Books: The Iron Rule
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T.S. Arthur >> The Iron Rule
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Here was falsehood added to disobedience! Poor Mrs. Howland turned
her face away to grieve and ponder. She found herself in a narrow
path, and doubtful as to the steps to be taken. She said nothing
more, for she could not see clearly what it was best for her to say;
and she did nothing, for she could not see what it was best for her
to do. But she resolved to be watchful over her boy, lest he should
again be tempted into disobedience.
The mother's watchfulness, however, availed not. Ere night-fall
Andrew was with his little friend again. Unfortunately for him, the
pleasure he derived from her society caused him to forget the
passing of time, and his stolen delight was, in the end, suddenly
dispelled by the stern voice of his father, who passed the door of
Mr. Winters on his way homeward.
Slowly and in fear did the child obey the angry command to return
home. He knew that he would be punished with great severity, and he
was not mistaken. He was so punished. But did this avail anything?
No! On the next day he asked his mother to let him sit at the front
door.
"I'm afraid you'll go into Mr. Winters," said Mrs. Howland, in
reply.
"Oh, no; indeed I won't, mother," was the ready answer.
"If you disobey me, I can't let you go to the door again."
"Oh, I won't disobey you," replied the child.
"Very well, Andrew, I'll trust you. Now, don't deceive me."
The child promised over and over again, and Mrs. Howland trusted
him. Ten minutes afterward she looked out, but he (sic) wasnowhere
to be seen. A domestic was sent to the house of Mr. Winters, where
Andrew was found, as happy as a child could be, playing with his
little friend Emily. On being reproved by his mother for this act of
disobedience, he looked earnestly in her face and said--
"You won't tell father, will you? He'll whip me so, and I don't like
to be whipped."
"But why did you go in there?" said Mrs. Howland. "Haven't we
forbidden you? And didn't you promise me that if I'd let you go to
the front door, you would stay there?"
"I couldn't help it, mother," replied Andrew.
"Oh, yes, you could."
"Indeed I couldn't, mother. I saw Emily, and then I couldn't help
it."
There was an expression in the child's voice as he said this, that
thrilled the feelings of his mother. She felt that he spoke only the
simple truth--that he could not help doing as he had done.
"But Andrew must help it," she was constrained to reply. "Mother
can't let him go to the front door again."
"You won't tell father, will you?" urged the child, lifting,
earnestly, his large, bright, innocent eyes to his mother's face.
"Say, you won't tell him?"
Grieved, perplexed, and troubled, Mrs. Howland knew not what to say,
nor how to act.
"Dear mother!" urged the boy, "you won't tell father? Say you
won't?" And tears began to glisten beneath his eyelids.
"Andrew has been disobedient," said the mother, trying to assume an
offended tone. "Will he be so anymore?"
"If you won't tell father, I'll be good."
The mother sighed, and fixed her gaze musingly on the floor. Her
thoughts were still more confused, and her mind in still greater
perplexity. Ah, if she only knew what was right!
"I will not tell your father this time," she at length said, "but
don't ask me, if you are again disobedient."
But of what avail was the child's promises. He had strong feelings,
a strong will, and, though so very young, much endurance. A law, at
variance almost with a law of his nature, had been arbitrarily
enacted, and he could not obey it. As well might his father have
shut him up, hungry, in a room filled with tempting food, and
commanded him not to touch or taste it. Had an allegation of evil
conduct been brought against Emily Winters; had any right reason for
the interdiction been given, then Mr. Howland might have had some
power over the strong will and stronger inclinations of the child.
But into the mind of Andrew, young as he was, came a sense of
injustice and wrong on the part of his father, and there was no
willingness, from filial duty, to yield obedience in a case where
every feeling of his heart was at variance with the command.
The struggle so early commenced between the father and his child,
was an unceasing one. The will of Andrew, which by other treatment
might have been bent to obedience, gained a vigor like the young oak
amid storms, in the strife and reaction of his daily life. Instead
of drawing his child to him, there was ever about Mr. Howland a
sphere of repulsion. Andrew was always doing something to offend his
father; and his father was in consequence always offended. A kind
word from paternal lips rarely touched the ears of the boy, and, but
for the love of his gentle mother, home would have been almost
intolerable. Steadily, against all opposition, chidings, and
punishment, Andrew would seek the company of his little friend Emily
on every convenient occasion. To avoid the consequences he would
practice deception, and utter direct falsehood without compunction
or hesitation. At last, after a struggle of two years, even the
father became wearied and discouraged at the perseverance of his
child; and there came a suggestion to his mind, that probably, to
continue as he had been going on for so long a time, would do more
harm than good. It requires no little self-denial for a man like
Andrew Howland to yield in such a contention, and let the will of
his child remain unbroken. But, after a long debate with himself,
his better conviction triumphed over prejudice and the tenacity of a
mind fixed in its own opinions. He ceased to command obedience in
the case of Emily Winters, and therefore ceased to punish Andrew on
her account. Nevertheless, he rarely saw him in her company that the
displeasure he felt was not manifested by a frown, or some word that
smote painfully upon the ear of his child.
Possessing an active, independent mind, Andrew failed not to excite
the displeasure of his father in many ways. In fact he was always in
disgrace from some cause or other and the subject of angry reproof,
harsh judgment, or direct punishment. Often his conduct needed
reproof and even punishment; but he was the victim of such frequent
wrong judgment and unjust reproof and punishment, that by the time
he was eleven years of age, he looked upon his father more as a
persecuting tyrant than a kind parent, who sincerely desired his
good. An instance of wrong judgment and unjust punishment we will
here give.
As Andrew grew older and formed school boy associations, his
impulsive and rather reckless character brought him frequently into
collision with his companions, and he gained a reputation which was
by no means good. Every now and then some one would complain to Mr.
Howland of his bad conduct, when he, taking all for granted, would,
without investigation, visit the offence with severe punishment.
One day, when in his twelfth year, as Andrew was at play during a
recess in the school hour, a boy larger than himself made an angry
attack upon a lad much below him in size, and was abusing him
severely, when Andrew, acting from a brave and generous impulse, ran
to the rescue of the smaller boy, and, in a sudden onset, freed him
from the hands of his assailant. Maddened at this interference. the
larger boy turned fiercely upon him. But Andrew was active, and kept
out of his way. Still the larger boy pursued him, using all the
while the most violent threats. At length finding that he was likely
to be caught and get roughly handled, Andrew took up a stone, and
drawing back his hand, warned the boy not to approach. He continued
to approach, however, vowing, as he did so, that he would beat the
life half out of him. True to his word, and in self-defence, Andrew
threw the stone, which struck the boy full on the forehead and
knocked him down. For some minutes he lay stunned and
half-insensible. Frightened at the consequences of his act, Andrew
sprung to the side of the fallen lad and tried to raise him up.
Failing in this he ran for the teacher, who was in the school-room.
A little cold water thrown into the boy's face revived him, when he
went home to his parents. The teacher made careful inquiries into
the matter, which satisfied him that Andrew was not very greatly to
blame.
A short time after this occurrence, a gentleman entered the store of
Andrew's father, and said, with much excitement of manner,
"Mr. Howland! I've come to make complaint against that boy of
yours."
"Against Andrew?"
"Yes, sir. He's nearly killed my son!"
"Bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Howland, in a distressed voice. "What has
happened? How did he do it?"
"Why, sir! without the slightest provocation, he took up a large
stone and struck my boy with it on the forehead, knocking him down
senseless. I have had to send for the doctor. It may cost him his
life."
"Oh dear! dear! What will become of that boy?" exclaimed Mr.
Howland, wringing his hands, and moving up and down the floor
uneasily. "Knocked him down with a stone, you say?"
"Yes sir And that without any (sic) provoeation. I can't stand this.
I must, at least, protect the lives of my children. Every week I
have had some complaint against your son; (sic) bnt I didn't wish to
have a difficulty, and so said nothing about it. But this is going a
little too far. He must have a dreadful temper."
"There is something very perverse about him," remarked Mr. Howland,
sadly. "Ah, me! What am I to do?"
"There may have been some slight provocation," said the man, a
little modified by the manner in which his complaint was received,
and departing from his first assertion.
"Nothing to justify an assault like this," replied Mr. Howland with
promptness. "Nothing! Nothing! The boy will be the death of me."
"Caution him, if you please, Mr. Howland, against a repetition of
such dangerous conduct. The result might be deplorable."
"I will do something more than caution him, you may be sure," was
answered, and, as he spoke, the lips of Mr. Howland were drawn
tightly across his teeth.
The man went away, and Mr. Howland dispatched a messenger to the
school for Andrew immediately, and then started for home. He had
been there only a little while, when the boy came in with a
frightened look. To his father's eyes conscious guilt was in his
countenance.
"Go up stairs, sir!" was the stern salutation that met the lad's
ears.
"Father, I--"
"Silence, sir! Don't let me hear a word out of your head!"
The boy shrunk away and went up to his own room in the third story,
whither his angry father immediately followed him.
"Now, sir, take off your jacket!" said Mr. Howland who had a long,
thick rattan in his hand.
"Indeed father," pleaded the child, "I wasn't to blame. Bill
Wilkins--"
"Silence, sir! I want none of your lying excuses! I know you! I've
talked to you often enough about quarreling and throwing stones."
"But, father--"
"Off with your jacket, this instant! Do (sic) your hear me?
"Oh, father! Let me speak! I couldn't--"
"Not a word, I say! I know all about it!" silenced the pleading boy.
His case was prejudged, and he was now in the hands of the
executioner. Slowly, and with trembling hands, the poor child
removed his outer garment, his pale face growing paler every moment,
and then submitting himself to the cruel rod that checkered his back
with smarting welts. Under a sense of wrong, his proud spirit
refused to his body a single cry of pain. Manfully he bore his
unjust chastisement, while every stroke obliterated some yet
remaining emotion of respect and love for his father, who, satisfied
at length with strokes and upbraiding, threw the boy from him with
the cutting words--
"I shall yet have to disown you!" and turning away left the
apartment.
CHAPTER III.
WHILE Mr. Howland yet paced the floor in a perturbed state of mind,
after the severe flogging he had given to Andrew, and while he
meditated some further and long-continued punishment for the
offences which had been committed, a servant handed him a note. It
was from Andrew's teacher, and was to this effect--
"From careful inquiry, I am entirely satisfied that your son, when
he threw the stone at William Wilkins, was acting in self-defence,
and, therefore, is blameless. Wilkins is a quarrelsome, overbearing
lad, and was abusing a smaller boy, when your son interfered to
protect the latter. This drew upon him the anger of Wilkins, who
would have beaten him severely if he had not protected himself in
the way he did. Before throwing the stone, I learn that Andrew made
every effort to get away; failing in this, he warned the other not
to come near him. This warning being disregarded, he used the only
means of self-protection left to him. I say this in justice to your
son, and to save him from your displeasure. As for Wilkins, I do not
intend to receive him back into my school."
For a long time Mr. Howland remained seated in the chair he had
taken on receiving the teacher's note. His reflections were far from
being agreeable. He had been both unjust and cruel to his child. But
for him to make an acknowledgment of the fact was out of the
question. This would be too humiliating. This would be a triumph for
the perverse boy, and a weakening of his authority over him. He had
done wrong in not listening to his child's explanation; in not
waiting until he had heard both sides. But, now that the wrong was
done, the fact that he was conscious of having done wrong must not
appear. In various ways he sought to justify his conduct. At length
he said, half aloud--
"No matter. He deserved it for something else, and has received only
his deserts. Let him behave himself properly, and he'll never be the
subject of unjust censure."
It was thus that the cold-hearted father settled, with his own
conscience, this question of wrong toward his child. And yet he was
a man who prayed in his family, and regularly, with pious
observance, attended upon the ordinances of the church. In society
he was esteemed as a just and righteous man; in the church as one
who lived near to heaven. As for himself, he believed that severity
toward his boy, and intolerance of all the weaknesses, errors, and
wayward tendencies of childhood, were absolutely needed for the due
correction of evil impulses. Alas! that he, like too many of his
class, permitted anger toward his children's faults to blind his
better judgment, and to stifle the genuine appeals of nature.
Instead of tenderness, forbearance, and a loving effort to lead them
in right paths, and make those paths pleasant to their feet, he
sternly sought to force them in the way he wished them to go. With
what little success, in the case of Andrew, is already apparent.
Angry at the unjust punishment he had received, the boy remained
alone in his room until summoned to dinner.
"He doesn't want anything to eat," said the servant, returning to
the dining-room where the family were assembled at the table.
"Oh, very well," remarked the father, in a tone of indifference,
"fasting will do him good."
"Go up, Anna," said Mr. Howland to the servant "and tell him that I
want him to come down."
That word would have been effectual, for Andrew loved his mother;
but Mr. Howland remarked instantly:
"No, no! Let him, remain. I never humor states of perverseness. If
he wishes to fast he can be gratified."
Mrs. Howland said no more, but she took only a few mouthfuls of food
while she sat at the table. Her appetite was gone. After dinner she
went up to Andrew's room with a saucer of peaches and cream. The
moment she opened the door the lad sprung toward her, and while
tears gushed from his eyes, he said--
"Indeed, indeed, mother, I was not to blame! Bill Wilkins was going
to beat me--and you know, he's a large boy."
"But you might have killed him, Andrew," replied the mother, with a
gentle gravity that, in love, conveyed reproof. "It is dangerous to
throw stones."
"I had to defend myself, mother. I couldn't let him beat me half to
death. And I told him to keep off or I would strike him with the
stone. I'm sure I wasn't to blame."
"Why, was he going to beat you, Andrew? What did you do to him?"
asked Mrs. Howland.
"I'll tell you, mother," replied the boy. "He was pounding with his
fist a poor little fellow, not half his size, and I couldn't stand
and see it if he was a bigger boy than me. So I took the little
boy's part; and then he turned on me and said he'd beat the life out
of me. I ran from him and tried to get away, but he could run the
fastest, and so I took up a stone and told him to keep off. But he
was mad, and wouldn't keep off. So I struck him with it, and,
mother, I'd do it again (sic) to-moorow. No boy shall beat me if I
can defend myself."
"Why didn't you tell your father of this?" asked Mrs. Howland.
"I tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen to me," said the lad,
with ill-concealed indignation in his voice. "And he never will
listen to me, mother. He believes every word that is said against
me, and flogs me whether I am guilty or not. I'm sure he hates me!"
"Hush! hush my boy! don't say that. Don't speak so of your father."
"Well, I'm sure he don't love me," persisted Andrew.
"Oh, yes, he does love you. He only dislikes what is wrong in you.
My son must try to be a good boy."
"I do try, mother; I try almost every day. But somehow I do wrong
things without thinking. I'm always sorry at first; sorry until
father begins to scold or whip me, and then I don't seem to care
anything about it. Oh, dear! I wish father wasn't always so cross!"
While Andrew thus talked, his tears had ceased to flow; but now they
gushed over his cheeks again, and he leaned his face upon his
mother's bosom. Mrs. Howland drew her arms closely around her
unhappy boy, while her own eyes became wet. For many minutes there
was silence. At last she said, in a kind, earnest voice--
"I've brought you a nice saucer of peaches and cream, Andrew."
"I don't want them, mother," replied the lad.
"You'll be hungry before night, dear. It's nearly school-time now,
and you'll get nothing to eat until you come home again."
"I don't feel at all hungry, mother."
"Just eat them for my sake," urged Mrs. Howland.
Without a word more Andrew took the saucer.
"Ain't they nice?" asked Mrs. Howland, as she saw that her boy
relished the fruit and cream.
"Yes, dear mother! they are very good," replied Andrew; "and you are
good, too. Indeed I love you, mother!"
The last sentence was uttered with visible emotion.
"Then, for my sake, try and do right, Andrew," said Mrs. Howland,
tenderly.
"I will try, mother," returned the boy. "I do try often; but I
forget myself a great many times."
Soon after Andrew started for school. On arriving, his teacher
called him up and said--
"Did your father get my note?"
"I don't know, sir," replied Andrew.
"What did he say to you?"
The boy's eyes sunk to the floor and he remained silent.
"I sent your father a note immediately," said the teacher, "telling
him that you were not to blame."
Andrew looked up quickly into his teacher's face, while a shadow
fell upon his countenance.
"You don't know whether he received it?"
"No sir."
The teacher called up another lad, and inquired if he had delivered
the note given him at the dwelling of Mr. Howland, as directed. The
boy replied that he had done so.
"Very, well. You can take your seat."
Then turning to Andrew, the teacher said--
"Was it about William Wilkins that your father sent for you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You told him how it was?"
The boy was silent.
"He didn't punish you, surely?"
Tears trembled on the closing lashes of the injured child; but he
answered nothing. The teacher saw how it was, and questioned him no
farther. From that time he was kinder toward his wayward and, too
often, offending scholar, and gained a better influence over him.
Not for a moment, during the afternoon, was the thought that his
father knew of his blamelessness absent from Andrew's mind. And,
when he returned home, his heart beat feverishly in anticipation of
the meeting between him and his parent. He felt sure that the
teacher's note had reached his father after the punishment had been
inflicted; and he expected, from an innate sense of right and
justice, that some acknowledgment, grateful to his injured feelings,
of the wrong he had suffered, would be made. There was no thought of
triumph or reaction against his father. He had been wrongly judged,
and cruelly punished; and all he asked for or desired was that his
father should speak kindly to him, and say that he bad been blamed
without a cause. How many a dark shadow would such a gleam of
sunshine have dispelled from his heart. But no such gleam of light
awaited his meeting with his father, who did not even raise his eyes
to look at him as he came into his presence.
For awhile Andrew lingered in the room where his father sat reading,
hoping for a word that would indicate a kinder state of feeling
toward him. But no such word was uttered. At length he commenced
playing with a younger brother, who, not being able to make him do
just as he wished, screamed out some complaint against him, when Mr.
Howland looked up, suddenly, with a lowering countenance, and said,
harshly--
"Go out of the room, sir! I never saw such a boy! No one can have
any peace where you are!"
Andrew started, and made an effort to explain and excuse himself,
for he was very anxious not to be misunderstood again just at this
time. But his father exclaimed, more severely than at first.
"Do you hear me, sir! Leave this room instantly!"
The boy went out hopeless. He felt that he was unloved by his
father. Oh! what would he not have given--what sacrifice would he
not have made--to secure a word and a smile of affection from his
stern parent, whom he had known from childhood only as one who
reproved and punished.
CHAPTER IV.
WRONGED and repelled, Andrew left the presence of his father, sad,
hopeless, yet with a sense of indignation in his heart against that
father for the wrong he had suffered at his hands.
"It's no use for me to try to do right," he (sic) mnrmured to
himself. "If I want to be good, they won't let me."
As these thoughts passed through his mind, a feeling of recklessness
came over him, and he said aloud--
"I don't care what I do!"
"Don't you, indeed?"
The voice that uttered this sentence caused him to start. It was the
voice of his father, who had left his room soon after the expulsion
of Andrew, and was at the moment passing near, unobserved by the
boy.
"Don't care what you do, ha!" repeated Mr. Howland, standing in
front of the lad, and looking him sternly in the face. "You've
spoken the truth for once!"
For nearly a minute Mr. Howland stood with contracted brows,
scowling upon the half-frightened child. He then walked away, deeply
troubled and perplexed in his mind.
"What is to become of this boy?" he said to himself. "He really
seems to be one of those whom Satan designs to have, that he might
sift them as wheat. I sadly fear that he is given over to a hard
heart, and a perverse mind--one predestinated, to evil from his
birth. Ah me! Have I not done, and am I not still doing everything
to restrain him and save him! But precept, admonition, and
punishment, all seem, thrown away. Even my daily prayers for him
remain unanswered. They rise no higher than my head. What more can I
do than I am now doing? I have tried in every way to break his
stubborn will, but all is of no avail."
While Mr. Howland mused thus, Andrew, oppressed by the sphere of his
father's house, was passing out at the street door, although
expressly forbidden to go away from home after his return from
school. For some time he stood leaning against the railing, with a
pressure of unhappiness on his heart. While standing thus, a lad who
was passing by said to him--
"Come, Andy! there's a company of soldiers around in the Square.
Hark! Don't you hear the music? Come! I'm going."
This was a strong temptation, for Andrew loved music and was fond of
sight-seeing. It would be useless, he knew, to ask the permission of
his father, who usually said "No," to almost every request for a
little liberty or privilege. Especially at the present moment would
(sic) be request of this kind be useless.
"Come, Andy! come!" urged the boy, for Andrew, restraining the first
impulse to bound away at the word soldiers, was debating the
question whether to go or not.
Just then the air thrilled with a wave of music, and Andrew, unable
longer to control himself, sprung away with his companion. For half
an hour he enjoyed the music and military evolutions, and then
returned home.
"Where have you been, sir?" was the sharp question that greeted him
as he came in.
"Around in the Square, to see the soldiers," replied Andrew.
"Who gave you permission to go?"
"No one, sir. I heard the music, and thought I'd just go and look at
them a little while. I've not been doing anything wrong, sir."
"Wrong! Isn't disobedience wrong? Haven't I forbidden you, over and
over again, to leave the house after school without my permission?
Say! You don't care what you do! That's it! Go off up stairs with
you, to your own room, and you'll get nothing but bread and water
until to-morrow morning! I'll teach you to mind what I say!"
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