MEETING A SCHOOL-FELLOW.
Six months passed rapidly away. George continued to give satisfaction to
Mr. Compton, soon learnt the office routine, and earned the warmest
expressions of approbation from Mr. Sanders, who said he was the best
junior clerk he ever remembered to have entered that office.
George had carefully guarded against forming any kind of intimacy with
the other clerks; he had declined to have more to say to them during
office hours than possible, and when business was over he purposely
shunned them. But a strong friendship had sprung up between him and
Charles Hardy; every morning they came to the city together, and
returned in company in the evening. Sometimes George would spend an
evening at the house of Hardy's parents, and Hardy, in like manner,
would occasionally spend an evening with George.
Williams and Lawson had, as Hardy predicted, been a source of great
annoyance to George. He was constantly obliged to bear their ridicule
because he would not conform to their habits, and sometimes the insults
he received were almost beyond his power of endurance. He and Hardy
received the name of the "Siamese youths," and were generally greeted
with such salutations as "How d'ye do? Is mamma pretty well?"--or
something equally galling. But George bore it all with exemplary
patience, and he did not doubt that after a while they would grow tired
of annoying him. At all events, he felt certain some new policy would be
adopted by them; for he had so risen in the estimation of his employer,
who began to repose confidence in him, and entrust him with more
important matters than he allowed the others to interfere with, that
George anticipated the time when the clerks would either be glad to
curry favour with him, or at least have to acknowledge that he was
regarded more highly than they were.
So matters went on. Mrs. Weston was full of joy as she saw how well
George had kept his resolutions, and full of hope that he would continue
as he had begun.
Mr. Brunton had given him many kind encouragements during this time, and
had felt himself well rewarded for all his trouble on George's behalf
by hearing from Mr. Compton of the satisfaction his services had given.
And now an event occurred, simple and unimportant in itself, and yet it
was one that affected the whole of George's after-life.
One evening, as he was leaving the office, and had just turned into
Fleet-street, a nice-looking, fashionably-dressed young man came running
up, and, clapping him on the shoulder, exclaimed,
"What! George Weston, my old pippin, who ever thought of turning you up
in London!"
"Harry Ashton! my old school-chum, how are you?" and the two friends
shook hands with a heartiness that surprised the passers-by.
"Where ever have you been to, all these long years, George?" said Aston;
"only fancy, we have never seen each other since that day we were
playing hockey at dear old Dr. Seaward's, and you were hastily called
away to London. The Doctor told us the sad news, and we all felt for you
deeply, old fellow; in fact I never recollect the place having been so
gloomy before or since."
"It was a sad time for me," said George; "and after that I lived at home
for a twelvemonth. Then I got an appointment in an office in
Falcon-court, and have held it just six months. Now, tell me where you
have sprung from, and where you have been since I last saw you?"
"I stayed only six months longer at Dr. Seaward's and was then articled
to a surveyor in the Strand, with whom I have been nearly a year, and
now I am bound for my lodgings, and you must come with me."
"You had better come with me," said George; "my mother will be so
pleased to welcome an old school-fellow of mine, and she is not
altogether a stranger to you."
"Thank you, old fellow," replied Ashton; "I shall be very glad to accept
your invitation some other night; but, after our long separation, we
want to have a quiet, confidential chat over old times together, and I
must introduce you to my crib. I am a bachelor--all alone in my glory.
The old folks still live in the country, and I boarded at first in a
family; but that that was terribly slow work, and since that time I have
hung out on my own hook. So come along, George; I really can't hear any
excuse."
George hesitated only a moment; he had never spent an evening from home
without first acquainting his mother; but this was an unusual event,
and he was so anxious to hear about Dr. Seaward, and talk over old
school days, the temptation was irresistible.
Harry Ashton called a cab, much to George's surprise, into which they
jumped; and were not very long in getting into the Clapham road, where
they alighted before a large, nice looking house.
"This is the crib," said Ashton, as he ushered George into a large
parlour, handsomely furnished with everything contributing to comfort
and amusement. "Now, make yourself at home. Here are some cigars
(producing a box of Havannahs), and here (opening a cellaret) is bottled
beer and wine; which shall it be?"
"As to smoking, that is a bad habit, or an art (which you like) I have
never yet practised," said George; "but I will join you in a glass of
wine just to toast 'Dr. Seaward and our absent friends in the school.'"
Then the two school friends fell into conversation. Many and many a
happy recollection came into their minds, and one long yarn was but the
preface to another.
"Come, George, fill up your glass," said Ashton repeatedly; but George
declined.
Two or three hours slipped rapidly away, and then George rose to leave.
"Not a bit of it, George," said Ashton; "we must have some supper and
discuss present times yet. I have not heard particulars of what you are
doing, or how you are getting on, and you only know I'm here, without
any of the history about it."
So George yielded: how could he help it? Harry Ashton had become his
bosom-chum during the five years he had been at school, and all the old
happy memories of those days were again fresh upon him.
"Now, George, tell your story first, and then mine shall follow." Then
George narrated all the leading circumstances which had attended his
life, from the time he left school up to that very evening, and a long
story it was.
"Now," said Ashton, "for mine. When you left Folkestone I got up to your
place at the head of the school, and there I held on till I left. Six
months after you left, the holidays came, and I came up to town. I spent
a few days with Mr. Ralston, an old friend of the family, and one of the
first engineers and surveyors in London. He took a liking to me, offered
to take me into his office, wrote to the governor (I know you don't like
that term, though--I mean my father), proposed a sum as premium,
arrangements were made; and, instead of returning to school, I came to
London and commenced learning the arts and mysteries of a profession. I
had only been with Mr. Ralston two or three months, when one morning my
father came into the office, out of wind with excitement, and said,
'Harry, I have got sad and joyful, and wonderful news for you! Poor old
Mr. Cornish is dead; the will has been opened, and--make up your mind
for a surprise--the bulk of his property is left to you.' I was
thunderstruck. I knew the old gentleman would leave me something, but I
did not know that he had quarrelled with his relatives, and therefore
appropriated to me the share originally intended for them. So, you see,
I have stepped into luck's way. I am allowed an income now which amounts
to something like two hundred a year, as I shall not come into my rights
till I am twenty-one, and how I am not nineteen; so I have a long time
to wait, you see, which is rather annoying. I took this crib, and have
managed to enjoy my existence pretty well, I can assure you. Sometimes I
run down into the country to spend a week or two with the old folks, and
sometimes they come up and see me."
"Don't you find it rather dull, living here alone, though?" said George.
"Dull? far from it. I have a good large circle of friends, who like to
come round here and spend a quiet evening; and there are no end of
amusements in this great city, so that no one need never be dull.
Besides, if I am alone, I am not without friends, you see,"--pointing to
a well-stocked book case.
"I have been running my eye over them, Harry. There are some very nice
books; but your tastes are changed since I knew you last, or you would
never waste your time over all this lot here which seem to have been
best used. I mean the 'Wandering Jew,' 'Ernest Maltravers,' and the
like."
"I won't attempt to defend myself, George; but when I was at school, I
did as school-boys did: now I have come to London, I do as the Londoners
do. I know there is an absence of anything like reason in this, but I am
not much thrown amongst reasoners. But, to change the subject; now you
have found me out, George, I do hope you will very often chum with me. I
shall enjoy going about with you better than with anybody else; and as
we know one another so well, we shall soon have tastes and habits in
common again, as we used to have."
Presently the clock struck. George started up in surprise. "What!
twelve o'clock! impossible. It never can be so late as that?"
"It is, though," said Ashton, "but what of that? you don't surely call
twelve o'clock bad hours for once in a way?"
"No, not for once in a way," replied George; "but I have never kept my
mother up so late before. Good-bye, old fellow. Promise to come and see
me some night this week. There is my address." And so saying, George ran
out into the street and made his way towards Islington.
That was an anxious night for Mrs. Weston. "What can have happened?" she
asked herself a hundred times. Fortunately, Mr. Brunton called, and he
assisted to while away the time.
"George does not often stay out of an evening, does he?" he asked.
"No, never," replied Mrs. Weston; "unless it is with his friend, Charles
Hardy, and then I always know where they are, and what they are doing.
But something extraordinary must have happened to-night, and I feel very
anxious to know what it is. Not that I think he is anywhere he ought not
to be. I feel sure he is not," continued Mrs. Weston confidently; "but
what it is that has detained him, I am altogether at a loss to guess."
"Well, I will not leave you till he comes home," said Mr. Brunton.
It was one o'clock before George arrived; it was too late to get an
omnibus, and a cab, he thought, was altogether out of the question;
therefore he had to walk the whole distance--or rather run, for he was
as anxious now to get home as they were to see him.
He was very much surprised, and, if it must be confessed, rather vexed
on some accounts, to find Mr. Brunton waiting up for him with his
mother.
His explanation of what had happened, told in his merry, ingenuous way,
at once dissipated any anxiety they had felt.
"I recollect Harry Ashton well," said Mrs. Weston. "Dr. Seaward pointed
him out to me, the first time I went to see you at Folkestone, as being
one of his best scholars; and he came home once with you in the holidays
to spend a day or two with us, did he not?"
"That is the same, mother, and a better-hearted fellow it would be hard
to find."
"There is only one disadvantage that I see in your having him as an
intimate friend," said Uncle Brunton, "and that is, he is now very
differently situated in position to you as regards wealth, and you
might find him a companion more liable to lead you into expense than any
of your other friends, because I know what a proud fellow you are,
George," he said, laughingly, "you like to do as your friends do, and
would not let them incur expense on your account unless you could return
their compliment. But I will not commence a moral discourse to-night--it
is time all good folks should be in bed."
All the next day George was thinking over the events of the previous
evening; he was pleased to have found out Harry Ashton, and thought he
would be just the young man he wanted for a companion. Then he compared
their different modes of life--Ashton living in luxuriant circumstances,
without anybody or anything to interfere with his enjoyment, and he,
obliged to live very humbly and carefully in order to make both ends
meet; and then came a new feeling, that of restraint.
"There is Ashton," he thought, "can go out when he likes and where he
likes, without its being necessary to say where he is going or what he
is going to do, and he can come in at night without being obliged to
account for all his actions like a child. If I happen to stay out, there
is Uncle Brunton and my mother in a great state of excitement about me,
which I don't think is right. I really do not wonder that the clerks
have made me a laughing-stock. All this while I have lived in London I
have seen nothing; have not been to any of the places of amusement; and
have not been a bit like the young men with whom I get thrown into
contact. I think Ashton is right, after all, in saying that when he was
at school he did as school-boys did, and when he came to London he did
as the Londoners do. Far be it from me to be undutiful to those who care
for me; but I think, as a young man, I do owe a duty to myself,
different altogether from that which belonged to me as a schoolboy."
These were all new thoughts to George: he had never felt or even thought
of restraint before; he had never even expressed a wish to do as other
young men did, in wasting precious time on useless amusements; he had
always looked forward to an evening at home with pleasure, and had never
felt the least inclination to wander forth in search of recreation
elsewhere. Nay, he had always condemned it; and when Lawson or Williams,
or any of the other clerks, had proposed such a thing to him, he never
minded bearing their ridicule in declining.
And here was George's danger. He was upon his guard with his
fellow-clerks, and was able to keep his resolution not to adopt their
ideas, nor fall into their ways and habits; but when those very evils he
condemned in them were presented to him in a different form by Harry
Ashton, his old friend and school-fellow--leaving the principle the
same, and only the practice a little altered--he was off his guard; and
the habits he regarded with dislike in Williams and Lawson, he was
beginning secretly to admire in Ashton.
As he walked home that evening with Hardy he gave him a long description
of his meeting with Ashton, and all that happened during his interview
and upon his return home.
"Now, Hardy," said George, "which do you think is really
preferable--Harry Ashton's life or ours? We never go out anywhere; and,
for the matter of that, might as well be living in monasteries, as far
as knowing what is going on in the world is concerned."
"For my own part, Weston," said Hardy, "I would rather be as I am. Your
friend is surrounded with infinitely greater temptations than we are,
from the fact of his living as he does without any control. He is
evidently free from his parents, and although he is old enough to take
care of himself, still there is a certain restraint felt under a
parent's roof which is very desirable."
"Quite true," said George; "but that involves a point which has been
perplexing me all day. Should we, after we have arrived at a certain
age, acknowledge a parent's control as we did when we were mere
school-boys? I do not mean are we to cease to honour them, because that
we cannot do while God's commandment lasts; but are we, as Williams
says, always to go in leading-strings, or are we at liberty to think and
act for ourselves?"
"That depends a good deal on the way in which we wish to think and act.
For instance, my parents object to Sunday travelling and Sunday
visiting. Now, while I am living with them, I feel it would not be right
for me to do either of these things--even though as a matter of
principle I might not see any positive wrong in them--because it would
bring me into opposition with my parents. So, in spending evenings away
from home, I know it would be contrary to their wish, and it is right to
try and prevent our opinions clashing."
"I agree with you, partly, Hardy; but only partly. We must study our
parents' opinions in the main, but not in points of detail. Suppose I
want to attend a course of lectures, for example, which would take me
from home sometimes in the evening; and my mother objects to my spending
evenings from home, although the study might be advantageous to me--then
I think I should be at liberty to adhere to my own opinion; if not, I
should be under the same restraint I was as a child. It is right and
natural that parents should feel desirous to know what associations
their sons are forming, and what are their habits, and all that sort of
thing; but I am inclined to think it is not right for a parent to
exercise so strong a control as to say, 'So-and-so shall be your
companion;' and, 'You may go to this place, but you may not go to
that.'"
"Well, Weston, your digestion must be out of order, or you are a little
bilious, or something; for I never heard you talk like this before. I
have told you, confidentially sometimes, that I have wanted to rebel
against the wishes of my parents on some points, and you have always
counselled me, like a sage, grey-headed father, to give up my desire.
But now you turn right round, and place me in the position of the
parent, and you the rebellious son. I recommend, therefore, that you
take two pills, for I am sure bile is at the bottom of this; and then I
will feel your pulse upon this point again."
Mrs. Weston noticed a difference in George that evening. He seemed as
if he had got something upon his mind which was perplexing him. He was
not so cheerful and merry as usual, but his mother attributed it partly
to his late hours, followed by a hard day's work, and therefore she said
nothing to him about it.
A day or two elapsed, and George was still brooding upon the same
subject. He did not know that the great tempter was weaving a subtle net
around him, to lure him into the broad road which leadeth to
destruction. He tried a hundred times to fight against the strange
influence he felt upon him; but he did not fight with the right weapons,
and therefore he failed. Had the tempter suggested to him that, as he
was a young man, he should do as his fellow-clerks, or even Ashton did,
and have his way in all things, he would have seen the temptation; but
it came altogether in a different way. The evil voice said, "You are
under restraint. Ask any young man of your own age, and he will tell you
so. It is high time you should unloose yourself from apron-strings." And
this idea of restraint was preying upon him, and he could not throw it
off. George was anxious to do the right, but did not know how to fight
against the wrong. Conscience whispered to him, "Do you remember that
motto your dying father gave you, 'For me to live is Christ?'" George
replied, "Yes, I remember it; and it is still my desire to follow it."
Conscience said again, "Do you recollect that sermon you heard, and the
resolutions you made, 'My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou
not?'" And he answered, "I remember it well; but I am not aware that any
are endeavouring to entice me."
This was the effect of the unconscious influence of Harry Ashton. He had
unknowingly fanned a latent spark into a flame, which, unless checked,
would consume all those high and praiseworthy resolutions which George
had formed, and carefully kept for years. He had cast a shadow over the
landscape of his friend's well-being, which made the sign-posts pointing
"upward and onward" almost indistinct. He had breathed into the
atmosphere a subtle malaria, and George had caught the disease. The
little leaven was now mixed with his life, which would leaven the whole.
The genus of that moral consumption, which, unless cured by the Great
Physician, ends in death, had been sown, and were now taking root.
George was unconscious of any foreign influence working upon him--he
could not see that Ashton had in any way exerted a power over him; nor
in the new and undefined feelings which had taken possession of him
could he recognise the presence of evil. He had consulted conscience,
and, he fancied, had satisfactorily met the warnings of its voice.
But he had _not_ gone to that high and sure source of strength which can
alone make a way of escape from all temptations; he had _not_ obtained
that armour of righteousness which is the only defence against the fiery
darts of the wicked one; he had _not_ that faith, in the power of which
alone Satan can be resisted; and therefore his eyes were holden so that
he could not see the snares which the subtle foe was laying around him,
nor could he, in his own strength, bear up against the strong tide which
was threatening to overwhelm him.