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.