Part 24 (1/2)
_Mr Barlow._--Just now you told me you were ready to do everything, and yet you cannot take the trouble of visiting your friend at his own house. You then imagine that a person does not expose himself by acting wrong, but by acknowledging and amending his faults?
_Tommy._--But what would everybody say if a young gentleman like me was to go and beg pardon of a farmer's son?
_Mr Barlow._--They would probably say that you have more sense and grat.i.tude than they expected. However, you are to act as you please.
With the sentiments you still seem to entertain, Harry will certainly be a very unfit companion, and you will do much better to cultivate the new acquaintance you have made.
Mr Barlow was then going away, but Tommy burst again into tears, and begged him not to go; upon which Mr Barlow said, ”I do not want to leave you, Tommy, but our conversation is now at an end. You have asked my advice, which I have given you freely. I have told you how you ought to act, if you would preserve the esteem of any good or sensible friend, or prevail upon Harry to excuse your past behaviour. But as you do not approve of what I suggested, you must follow your own opinion.”
”Pray sir, pray sir,” said Tommy, sobbing, ”do not go. I have used Harry Sandford in the most barbarous manner; my father is angry with me, and, if you desert me, I shall have no friend left in the world.”
_Mr Barlow._--That will be your own fault, and therefore you will not deserve to be pitied. Is it not in your own power to preserve all your friends by an honest confession of your faults? Your father will be pleased, Harry Sandford will heartily forgive you, and I shall retain the same good opinion of your character which I have long had.
_Tommy._--And is it really possible, sir, that you should have a good opinion of me after all I have told you about myself?
_Mr Barlow._--I have always thought you a little vain and careless, I confess, but at the same time I imagined you had both good sense and generosity in your character; I depended upon _first_ to make you see your faults, and upon the _second_ to correct them.
_Tommy._--Dear sir, I am very much obliged to you; but you have always been extremely kind and friendly to me.
_Mr Barlow._--And therefore I told your father yesterday, who is very much hurt at your quarrel with Harry, that though a sudden pa.s.sion might have transported you too far, yet, when you came to consider the matter coolly, you would perceive your faults and acknowledge them; were you not to behave in this manner, I owned I could say nothing in your favour. And I was very much confirmed in this opinion, when I saw the courage you exerted in the rescue of Harry's lamb, and the compa.s.sion you felt for the poor Highlander. ”A boy,” said I, ”who has so many excellent dispositions, can never persist in bad behaviour. He may do wrong by accident, but he will be ashamed of his errors, and endeavour to repair them by a frank and generous acknowledgment. This has always been the conduct of really great and elevated minds, while mean and grovelling ones alone imagine that it is necessary to persist in faults they have once committed.”
_Tommy._--Oh, sir! I will go directly and entreat Harry to forgive me; I am convinced that all you say is right. But will you not go with me? Do pray, sir, be so good.
_Mr Barlow._--Gently, gently, my young friend, you are always for doing everything in an instant. I am very glad you have taken a resolution which will do you so much credit, and give so much satisfaction to your own mind; but, before you execute it, I think it will be necessary to speak to your father and mother upon the subject; and, in the mean time, I will go and pay a visit to farmer Sandford, and bring you an account of Harry.
_Tommy._--Do, sir, be so good; and tell Harry, if you please, that there is nothing I desire so much as to see him, and that nothing shall ever make me behave ill again. I have heard too, sir, that there was a poor Black came begging to us, who saved Harry from the bull; if I could but find him out, I would be good to him as long as I live.
Mr Barlow commended Tommy very much for dispositions so full of grat.i.tude and goodness; and, taking leave of him, went to communicate the conversation he had just had to Mr Merton. That gentleman felt the sincerest pleasure at the account, and entreated Mr Barlow to go directly to prepare Harry to receive his son. ”That little boy,”
observed he, ”has the n.o.blest mind that ever adorned a human being; nor shall I ever be happy till I see my son acknowledging all his faults, and entreating forgiveness; for, with the virtues that I have discovered in his soul, he appears to me a more eligible friend and companion than n.o.blemen or princes.”
Mr Barlow therefore set out on foot, though Mr Merton would have sent his carriage and servants to attend him, and soon arrived at Mr Sandford's farm. It was a pleasant spot, situated upon the gentle declivity of a hill, at the foot of which winded along a swift and clear little stream. The house itself was small, but warm and convenient, furnished with the greatest simplicity, but managed with perfect neatness. As Mr Barlow approached, he saw the owner himself guiding a plough through one of his own fields, and Harry, who had now resumed the farmer, directed the horses. But when he saw Mr Barlow coming across the field, he stopped his team, and, letting fall his whip, sprang forward to meet him with all the unaffected eagerness of joy. As soon as Harry had saluted Mr Barlow, and inquired after his health, he asked with the greatest kindness after Tommy; ”for I fancy, sir,” said he, ”by the way which I see you come, you have been at Mr Merton's house.” ”Indeed I have,” replied Mr Barlow, ”but I am very sorry to find that Tommy and you are not upon as good terms as you formerly were.”
_Harry._--Indeed, sir, I am very sorry for it myself. But I do not know that I have given Master Merton any reason to change his sentiments about me; and though I do not think he has treated me as well as he ought to do, I have the greatest desire to hear that he is well.
_Mr Barlow._--That you might have known yourself had you not left Mr Merton's house so suddenly, without taking leave of any one, even your friend Mr Merton, who has always treated you with so much kindness.
_Harry._--Indeed, sir, I should be very unhappy if you think I have done wrong; but be so good as to tell me how I could have acted otherwise. I am very sorry to appear to accuse Master Merton, neither do I bear any resentment against him for what he has done; but since you speak to me upon the subject, I shall be obliged to tell the truth.
_Mr Barlow._--Well, Harry, let me hear it; you know I shall be the last person to condemn you, if you do not deserve it.
_Harry._--I know your constant kindness to me, sir, and I always confide in it; however, I am not sensible that I am in fault. You know, sir, that it was with unwillingness I went to Mr Merton's, for I thought there would be fine gentlemen and ladies there, who would ridicule my dress and manners; and, though Master Merton has been always very friendly in his behaviour towards me, I could not help thinking that he might grow ashamed of my company at his own house.
_Mr Barlow._--Do you wonder at that, Harry, considering the difference there is in your rank and fortune?
_Harry._--No, sir, I cannot say I do, for I generally observe that those who are rich will scarcely treat the poor with common civility. But, in this particular case, I did not see any reason for it; I never desired Master Merton to admit me to his company, or invite me to his house, because I knew that I was born, and in a very inferior station. You were so good as to take me to your house, and if I was then much in his company, it was because he seemed to desire it himself, and I always endeavoured to treat him with the greatest respect.
_Mr Barlow._--That is indeed true, Harry; in all your little plays and studies I have never observed anything but the greatest mildness and good nature on your part.
_Harry._--I hope, sir, it has never been otherwise. But though I had the greatest affection for Master Merton, I never desired to go home with him. What sort of a figure could a poor boy like me make at a gentleman's table, among little masters and misses that powder their hair, and wear buckles as big as our horses carry upon their harness? If I attempted to speak, I was always laughed at; or if I did anything, I was sure to hear something about clowns and rustics! And yet, I think, though they were all gentlemen and ladies, you would not much have approved of their conversation, for it was about nothing but plays, and dress, and trifles of that nature. I never heard one of them mention a single word about saying their prayers, or being dutiful to their parents, or doing any good to the poor.