“Why, mother, is there any harm in it?” replied I, confused and holding down my head.
“Harm in it! Ask your own conscience, Jack, whether there’s harm in it. Why do you not look me in the face like an honest boy? Would they have dared to put that question to you, if you had not been a party to their evil deeds, Jack?” continued she, shaking her head. “I thought better of you; now you have filled me full of sorrow.”
I was smitten to the heart at this rebuke from a quarter whence I did not expect it; but my heart was still rebellious, and I would not acknowledge what I felt. I thought to turn the tables, and replied, “Why, mother, at all events they say that once you were a real good one.”
“Is it indeed gone so far?” replied she. “Poor boy! poor boy! Yes, Jack, to my shame be it spoken, I once did receive things and buy them when they were not honestly come by, and now I’m rebuked by a child. But, Jack, I was almost mad then; I had that which would have turned any one’s brain—I was reckless, wretched; but I don’t do so any more. Even now I am a poor sinful wretch—I know it; but I’m not so crazy as I was then. I have done so, Jack, more’s the shame for me, and I wish I could recall it; but, Jack, we can’t recall the past. Oh that we could!”
Here old Nanny pressed her hands to her temples, and for some time was silent. At last she continued, “Why did I love you, Jack?—Because you were honest. Why did I lend you money—I, an old miserly wretch, who have been made to dote on money; I, who have never spent a shilling for my own comfort for these ten years?—But because you were honest. Why have I longed the whole day to see you, and have cared only for you?—Because I thought you honest; Jack. I don’t care how soon I die now. I thought the world too bad to live in; you made me think better of it. Oh! Jack, Jack, how has this come to pass? How long have you known these bad people?”
“Why, mother,” replied I, much affected, “only last night.”
“Only last night? Tell me all about it; tell the truth, dear boy, do.”
I could hold out no longer, and I told her everything that had passed.
“Jack,” said she, “I’m not fit to talk to you; I’m a bad old woman, and you may say I don’t practise what I preach; but, Jack, if you love me, go to Peter Anderson and tell him everything. Don’t be afraid; only be afraid of doing what is wrong. Now, Jack, you must go.”
“I will, I will,” replied I, bursting into tears.