Part 2

During this pleasant exercise Mr. Beaufort arrived, to whom Henry had almost forgotten he had given so pressing an invitation. The place of their retreat was near the road, and he heard the voices of his young friends, long before he saw them. Tying his horse to the paling which surrounded the house, he made his way to them, without seeing the good woman who belonged to it, and for some minutes, he stood unobserved, till Henry Rawlinson caught his eye: "Oh, there is Mr. Beaufort!" said he, and the game was ended in an instant. The eyes of all were directed to the stranger, and William, who had not heard the exclamation, immediately saw the cause of their breaking off so abruptly. But indeed it was not particularly so to him, to whom, from not having his hearing, every thing that happened, and for which he was not prepared by _seeing_ what was going on, had that appearance. "You _are_ come then," said Henry, to his friend, "this is very good of you;" and in his eagerness to welcome him, he had nearly overthrown little Lucy; who, on seeing the game ended, had risen from her seat to seek the hand of her favourite brother. "Oh, my dear!" said Henry, setting her again on her feet, "I did not mean to hurt you. She is deaf and dumb, Sir," continued he, addressing Mr. Beaufort, whose benevolent hand was stretched out to keep her from falling, and whose countenance, when he heard this, bore witness to his feelings. "Poor little girl," said he, offering her his hand, "what can be done for you?" Lucy looked half pleased, half frightened at his notice; yet there was something in his manner which excited her regard, and William's also, who by this time was at her side, and who read in the stranger's looks, that compassion for their case which he had often observed in others, when either Lucy or himself was the object of attention; and for which he felt a grateful sensation, such as seemed to tell him he had found a _friend_.

"And this poor boy has the same misfortune, Sir," said Miller, who was standing by them, and knowing the compassionate nature of Mr. Beaufort, felt assured he would not be unmindful of them. "Indeed!" replied he, "and yet what intelligent faces." "Oh, Sir! they are both very sensible children," returned Miller, "and you would be delighted to see their affection for each other." "Have they never heard of the Asylum?" resumed Mr. Beaufort, with earnestness, "their misfortune might be greatly lessened.--Where is their mother? I'll speak to her about it." And he turned hastily round, unmindful of his friend Henry, and every thing else but the charitable design he had in view. "She is within the house, Sir," answered Miller; "she feels their situation very keenly, but has no means of helping them." "I will help her," said he, as they led the way to the cottage. "There is one of our neighbour's sons in that Asylum," whispered Harry Goldsmith to his namesake, "and my mother has often wished William could be there; he has not been long, and he can speak already. She meant to ask your papa about it, the next time she came to town."

By this time Mr. Beaufort had entered the house; the table was neatly spread for the young folks' dinner, and the mother sitting with her baby in her arms. "Speak to it _now_, Mary," said she to her eldest daughter, who was standing behind, "_now_ that it does not see you." She did so, but it took no notice.

"Oh! at nine months old this would not be the case, if it was not deaf," continued the poor woman, with a heavy sigh. "Another unfortunate!" exclaimed Mr. Beaufort on hearing this, as he entered the door. Mrs. Goldsmith instantly arose, and Henry Rawlinson introduced him as a gentleman who had come from their house. "Set the gentleman a chair, Mary," said she; and while Lucy, who had now reached her mother's side, kept pulling her by the gown, and pointing towards the stranger, she motioned her to be silent; and rather seemed to wish her to escape his notice, than to obtrude her on his attention.

"I am come to know the state of your family, my good woman," said he, "and to know whether I can be of any service to you. How old is _that_ little boy?" pointing towards William. "Ten, Sir," answered she, "and the next is nearly eight." "No children older?" "Yes, Sir, a boy who is at work with his father, and that girl." "But whom do you wish assistance for most?" said Mr. Beaufort. "Oh, Sir, my poor William and Lucy!" she replied with great emotion; "they most need it." "I understand so," answered the benevolent man; "I know how they are situated; but do you know that there is a charity established lately, exactly suited to their case?" "Yes, Sir, I have heard of it," said she; "but I have no friend but Mr. Rawlinson," she continued, hesitatingly, "and I have thought that I would speak to him about it." "_I_ will be your friend," said Mr. Beaufort; "I am one of the _governors_ of that charity!"

It is impossible to describe the expression of joy and gratitude which appeared in the countenance of the poor woman. She could not utter a word; but her looks, and the tears which flowed from her eyes, spake her thanks more impressively than any thing she could have said. "No time is lost yet," continued Mr. Beaufort; "your boy could not have been admitted till he was nine years old, and, the next vacancy, I will give all my votes for him." The poor woman, a little recovered, could now express her thanks; and William, whose face had been like scarlet on seeing her distress, advanced towards her. "Have you taught him any thing?" asked Mr. Beaufort. "Oh, Sir, he has taught himself!" answered she: "he knows my meaning almost as soon as I look at him. I think he knows his _letters_, though I am not sure he puts the same meaning on them as we do; and figures he can tell, by counting on his fingers as many as he sees written. I am sure he does not want for sense, or his sister either; you can't think, Sir, how they love me, or how I love them! Dear little creatures, whenever I am out for a day's work, they sit by the road-side together, and as soon as they see me, if it is at half a mile's distance, William leads little Lucy towards me, and they meet me with _such_ delight!" "Why, my good woman," said Mr. Beaufort, whose eyes bore witness to the pleasure with which he heard her artless relation, "your other children will be jealous, if you thus speak of them." "No, they won't, Sir," said she, "they are very good; they know that I _ought_ to love these best, because they are unfortunate. And this poor baby, Sir," added she, pressing it to her bosom, "I fear it is in the same state: it takes no notice of any thing but what it sees." "I am sorry for you," replied the good-natured man, "but we will hope better things: it may be only a temporary deafness. At present, this little boy is the most to be attended to;" and he took his name and age down in his pocket-book, while the grateful mother put up a secret prayer that it might be attended with success.

William watched all that was done, with an expression of anxiety which could not be accounted for, unless he thought that something either very pleasant or distressing was to happen to his mother from it. The rest stood in silent attention, listening to what was said; and the countenance of each bespoke their earnest wishes for their brother's welfare.

Mr. Beaufort now invited Henry to ride with him to the spot Mr. Rawlinson had wished him to see; and Mrs. Goldsmith, seeing it was just one o'clock, pointed to the door, for William to go and call his father home to dinner. Lucy, who had been accustomed always to accompany him on that errand, made a sign to do so now; but William, by stepping out his feet in a peculiar manner, let her know that he must make great haste, and that she could not walk so fast as he; and with this information she was made satisfied to remain at home.

While Henry was riding before Mr. Beaufort, all their conversation was respecting William and the Asylum. "I will give all the money I have, for him to go," said the kind-hearted boy; "and I think that Caroline will too: I'll ask her when I get back." And on his return he called his sister on one side, to make the request: "Mr. Beaufort says that a great deal is wanting to support the children," said he, "and that they have built a new house for them to live in; the other was not large enough: won't you give _your_ money towards it." "Yes, that I will;" replied she, "and as soon as we get home, we will speak to papa and mamma about it."

Mr. Beaufort had taken his leave, but not without a liberal earnest of his generosity to Mrs. Goldsmith, and an assurance that William should not be forgotten. He had brought his father and eldest brother home to dinner, to whom the poor woman related the circumstance of Mr. Beaufort's visit, with the greatest pleasure.

Never was such a happy dinner as these affectionate parents sat down to with their young guests, though their feelings could scarcely allow either of them to partake of what was placed before them. "Why he'll speak as well as neighbour Goodyer's boy," said the delighted father, "_he_ has been up to London to see him, and he says all the children are treated so kindly!" "The time of admission is the second Monday in next month," said his mother, "and perhaps he may be admitted _then_. _We_ are only expected to keep him decently clothed. I must begin making him some shirts; won't you let me buy him a few?" continued she. To this her husband readily consented; and Miller said she was sure her mistress would give him a jacket and trowsers. This point being settled, and the dinner ended, the children returned to their play, till the time of tea; after which, the horse was again harnessed to take them home, and the same party which he had brought in the morning, with the squirrel, and two rabbits Henry had obtained leave to take with him, were all placed in the cart, with a large basket of nuts, and some greens for the rabbits. They took their leave of nurse, with many thanks for the pleasure they had had, and expressions of kindness to all the children, particularly William and Lucy, the latter of whom had, in the course of the day, become so sociable with Caroline, as to cry at seeing her depart.

When they reached home, they found their parents, and Mr. Beaufort, sitting, after dinner, with another gentleman or two, and the little Goldsmiths were the subject of their conversation. Henry would have directly asked his mamma for his little store of money, that he might put it into Mr. Beaufort's hands, for the benefit of the charity, had not a significant look from Caroline prevented him. When they retired for the night, he asked her the reason. "It is like asking the gentlemen, who were strangers, to praise you," said she; "and besides, you know mamma has told us, that whenever we give any thing away, we should not speak of it: to-morrow, when she is alone, will be time enough."

In a day or two after this, Mr. Beaufort returned to town, after fixing the day for William and his mother to come up, in time for the meeting, when he hoped to be so fortunate as to get him admitted. The intervening time was fully employed in preparing his clothes, in which Caroline assisted, and in endeavouring to make him understand the good fortune which awaited him. Mrs. Rawlinson had him to visit her, a day or two before he was to go; she took him to the school, to which, he recollected, his eldest brother had gone, and gave him a copy-book, pen and ink, and slate. William blushed, and lifted up his hand affectingly, he shook his head, as if to say, "I don't know how to use them." He had been very fond of their neighbour's son, who was already in the Asylum, and before he went they were constant companions. William had for a long time understood he was gone somewhere greatly to his advantage, and whenever he went into the cottage of his parents, he pointed to the stool on which his old companion used to sit, as if to enquire how he was, while an approving smile from Mrs. Goodyer always told him he was well off.

On their return from Mrs. Rawlinson's, his mother took him to their neighbour's, and directing his attention to the stool, which always recalled the idea of his friend, she showed him the books and slate which Mrs. Rawlinson had given him, and made him understand that he was gone to be instructed how to use them. William nodded his approval, but when she distinctly said, "_you_ are to go _to_ him, (and such a sentence as this he could understand by the motion of her lips,) he danced for joy, he kissed his mother and Mrs. Goodyer, caught up the books and hugged them, then the pen, with which he showed them he should soon know how to write; and then, by every means in his power, he asked the question _when_ he should go? He looked up to the sky, then waved his hand with the sun, once, twice, thrice, as if to enquire, was it in such a number of days? His mother held up one finger; and then, by moving his hand, as if in the act of driving, he asked if _that_ was to be the mode of their conveyance. On receiving a nod of assent to this question also, he again capered round the room, and all the way, as they walked home, delighted his mother with his expressive gestures of pleasure.

When there, he met his brothers and sisters with increased affection, and with the same significant motions, made them sensible that he knew what was designed for him. He marked the return of the next evening with some appearance of regret, and, for the first time, seemed to recollect that all his family could not go with him; and he kissed them all again and again, especially little Lucy, who as yet had not a notion that she was so soon to lose him. He led her to his mother, and, with an expressive look, bespoke her double affection for her when he was away, and waving his hand towards the door, he tried to tell his sister he was going a great way off. In this manner he led her round to each of the family separately, as if to beg them all to be attentive to her in his absence.

The next morning, he and his mother were up before any of the children; and to spare him the pain of taking leave, she directed Mary not to awake them till they were gone. Our travellers had about a mile to walk to meet the coach, to which his father accompanied them, and, with the most earnest wishes for his success in gaining admittance, he bade his affectionate child--farewell.

Poor William had, till then, been all joy and ecstasy, but when he saw his father turning back, a tear stole from his eye. He had hoped, from his coming thus far with them, that _he_ was also to accompany him; and with an enquiring look, he turned to his mother, with whom he was seated on the top of the coach, to know why he did not. The novelty of William's actions soon attracted the attention of the other passengers, and the recital of his case excited their pity. Among the number, the poor woman met with one who very well knew the part of the town she was going to, and where Mr. Beaufort had secured a room for them to sleep in, near the Asylum: and in the morning this benevolent man called to see her before the committee assembled. William instantly knew him again, and, from his mother's behaviour, he saw that it was to _him_ he was obliged for the education he was about to receive, and with all the eloquence of silent gratitude he expressed his thanks.

At length eleven o'clock came, and William was introduced to the gentlemen. The votes were given, and he obtained his admission by a majority only of one; and that was from Mr. Beaufort having the number of votes which constitutes a governor for life; and the pleasure with which he informed Mrs. Goldsmith of her son's success, could only be excelled by hers on hearing it.

William was then introduced to some of the scholars, among whom was Jacob Goodyer: they immediately recollected each other, and ran to express their pleasure in thus meeting. "How do you do, Mrs. Goldsmith?" said Jacob, delighted thus to use his newly-acquired speech, and to have an opportunity of displaying his improvement. "How are my father and mother?" The poor woman could not answer him: she burst into tears. "And will my boy ever speak so well as he?" she exclaimed to one of the matrons of the school, who was with her. "No doubt he will," answered the woman, who was equally affected. She then described more of Jacob's attainments; and when the first emotions of surprise were over, Mrs. Goldsmith was able to converse some time with him. He told her he had seen his father lately, begged her to carry his duty and love to all at home, and tell them he had made six pair of shoes since his father was there. He walked round the school and house with his old friends; told them how happy he was, and what pleasure it gave him that William was come, to whom he often spoke in his own way; and the poor boy, with the most intelligent look, showed how well he understood stood him.

Mr. Beaufort recommended Mrs. Goldsmith to stay one day longer in town, so that she had the pleasure of seeing her son happy, and settled in his new situation. He knew she was not to stay longer, and seemed reconciled to her departure; and before he gave her his parting kiss, he opened his book, and showed that he should be able to read and write by the time he saw her again; he also touched his mouth, in token that he should _speak_. She expressed her earnest hopes that it might be so, and, with the most affectionate regard, bade him be a good boy, and wished him farewell.

Jacob gave her a letter to carry to his parents, the first he had ever written. And Mr. Beaufort, who was then in the house, promised that, if any thing happened to her son, she should immediately be informed of it; and also that, through Mr. Rawlinson's family, he would often let her know how he got on, and what improvements he made. With this assurance, the poor woman left him without the least regret, being well convinced that he was in the only place in which he could gain sufficient knowledge to become a useful member of society; and she returned to her expecting family, full of the kindness of the ladies and gentlemen she had met with, and the wonderful improvement of Jacob Goodyer, whose parents (particularly his mother) listened to her account with anxious joy. His letter was shown and read to all the village, as a proof of the excellency of the charity; and Mrs. Goldsmith received the congratulations of all her neighbours, on her son's being admitted into it.

It would be hardly possible to describe the distress of little Lucy, when she found her brother gone; nor was she old enough for them to make her understand it was for his advantage. She hunted in every part of the house and garden for him, and on not discovering the object of her search, she sat down and cried. Mary and Harry tried to pacify her, and with her dolls and playthings she began to be amused, till, as the evening drew on, she put herself into a great bustle, and, taking Harry's hand, she led him to the road side, where, with William, she had so often sat, to watch the return of their mother. It was in vain he endeavoured to let her know she would not return that night, and Mary was at last obliged to put her crying to bed, where, at length, she forgot her sorrows in sleep. The next morning she renewed her search, and till her mother's return, she appeared truly unhappy; but on seeing her, her countenance revived, and while receiving _her_ affectionate caresses, she seemed to forget that her brother was not returned with her.

Mr. Beaufort wrote frequent accounts of William's welfare and improvements; and at the next vacation, to which all the family looked forward with pleasure, he was permitted to come home, with his neighbour, Jacob Goodyer. They came on the top of the coach, and as they drew near their home, these poor boys expressed to each other the greatest pleasure. "I shall _speak_ to my mother," said William, and hardly had he spoke the words, than he saw her standing with Lucy, Harry, and Jane, who had all walked a mile or two to meet him. The agitation he felt, at thus unexpectedly seeing them before he reached home, prevented his speaking as he wished: he pulled the coachman's arm, and pointing to the happy group below, his lips moved, but he could not utter a word. The coach stopped, and he was down in an instant, and in his mother's arms. "Mother! my dear mother!" repeated he, as articulately as his emotion would allow him, while Harry and Jane were in raptures to hear his voice.

Jacob had yet some miles further to go; he could therefore only nod and smile, rejoicing that, in a very short time, he should have a pleasure equal to his friend's. "We will go round by the field where your father is at work, my dear," said the delighted mother, "for he is impatient to see you." "My father," returned William, "and Edward," meaning his eldest brother. He then repeated the names of all his brothers and sisters, and received the affectionate welcome of those who were then present. Lucy did not at first recollect him; but when he spoke to her, and she observed his looks and motions, no one can express her pleasure. She kissed him twenty times, pressed his hand, and held it tight all the way they walked together, as if nothing should again part them from each other.

When they reached their father, William ran towards him, and repeating his name, made the heart of the poor man leap for joy: "Oh, my dear boy!" said he, "_do_ you speak at last? Well, if I lose some of my week's wages, I must leave work, and go home with you. Here, Edward, Edward," continued he, calling to his eldest son, who was in the next field, "William is come home." Edward heard the news with pleasure, and impatient to see the brother for whom they were so deeply interested, he jumped over the hedge in an instant; and William no sooner saw him, than he flew to meet him, and greeted him with all the expressions of joy which he could utter. This was a happy evening for them all, and when the joyful party arrived at the cottage, Mary, who had been left in charge of the baby, expressed the same delight.

The tea-things were ready, and William repeated the names of every thing he saw; he walked round the room, and, as if anxious to show the advantage he had gained, called over all that was in it, or on the shelves about the room, while his delighted parents listened with fond emotion to all he said. His little stock of clothes was now opened, and eagerly taking out his spelling-book, which was in the parcel, he began to read. He showed his writing also; in short, there was none of his acquirements which he was not eager to exhibit, and to receive the congratulations of his parents upon. He watched the motion of their lips, and understood every word they said, when they expressed their pleasure to each other.

In the course of the next day, he visited his old acquaintance in the village, whither little Lucy accompanied him, proud to be once more with her dear brother. All the neighbours were astonished at his improvement, and William was in danger of thinking himself something extraordinary, he was so much noticed and admired. He also paid his respects to Mrs. Rawlinson; and received from her the sincerest congratulations, as well as from his old friends, Miller and Sally. Caroline and Henry made him say every thing that he could speak; and when unable to answer them, (which, among the numerous questions they asked him, was sometimes the case,) they immediately removed the distress he showed on these occasions, by replying for him. Yet this did not seem to satisfy him, and before he left them, he was, after repeatedly endeavouring, able to pronounce the word himself.