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 hadnotgone to that high and sure source of strength which can alone make a way of escape from all temptations; he hadnotobtained that armour of righteousness which is the only defence against the fiery darts of the wicked one; he hadnotthat 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.
Harry Ashton kept his promise, and went one evening that week to see George at Islington. Hardy had been invited to meet him; and the three friends, as they kept up a perfect rattle of conversation, interspersed with many crossfired jokes, made the merriest and happiest little party that could be imagined.
Mrs. Weston was very much pleased with Ashton—his refined thought and gentlemanly address, joined with an open-hearted candour and a fund of humour which sparkled in every sentence, made it impossible for any one not to like him. Charles Hardy thought he had never met a more entertaining companion than Ashton; Ashton thought Hardy was an intelligent, agreeable fellow; and George declared to his mother that, if he had had the pick of all the young men in London, he could not have found two nicer fellows.
A hundred topics were discoursed upon during the evening, in which Ashton generally took the lead, and showed himself to be very well informed on all ordinary subjects. Incidentally the theatre was mentioned.
"Have you seen that new piece at the Lyceum?" said Ashton. "It is really a very capital thing."
"No," said George. "I have never been to a theatre."
"Nor I," said Hardy.
"Nor I," said Mrs. Weston.
"Well, that is really very extraordinary," said Ashton; "I thought almost everybody went to a theatre at some time or other. But perhaps you have some objection?"
"I have," said Mrs. Weston. "I think there is a great deal of evil learnt there, and very little good, if any. It is expensive; and it leads into other bad habits."
"Those last objections cannot be gainsaid," said Ashton; "but they equally apply to all amusements, and therefore, by that rule, all amusements are bad."
"But not in an equal degree with that of the theatre," George remarked; "because other amusements do not possess such an infatuation. For my own part, I should not mind going to a concert; but I very much disapprove of the theatre, and should never hesitate to decline going there."
"Yours is not a good argument, George. You have never been to the theatre, you say, and yet you disapprove of it. Are you right in pronouncing such an opinion, which cannot be the result of your own investigation?"
"I think I am," replied George; "I can adopt the opinions of those whom experience has instructed in the matter, and in whom I can rely with implicit confidence. If a man goes through a dangerous track, and falls into a bog, I should be willing to admit the track was dangerous, and avoid the bog, without going in to prove the former traveller was right; and this applies to going to theatres."
"No, George; there is your error. There would be no two opinions about the bog; but suppose you go for a tour to the Pyrenees, and, from prejudice or some other cause, come back disgusted. You warn me not to go, telling me I shall be wasting my time, and find nothing interesting to reward my trouble in the journey. But Hardy goes the same tour, comes home delighted, and says, 'Go to the Pyrenees by all means; it is a glorious place, the most pleasant in the whole world for a tour.' To decide the question, I read two books; one agrees with you, and the other with Hardy. How can I arrive at an opinion unless I go myself, and see what it is like? So it is with the theatre: some say it is the great teacher of morals, others that it is the most wicked and hurtful place. Therefore I think every one should form his own opinion from his own experience."
"You may be right," said George, waveringly. "I am not clear upon the subject; but I do not think, even if I were to form an opinion in the way you prescribe, that I should ever choose the theatre as a place of amusement."
"Then what is your favourite amusement?" asked Ashton.
"To come home and read, or spend a social evening with a friend," George answered.
"Then I know what will suit you all to pieces," said Ashton; "and your friend Hardy too. I am a member of a literary institution. It is a first-rate place—the best in London. There are lectures and classes, and soirées, a debating society, a good library, and rooms for chess-playing and that sort of thing. Now, you really must join it; it will be so very nice for us to have a regular place of meeting; and, besides that, we can combine study with amusement. What do you say, Mrs. Weston?"
"I cannot see any objection to literary institutions," said Mrs. Weston; "but I have always considered them better suited to young men who are away from home, than for those who have comfortable homes in which to spend their evenings. You speak about having a regular place of meeting. I shall always be very pleased to see you and Mr. Hardy here, as often as ever you can manage to spend an evening with us."
"Many thanks for your kindness, Mrs. Weston," returned Ashton; "but it would not be right for us to trespass on your good nature. Now I will give you and your friend a challenge, George," he continued. "Next Monday, the first debate of the season comes off; will you allow me to introduce you to the institution on that evening?—it is a member's privilege."
"I shall be very pleased to join you, then," said George. "What say you, Hardy?"
"I accept the invitation, with thanks," replied Hardy.
On Monday night, as George and Hardy journeyed towards the place of meeting, they discussed the question of joining the institution.
"If you will, I will," said Hardy. "My parents do not much like the idea; but, as you said the other evening, 'we must not allow ourselves to be controlled like mere children.'"
"I do think we really require a little recreation after business hours; and we can obtain none better than that of an intellectual kind, such as is found at literary institutions. The new term has only just commenced; so we may as well be enrolled as members at once."
"I wish the institution was a little nearer home," said Hardy, "for it will be so late of an evening for us to be out. However, we need not always attend, nor is it necessary we should very often be late. Have you had any difficulty in obtaining Mrs. Weston's consent to your joining?"
"None at all; she prefers my attending an institution of this kind to any other, although probably she would be better pleased if I did not join one at all. But, as Ashton says, we really must live up to the times, and know something of what is going on in the world around us. Did you not notice, the other evening, how Ashton could speak upon every subject brought on the carpet? My mother said, 'What a remarkably agreeable young man he is! he has evidently seen a good deal of society;' and I think the two things are inseparable—to be agreeable in society, one must mix more with it."
Ashton was punctual to his appointment; and all were at the institution just as the members were assembling for the debate. George was surprised to find how many of the young men knew Ashton, and he admired the ease and elegance of his friend in acknowledging the greetings which met him on every hand.
"I won't bore you with introductions to-night," he said, "except to just half-a-dozen fellows in particular, who, I am sure, you will like to know; and we can all sit together and compare opinions during the debate."
The friends were accordingly introduced; and as the proceedings of the evening went on, and all waxed warm upon the subject under discussion, the party which Ashton had drawn together soon became known to one another, and were on terms of conversational acquaintance.
The meeting separated at ten o'clock, and then George and Hardy essayed to bid good-night to their friends, and make their way at once towards Islington.
"Nonsense," said Ashton; "I want you to come with me to a nice quiet place I know, close by, and have a bit of supper and a chat over all that has been said, and then I will walk part of the way home with you."
"No, not to-night, Ashton; it is quite late enough already; and it will be past eleven o'clock before we get home as it is."
"What say you, Hardy? Can you persuade our sage old friend to abandon his ten o'clock habits for one night?" asked Ashton.
"I do not like to establish a bad precedent," said Hardy; "and as we have to-night joined the institution, I think we should make a rule to start off home as soon as we leave the meetings, because we have some distance to go, and bad hours, you know, interfere with business."
"I did not expect you to make a rule to keep bad hours," said Ashton;" but every rule has an exception—"
"And therefore it will not do to commence with the exception; so good-bye, till we meet again on Wednesday."
Three nights a-week there was something going on at the institution sufficiently attractive to draw George and Hardy there. One evening a lecture, another the discussion class, and the third an elocution class, or more frequently that was resigned in favour of chess. From meeting the same young men, night after night, a great number of new acquaintanceships were formed, and George would never have spent an evening at home, had he accepted the invitations which were frequently being given him; but he had made a compact with himself, that he would never be out more than three evenings a week, and would devote the remainder to the society of his mother. A certain little voice did sometimes say to him, "Is it quite right and kind of you, George, to leave your mother so often? Do you not think it must be rather lonely for her, sometimes, without you?" And George would answer to the voice, "Mother would never wish to stand between me and my improvement. Besides, she has many friends who visit her, and with whom she visits; and few young men of my age give their mothers more than three evenings of their society a week."
One evening, as George and Hardy were entering the institution, Harry Ashton came up to them, and said,—
"I have just had some tickets sent me for the Adelphi. There is nothing going on here worth staying for, so I shall go. Dixon will make one, and you and Hardy must make up the quartette."
"Dixon going?" asked George; "why, I thought he was such a sedate fellow, and never went to anything of the sort!"
"Neither does he, as a rule; but he has never been to the Adelphi, and he wants to go. Will you accompany us?"
"No, thank you," said George; "I told you once I did not like theatres; perhaps you recollect we discussed the point one evening?"
"We did, and you said you had never been to a theatre: you disapproved of them, without ever having had an opportunity of judging whether they were good or bad places. Now, take the opportunity."
"I am not anxious to form a judgment; and I so dislike all the associations of a theatre that it would be no pleasure for me to go."
"Complimentary, certainly!" laughed Ashton. "But I will grant you this much—there are bad associations connected with the theatres, and this is the stronghold of objectors; but we are four staid sober fellows, we shall go to our box without any bother, sit and see the play without exchanging a word with anybody beyond our own party, and then leave as soon as the performance is over. You had better say you will go, eh?"
"No, it would be very late before I got home," said George: "and I do not like keeping my mother up, more particularly as I was so very late the other evening. But what do you say, Hardy?"
"I don't know what to say," said Hardy. "I did once say to myself I would never go to a theatre; but I am not sure that there is any moral obligation why I should keep my word, when the compact rests only with myself. I have not time to consult Paley, and so I put the question to you—Can I go, seeing I have said to myself I will not?"
"Arrange it in this way," said Ashton; "both of you go, and when you get there, if you decide you have done wrong, then leave at once; or if you find that your consciences are in durance vile, and you have not patience or sufficient interest to stay and see the play out, go, and I will excuse you then with all my heart; but I won't excuse your not going. Now is your time to decide; for here comes Dixon, true to his appointment."
"I suppose you have got your party complete, Ashton?" he said; "and if so, we had better start at once, or the play will have begun before we get there."
George pondered no longer. "Suppose we try it, Hardy, on Ashton's plan," said he; "I don't see any harm in that, do you?"
"No, I think that is the best way in which the case can be put," he replied; "and I don't see that any harm can possibly come of it."
Away went the party, full of high spirits, bent upon amusement. But George felt a certain uneasy something, which tried to make him feel less pleased with himself than usual, and his laugh was at first forced and unnatural; there was not the same joyousness there would have been had he been starting on some recreation which he knew would be approved by parent and friends, and his own conscience. Ashton noticed he did not seem to be quite at ease; and therefore he brought all his humour into play to provoke hilarity. By the time they arrived at the theatre, that love of novelty and excitement which is so natural to young people completely overcame all other feelings, and the sight of the crowds flocking into all parts of the house was now an irresistible temptation to follow in too.
They were shown into a very comfortable box, commanding a good view of the whole of the theatre. The thrilling strains of music issuing from the orchestra, the dazzling lights, and the large assembly of elegantly dressed ladies in the boxes, a mass of people in the pit, and tiers of heads in the galleries, filled George with excitement. He who a little while before had been the dullest of the party, was now the gayest of the gay; he was lost in astonishment at all he saw and heard, dazzled with the brilliancy of the scene, and abandoned to all the enjoyments of the hour.
The performances that evening consisted of a farce, the comedy of the "Serious Family," and a ballet. When the curtain rose, and the farce commenced, George entered heart and soul into the spirit of the performance; laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks at the dilemmas of an unlucky wight who acted a prominent part, and stamped applause in favour of a young lady who tried in every way to defend this unfortunate individual from his persecutors.
When it was over, Ashton turned to George, and said—
"Well, Weston, so much for the farce; now, if you think it is objectionable, off you go, old fellow, and we will forgive you."
"No," said George; "I think that farce was capital, and I shall stay now and see the end. I am not surprised people like the theatre—I never enjoyed a laugh more in my life. But there is one thing I have not liked. That hero of the piece did not scruple to use language for which he would have been kicked out of any respectable private house—and yet there are respectable people here, old and young, all listening and seeming to enjoy it. That shows there is insincerity somewhere; either these people hush their sensitive feelings in the playhouse, or they are hypocrites at home, and profess to be much more refined than they really are."
"You evidently don't understand plays yet," said Ashton; "that man depicts a certain style of life, and he must be true to it. If he enacts the part of a costermonger, he must swear and talk slang, and commit crimes, if need be, or anything suiting the character he assumes; or else the thing would be absurd, and the gentleman and costermonger would be both alike."
"The theatre must be a 'great teacher of morals,' then, if we come here to be initiated into the vices of costermongers," said George, rather sarcastically.
"George," whispered Hardy, "we've got into a mess; look down in the pit—Williams and Lawson are there. They have recognized us, and are nodding—shall we nod?"
"Yes," said George, and he nodded; but his face was red as crimson. "I would not have had Lawson and Williams see us here for the world," he whispered to Hardy; "but it's too late now—as you say, we've got into a mess."
Just then the curtain rose again, and the play of the "Serious Family," commenced.
The plot of the piece is this:—
Mr. Abinadab Sleek and Lady Creamly are two hypocrites, introduced as ordinary specimens of Christians. They are living in the house of their daughter and son-in-law (Mr. and Mrs. Charles Torrens), over whom they exercise a stern and despotic control. Mr. Charles Torrens, "for the sake of peace and quietness," agrees to all the solemnities opposed upon him; and is willing to pass himself off in Christian circles as a co-worker with Mr. Abinadab Sleek. In his heart he detests everything like seriousness; and whenever an opportunity occurs, on the pretext of going into the country, indulges in the gaieties and vices of London fashionable life. He is visited by an old friend, Captain Murphy Maguire, who persuades him to renounce boldly the sanctimonious customs of the "Serious Family," and enjoy with unshackled freedom the pleasures of the world. To this he consents; but he has not courage to alter the family customs. Captain Maguire aids his plans by convincing Mrs. C. Torrens that unless she provides in her home those amusements which are found in the world, her husband will prefer the world to his home. A conspiracy is laid to oppose the religious tyranny of Mr. Abinadab Sleek, the result of which is, that a ball is given by Mr. Torrens, assisted by his wife, who, throwing off her former profession of Christianity, becomes a woman of the world. On all this their future happiness as man and wife is made to hinge; and when, through the flimsy plot of the piece, the tableau arrives, the curtain drops, leaving the younger members of the "Serious Family" whirling in the giddy dance, commencing the new era of domestic happiness.
Throughout the play, Scripture is quoted and ridiculed, religion is made contemptible, and vice under the name of "geniality, openheartedness, and merriment," is made to appear the one thing necessary to constitute real happiness.
George followed the play through all its shifting scenes; now laughed, now sighed, now felt the hot blush of shame as he listened to the atrocious mockery of everything which, from the time he had been an infant on his mother's knee, he had been taught to regard as good and pure. He was heated to indignation when the audience applauded the base character of Maguire, and shuddered when as he thought that a masked hypocrite was brought before the world as the type of a Christian, and that a "Serious Family" was only another name for an unhappy, canting set of ignorant people.
And yet George did not leave the theatre. He was hurt, wounded to the heart by what he saw and heard, felt he would have given the world to have stood up in the box, and have told the audience that the play was a libel upon everything sacred and solemn; but he stayed and saw it out, rivetted by that strange, unholy infatuation which has been the bane of so many.
"Let us go now, Hardy," he said, as the curtain dropped; "you do not care to see the ballet, do you?"
"Oh, in for a penny, in for a pound. While we are here, we may as well see all that is to be seen. I won't ask you how you liked the comedy. I want to see something lively now, to remove the disagreeable impressions it has left upon me."
And so they stayed, delighted with the music, fascinated with the graceful dancing, and dazzled with the scenery. At length the curtain fell, and the evening's performance was over.
"It is only half-past eleven," said Ashton, when they got outside; "now we must just turn in somewhere, and get a bit of supper, and then, I suppose we must separate. There is a first-rate hotel close handy, where I sometimes dine. What do you say?"
"Just the place for us," said Dixon; "because we must limit ourselves to half an hour, and we shall get what we want quickly there."
As they went into the supper-room, George saw, to his vexation, Lawson and Williams, with a party of boon companions, seated round a table at the further end. He instantly drew back; but it was too late, they had recognised him.
"Confound it!" he said to Ashton, "there are some chaps from our office, at the end there. I do not wish to meet them; cannot we go into a private room?"
"Certainly," said Ashton; and the party retreated. "But why do you not wish to meet your fellow clerks?"
"Because they are a low set of fellows with whom I have nothing in common."
When supper was over and the clock had struck twelve, the party separated.
"Good night, old fellow," said Ashton to George. "I am sorry we have not seen quite the sort of play you would have liked; but now you have seen the worst side of the theatre, and next time we go together we will try and see the best; so that between the two extremes you will be able to discriminate and determine what sort of place the theatre is as an amusement."
"Thank you, Ashton, for your share in the entertainment to-night. I will talk to you about the play some other time; but I must say, candidly, I never felt so distressed in my life as I did while that gross insult to all good feeling, 'The Serious Family,' was being performed. If you had said to me what that wretch, Captain Maguire, said in my hearing to-night, I would not have shaken hands with you again as I do now."
An omnibus happened to be passing for the Angel at Islington that moment, and George and Hardy got up.
"What shall we do with regard to Williams and Lawson?" said Hardy. "They have got a victory to-night. I fear our protest against theatres and taverns is over with them for ever now, seeing they have caught us at both places."
"I cannot but regret the circumstance," said George, "but it is nothing to them; they are not our father-confessors, and we are not bound to enter into any particulars with them. The greatest difficulty with me is how to manage when I get home. I don't like deceiving my mother; but I should not like to pain her by saying I have been to the theatre. She knew I started for the institution, and that I might possibly be late; so, unless she asks me where I have been, I don't see that there will be any good in unnecessarily distressing her."
"The disagreeable thing in such a case is," replied Hardy, "if the fact comes out afterwards, itlooksas if a deception had been practised."
George and Hardy had never talked together like this before; and they spoke hesitatingly, as if they hardly liked to hear their own voices joining to discuss a mean, unworthy, dishonourable trick.
O temptation! what an inclined path is thine! How slippery for the feet, and how rapidly the unwary traveller slides along, lower and lower—each step making the attempt to ascend again to high ground more difficult! George had made many dangerous slips that night—would he ever regain his position?
Mrs. Weston was sitting up for George, and pleased was she to hear, at last, his knock at the door.
"Mother, this is too bad of me, keeping you up so late," said George. "I really did not mean to keep bad hours to-night; but I will turn over a new leaf for the future."
"I do not mind sitting up, George, if it is for your good," she answered; "but I fear you will not improve your health by being so late as this. Have you enjoyed your meeting to-night?"
"Pretty well," said George; "but I have been with Ashton, Dixon, and Hardy since."
"Then you have not had supper?"
"Yes, we had supper with Ashton." George got red as he said this. It was the first time he ever remembered wilfully deceiving his mother.
"Oh! that has made you late, then," said Mrs. Weston. "I am afraid Ashton has so many attractions in those apartments of his—what with friends, books, and curiosities—that you find it difficult to break up your social gatherings."
"It is too bad of me to leave you so often, my dear mother; but I don't mean to go to Ashton's again for some time, unless he comes to see us; and so I shall return straight home from the institution for a long while."
When George retired to his room, he felt so distracted with all that had taken place, that his old custom of reading a chapter from God's Word, and kneeling down to pray before getting into bed, was abandoned for that night. He tried to sleep, but could not. The strains of music were yet ringing in his ears, and the dazzling light was still flashing before his eyes. Then the plays came again before him; and he followed the plots throughout, smiling again over some of the jokes, and feeling depressed at the sad parts. Then he thought of Williams and Lawson, and reproached himself for having acted that evening very, very foolishly. Alas! this was not the right term; it was more than foolishness to tamper with the voice of conscience, to violate principles which had been inculcated from childhood, to plot wilful deceit, and act a lie. Instead of saying he had acted foolishly, he should have said, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight Have mercy upon me, O God! Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquities, and cleanse me from my sin; for against Thee, Thee only have I sinned, and done this evil." But George only said, "I am so very vexed I went with Ashton to-night; it was very foolish!—very foolish!"