footman rode on as fast as the people would let him. The boy's hat
was slouched, and his head hung down, so that nobody could see his face.
At this instant there was a disturbance in the crowd. A man who was
half drunk pushed his way forwards, swearing that nobody should stop
him; that he had a right to see, and he "would" see. And so he did; for
forcing through all resistance, he staggered up to the footman just as
he was lifting down the boy he had carried before him.
"I 'will'—I tell you I 'will' see the thief!" cried the drunken man,
pushing up the boy's hat.
It was his own son.
"Lawrence!" exclaimed the wretched father. The shock sobered him at
once, and he hid his face in his hands.
There was an awful silence. Lawrence fell on his knees, and, in a
voice that could scarcely be heard, made a full confession of all the
circumstances of his guilt.
"Such a young creature so wicked! What could put such wickedness into
your head?"
"Bad company," said Lawrence.
"And how came you—what brought you into bad company?"
"I don't know, except it was idleness."
While this was saying, the farmer was emptying Lazy Lawrence's pockets,
and when the money appeared, all his former companions in the village
looked at each other with astonishment and terror.
Their parents grasped their little hands closer, and cried, "Thank God!
He is not my son. How often, when he was little, we used, as he lounged
about, to tell him that idleness was the root of all evil?"
As for the hardened wretch, his accomplice, every one was impatient
to have him sent to jail. He had put on a bold, insolent countenance,
till he heard Lawrence's confession—till the money was found upon him,
and he heard the milk-woman declare that she would swear to the silver
penny which he had dropped. Then he turned pale, and betrayed the
strongest signs of fear.
"We must take him before the justice," said the farmer, "and he'll be
lodged in Bristol jail."
"O," said Jem, springing forwards when Lawrence's hands were going to
be tied, "let him go—won't you—can't you let him go?"
"Yes, madam, for mercy's sake," said Jem's mother to the lady; "'think
what a disgrace to his family to be sent to jail."
His father stood by, wringing his hands in an agony of despair.
"It's all my fault," cried he. "I brought him up in idleness."
"But he'll never be idle any more," said Jem. "Won't you speak for him,
ma'am?"
"Don't ask the lady to speak for him," said the farmer; "it's better he
should go to Bridewell now, than to the gallows by-and-by."
Nothing more was said, for every body felt the truth of the farmer's
speech.
Lawrence was sent to Bridewell for a month, and the stable-boy was
transported to Botany Bay.
During Lawrence's confinement, Jem often visited him, and carried him
such little presents as he could afford to give; and Jem could afford
to be "generous," because he was "industrious."
Lawrence's heart was touched by his kindness, and his example struck
him so forcibly, that when his confinement was ended, he resolved to
set immediately to work. And, to the astonishment of all who knew him,
soon became remarkable for industry; he was found early and late at his
work, established a new character, and for ever lost the name of LAZY
LAWRENCE.
THE END.