School-Boy Days.
George Weston was an only son, and, at the time our story commences, was nearly seventeen years of age. His early years had been spent at home, under the watchful care of kind and good parents. When he was ten years old he was sent to a boarding school at Folkestone, and placed in the charge of Dr. Seaward, a good man, who superintended his education, and, besides imparting secular instruction, endeavoured to train his character and make him good as well as clever. George was a sharp, shrewd boy, a keen observer, who would know the why and the wherefore of everything, and his lessons always came to him more as an amusement than a task. He had a horror of being low down in his class, and if he did not retain his place at the top, it was rarely through inattention or want of study on his part.
George was a great favourite with the whole school; he was a merry, joyous fellow, who always had sunshine in his face and a kind word on his lips; a ringleader in any harmless fun, and a champion on the side of all the younger boys who met with oppression or injustice from the elder classes. At cricket or football, swimming or boating, George had few superiors; and as he was one of those boys who seem determined, whatever they do, to do it with all their might, he went heart and soul into all the spoils with such a zest and earnestness that he acquired the name of the "Indefatigable." Nor did this name merely apply to his zeal in sports. There was not in the whole school a more diligent student than George: there was for him "a time to work and a time to play," and he never allowed one to trespass upon the other. He would rather go without a game at cricket for a fortnight than be behindhand in one of his lessons. The boys would laugh at him for this, but George could bear to be laughed at on such points, because he knew he was in the right. "I came to school to learn," he would say, "and I don't see any fun in making my parents pay heavy fees for me every year to play cricket at the expense of study." Every boy knew there was wisdom in this, and they secretly admired George for it, although it condemned their own conduct, more especially when they had to go to him not unfrequently, and say, "Weston, I shall get in a scrape with these lessons to-morrow, unless you can help me a bit with them. Do give me a leg up, that's a good fellow!" and though George never said "No," he did sometimes take an opportunity to say, "If you did not waste so much time in play, you might be independent of any help that I can give."
It was a source of great pleasure to his parents to hear from time to time, through Dr. Seaward, some good account of his conduct; and when he returned home at the holiday seasons, generally laden with prizes which he had victoriously borne off, they did not feel a little proud of their only son.
George remained at the school at Folkestone for five years, during which time he rose from the lowest to the highest form. It was the intention of his parents then to place him in a college for a year or two, in order to give him in opportunity to complete his education, and have the means to make a good start in life. But this purpose was frustrated by an event which happened only a month before George was to have been removed.
One day, when all the boys were out in the playfield, busily engaged in marking out boundaries for a game at hockey, Dr. Seaward was seen coming from the house towards the field. This was an unusual event, as he rarely interfered with them during play hours. "Something's up," said the boys; and waited expectantly until the Doctor came up to them.
"Call George Weston," said he; "I want to speak to him."
"Weston! George Weston!" shouted one or two at once; and George came running up, nothing abashed, for he knew he had done nothing wrong.
"George," said the Doctor, laying a hand on his shoulder, "I want you to come with me; I have something to tell you;" and they walked together away from the field.
"What is it, sir? You look pained: I hope I have done nothing to offend you?"
"No, George," replied the Doctor; "few lads have ever given me so little cause of offence at any time as you have. But I am pained. I have some sad news to tell you."
"Sad news for me, sir? Oh, do tell me at once. Is anything the matter at home?"
"Yes, George; a messenger has just arrived to say that your father has met with a serious accident; he has been thrown from his chaise, and is much hurt. The messenger is your uncle, Mr. Brunton; and he desires you to return at once to London with him."
George waited to hear no more; he bounded away from the Doctor, cleared the fence which enclosed the garden at a leap, and rushed into the room where Mr. Brunton was anxiously awaiting him. No tear stood in his eye; but he was dreadfully pale, and his hands trembled like aspen leaves. "Oh, uncle!" was all he could say; and, throwing himself into a chair, he covered his face with his hands.
"Come, George, my boy," said Mr. Brunton, tenderly; "do not give way to distress. Your poor father is seriously hurt, but he is yet alive. We have just half an hour to catch the train."
That was enough for George; in a moment he was calm and collected, ran up to his room to make a few hasty arrangements, and in five minutes was again with his uncle prepared for the journey.
"Good-bye, Dr. Seaward," he said as he left the house.
"God bless you, my young friend," said the kind-hearted Doctor; "and grant that you may find His providence better than your fears."
George thought he had never known the train go so slowly as it did during that long, wearisome journey to London. At last it arrived at the terminus, and then, jumping into a cab, they were hurried away towards Stamford Hill as quickly as the horse could travel.
"Now, George," said Mr. Brunton, as they came near their journey's end, "we know not what may have happened while we have been coming here. Be a man, and recollect there is one who suffers more than you."
"Do not fear, uncle. I will not add to my mother's grief," was all he could reply.
We will not pry into that interview between mother and son when they first met; there is a grief too solemn for a stranger's eye.
Mr. Weston was still alive, and that was all that could be said. The doctors had pronounced his case beyond human skill, and had intimated that there were but a few hours for him on earth.
As George stood beside the bed of his dying father, the tears which had been long pent up came pouring thick and fast down his cheek.
"Don't give way to sorrow, George," said his father, in a low voice, for he had difficulty in speaking; "it will be only a little while before we meet again; for what is life but a vapour, which soon vanisheth away?"
"Oh, father, it is so sudden, so sudden!" sobbed George.
"Therefore, my boy, remember that at all times there is but a step between us and death; and if for us to live is Christ, then to die is gain. Make that your motto through life, my dear boy, 'For me to live is Christ.'"
That night the silver cord was loosed, the golden bowl was broken, and the spirit of Mr. Weston returned to God who gave it. "Precious in the eyes of the Lord is the death of His saints."
Never did a mother more realize the joy of possessing the unbounded love of an affectionate son, than did Mrs. Weston during those melancholy days between the death and the funeral of her husband, "Cheer up, dear mother," he would say; "God is the father of the fatherless, and the husband of the widow, and did not He say 'to die is gain'?"
George and Mr. Brunton followed the remains of the good man to their last resting-place; and then the body was lowered to the grave "in the sure and certain hope of a glorious resurrection."
Mr. Weston had not been a rich man, nor had he been a far-seeing, provident man. He had moved in comfortable circumstances, with an income only sufficient to pay his way in the world, and had made but scanty provision for the future. At the time of his sudden death, his affairs were in anything but a satisfactory state; and it was found that it would be impossible for his widow to live in the same comfortable style she had formerly done.
After all his accounts were wound up, it was seen that she would only have a sufficient sum of money, even if invested in the best possible manner, to keep her in humble circumstances. She determined therefore to leave her house at Stamford Hill, and take a smaller one in Islington, and let some of the rooms to boarders.
Mr. Brunton acted the part of a kind brother in all her difficulties; he was never wearied in advising her, and on him principally devolved all the necessary arrangements for her removal. Everything he did was with such delicacy and refinement that, although his hand was daily and hourly felt, it was never seen.
One evening, shortly before leaving the locality in which they had lived so many years, George and his mother walked together to the cemetery where Mr. Weston had been buried, to pay a farewell visit to that hallowed spot. They had been too much reduced in circumstances to have a stone placed over the grave where he lay, and they were talking about it as they journeyed along, saying, how the very first money they could afford should be expended for that purpose. What was their surprise to find a handsome stone raised above the spot, bearing these words:—
Sacred to the Memory of
MR. GEORGE WESTON,
Who departed this life, Feb. 18th, 18—, aged 46 years.
"For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain."
Tears of grateful joy stood in their eyes as they recognized another token of the kind, tender love of Mr. Brunton.
The bereavement and change of fortune were borne by the widow with that fortitude which is only shown by the true Christian. It was hard, very hard, to begin the world again; to be denied the pleasure of allowing George to go to college and complete his studies; and to bear the struggles and inconveniences of poverty. But Mrs. Weston knew that vain regrets would never alter the case; the Lord had given, the Lord had taken away, and from her heart she could say cheerfully, "Blessed be the name of the Lord."
George had not been idle. Every hour in which he was not occupied for or with his mother, he was diligently engaged in prosecuting his studies, and preparing himself for the time when he should be able to procure a situation. Mr. Brunton had not been anxious for him to enter upon one at once; he knew how lonely the widow would be without her son, and therefore he did not take any steps to obtain for George a situation. But when a twelvemonth had passed, and the keenness of sorrow had worn off, he mentioned the matter to his friend Mr. Compton; with what success we have seen in the first chapter.