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!”