Deaf and Dumb! / Third Edition

by Elizabeth Sandham

During the time Henry staid with Mr. Beaufort, as a further pleasure to them both, William was one day asked to dine; and after dinner, as Henry expressed a wish to walk out, Mr. Beaufort gave him leave, and William to accompany him. The two boys set off together, highly delighted, and Henry made William understand that he would go and look at the Monument. He had been there once with Mr. Beaufort, but he wished to see it again; and he thought he knew the way: "if not," said he, "I can enquire, and what harm can happen to us?" William was equally pleased with his intention; but before they had proceeded far on their way, so many various things in the different shop-windows attracted their attention, and the crowds of people who were continually passing, with the narrowness of the streets, all added to the difficulty they had in keeping with each other; and at length, in crossing the road, they were entirely separated. William had been standing at a shop-window, and who, from his want of hearing, had been more used to have his eyes employed, did not cross so soon as Henry, as he saw some carriages in the way; but he hoped to find his friend waiting for him on the other side. How was he disappointed, therefore, on not finding him there. He looked on every side, but could see no one like him; he walked on a little way, then back again, fearing he might have passed him in the crowd; till, at a distance, and on the opposite side of the way, he saw two men bearing in their arms a boy of his size, and who appeared to be lifeless. Judge of his alarm and distress, when, on pushing by the carriages, and hastening towards them, he saw it was Henry himself, whom they were thus carrying. He followed them into one of the narrow lanes or alleys, with which London abounds; and saw them take him into a low, dirty-looking house, into which he entered also. "He is not much hurt," said they, not at all attending to William's being there; "only stunned a little: he is a gentleman's son, I can see, by his clothes, and if we keep him here, he will be advertised, and we shall get a handsome reward." "I know who he is," said William; "I know to whom he belongs," as articulately as his agitation would allow him to speak. "Hollo!" said one of the brutish fellows, "who have we here? a dumb boy! Don't let us mind what he says, he may be a fool for what we know."

It was well for Henry, and William also, perhaps, that the distress he felt, prevented his speaking more distinctly at that time; for had they found that he could have been understood, they might have kept him there also, in order to conceal the place that Henry was in; from the hope, that the longer his parents were kept in suspense about him, the larger reward would be offered. But supposing that William's information would be unintelligible, or considered of no consequence, they forced him from the house; and he had the distress of seeing that Henry had not recovered his senses, when he was thus obliged to leave him.

He ran back to Mr. Beaufort's, with all the speed he was capable of using, feeling what none can enter into but those who are in a similar situation—a dread of the danger his friend was in; anticipating the distress, if not the displeasure, of Mr. Beaufort: and, above all, afraid that he should not be able to speak so as to be understood. Almost out of breath, and with a face pale and full of distress, he rapped at the door. "What is the matter?" said the footman who opened it, alarmed at his countenance; but William could only answer by his tears. On hearing this, Mr. Beaufort, who was still sitting with his wine after dinner, hastened out of the parlour, and seeing only William, immediately guessed the cause of his distress. "You have lost Henry," said he; "I was foolish to let you go out together." William tried in vain to speak, but pulling him by the arm, he waved his hand for Mr. Beaufort to accompany him. The good man caught up his hat, and telling the footman to follow, he hastened, with the trembling boy, to the place in which he had left Henry. "Has any accident happened?" said Mr. Beaufort, looking steadily at William, who could only shake his head; till being a little recovered, he endeavoured to acquaint him with what he had seen. Mr. Beaufort hurried on, and they were presently at the house.

The man who opened the door, on seeing William with the gentleman, thought it would be of no use to deny Henry's being there, he therefore expressed pleasure, rather than surprise, at seeing him; and said, "We have taken great care of the young gentleman, Sir, and he is better already." "Have you sent for a surgeon?" asked Mr. Beaufort; "let me see him directly," and rushing forward, he discovered Henry lying on an old blanket upon the floor, with a bundle of rags for his pillow. His eyes were open, and he instantly knew the friends who were about him. William wept for joy at again seeing him sensible, while Mr. Beaufort, with great indignation, exclaimed: "Do you call this taking care of him?" "Bless your honour," replied the man, "we are but poor folk, and have no better place; but my wife is gone out to see if she can get a bed for him."

This was a made-up story, and William, by his countenance, showed he thought it so. Mr. Beaufort having sent his servant for a surgeon, he asked if there was not a chair in the house, in which Henry might be placed, for none was in the room. The man brought in a very old one, and with his assistance Mr. Beaufort lifted him into it. "A carriage knocked him down, your honour," said the man, "but it did not go over him; and I and my comrade took him up. We did not know to whom he belonged." "And where was you at this time?" asked Mr. Beaufort, turning to William. "Oh, Sir," said he, now quite able to speak, "I was looking in at a shop-window, and I did not see the accident; but I saw the men with him in her arms, and saw them bring him here. I told them that I knew who he was, and where he lived, but they would not hear me." "We did not know what he said, your honour," replied the man, with a still more servile air, "and we could not think that such a one as he could tell us any thing about the young gentleman."

William watched every word the man spoke, and, with his eyes flashing fire, he replied: "But I knew what you said, and I believe you understood me, though you pretended not; for you said that you would not attend to what I told you, and that he was a gentleman's son, and that a handsome reward would be offered for him; and you would not let me stay with him, but pushed me out of doors." Mr. Beaufort saw, by the man's countenance, that he understood William, and with a significant look, he said, "You may depend upon it that you shall be rewarded, and that all the accommodation the young gentleman has had shall be paid for."

At this moment the surgeon arrived, who pronounced the patient to be in no danger, but that it was necessary for him to be bled. This was immediately done, after which a chair was procured, and the invalid, who already declared himself much better, was taken home, Mr. Beaufort and William walking all the way with the chairmen.

Before they left the house, Mr. Beaufort offered the man half-a-crown:—"Quite as much as you deserve," said he, "for it is clear, had it been in your power, you would have kept his friends in ignorance of his situation, till they had enquired for him; nor would you have let them know it then, till their anxiety had led them to pay a good price for the information. And as for your wife's being gone to seek a bed for him, I don't believe a word of it." The man began to grumble at the smallness of the sum; he declared he had lost half a day's work by it, and if he had known he should have had such a small matter for it, he would have let him lie there till that time. "I readily believe it," said Mr. Beaufort; "but remember, you are in my power, and if you are at all abusive, I know how to procure a constable. This boy's evidence, or mine either, will not be much in your favour. I know how to reward assistance, but not imposition; and I can distinguish what is servile from civility."

On their getting home, Henry was put to bed, and William sat by him till it was time for him to return to the Asylum; but never did he go towards it with such regret. To have remained with Henry all night would have been the highest gratification he could at that time have had; however, he had the pleasure of leaving him well, in comparison to the state he had seen him in, and in the care of a kind friend: and with these thoughts, and the comparison of what his feelings would have been had he not discovered him as he did, he endeavoured to reconcile himself to returning.