Mr. Ashley looked down at his writing. William waited. He did not suppose it was over, and he wanted to know the worst. "Why do you stay?" asked Mr. Ashley.
"I hope you will not turn me away for it, sir," he said, his colour changing again.
"Well—not this time," replied Mr. Ashley, smiling to himself. "But I'll tell you what I should have felt inclined to turn you away for," he added—"concealing the fact from me. Whatever fault, omission, or accident you may commit, always acknowledge it at once; it is the best plan, and the easiest. You may go back to your work now."
William left the room with a lighter step. Mr. Ashley looked after him. "That's an honest lad," thought he. "He might just as well have kept it from me; calculating on the chances of its not coming out: many boys would have done so. He has been brought up in a good school."
Before the day was over, William came again into contact with Mr. Ashley. That gentleman sometimes made his appearance in the manufactory in an evening—not always. He did not on this one. When Samuel Lynn and William entered it on their return from tea, a gentleman was waiting in the counting-house on business. Samuel Lynn, who was, on such occasions, Mr. Ashley's alter ego, came out of the counting-house presently, with a note in his hand.
"Thee put on thy cap, and take this to the master's house. Ask to see him, and say that I wait for an answer."
William ran off with the note: no fear of his forgetting this time. It was addressed in the plain form used by the Quakers, "Thomas Ashley;" and could William have looked inside, he would have seen, instead of the complimentary "Sir," that the commencement was, "Respected Friend." He observed his mother sitting close at her window, to catch what remained of the declining light, and nodded to her as he passed.
"Can I see Mr. Ashley?" he inquired, when he reached the house.
The servant replied that he could. He left William in the hall, and opened the door of the dining-room; a handsome room, of lofty proportions. Mr. Ashley was slowly pacing it to and fro, whilst Henry sat at a table, preparing his Latin exercise for his tutor. It was Mr. Ashley's custom to help Henry with his Latin, easing difficulties to him by explanation. Henry was very backward with his classics; he had not yet begun Greek: his own private hope was, that he never should begin it. His sufferings rendered learning always irksome, sometimes unbearable. The same cause frequently made him irritable—an irritation that could not be checked, as it would have been in a more healthy boy. The servant told his master he was wanted, and Mr. Ashley looked into the hall.
"Oh, is it you, William?" he said. "Come in."