Books: The Iron Rule
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T.S. Arthur >> The Iron Rule
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The boy went sadly up to his room. It had been a day of severer
trial than usual--of greater wrong and outrage upon him as a child.
For the time his spirit was broken, and he wept bitterly when alone
in his silent chamber, that was to be his prison-house until the
dawn of another day.
"Where is Andrew?" asked Mrs. Howland, as her little family gathered
at the supper table, and she found that one was missing.
"I've sent him up to his room. He can't have anything but bread and
water to-night," replied Mr. Howland, in a grave tone.
"What has the poor child done, now?" inquired the mother, in a
troubled voice.
"He went off to see the soldiers, though he had been expressly
forbidden to leave the house after coming home from school."
"Oh, dear! He's always doing something wrong--what will become of
him?" sighed the mother.
"Heaven only knows! If he escape the gallows in the end, it will be
a mercy. I never saw so young a child with so perverse an
inclination."
"Andrew had no dinner to-day," said Mrs. Howland, after a little
while.
"His own fault," replied the father, "he chose to fast."
"He must be very hungry by this time. Won't you allow him something
more than bread and water?"
"No. If he is hungry, that will taste sweet to him."
Mrs. Howland sighed and remained silent. After supper, she took food
to her boy. A slice of bread and a glass of water were first placed
on a tray, and with these the mother started up stairs. But, ere she
reached the chamber, her heart plead so strongly for the lad, that
she paused, stood musing for a few moments, and then returned to the
dining-room. A few slices of tongue, some biscuit, bread and butter,
and a cup of tea were taken from the table, and with these Mrs.
Howland returned up stairs. Unexpectedly, her husband met her on the
way.
"Who is that for?" he asked, in a voice of surprise, seeing the
articles Mrs. Howland was bearing on the tray.
"It is Andrew's supper," was replied; and as Mrs. Howland said this,
her eyes drooped, abashed beneath the stern and rebuking gaze of her
husband.
"Esther! Is it possible!" exclaimed Mr. Howland. "Didn't I say that
Andrew must have nothing but bread and water for his supper?"
"He has had no dinner," murmured the mother.
"I don't care if he had nothing to eat for a week. I said he should
have only bread and water, and I meant what I said. Esther! I am
surprised at you. Of what avail will be efforts at correction, if
you counteract them in this way?"
Mrs. Howland never contended with her husband. In all expressed
differences of opinion, it was his habit to bear her down with an
imperious will. She was weak, and he was her strong tyrant. Not a
word more did she speak but returned to the dining-room, and
replaced the food she had prepared for Andrew by simple bread and
water.
The feelings of childhood never run for a long time in the same
channel. Very soon after entering his room, Andrew's mind lost its
sad impression, and began to search about for something to satisfy
its restless activity. First he got upon the chairs, and jumped from
one to another. This he continued until his feet passed through the
slender cane-works of one of them. Then he turned somersets on the
bed, until more than a handful of feathers were beaten out and
scattered about the room. Next he climbed up the posts and balanced
himself on the tester, to the no small risk of breaking that slender
frame work, and injuring himself severely by a fall. Soon the
compass of the room became too narrow, and the elevation of the
bed-posts too trifling for his expanding ideas. He went to the
window, and, opening it, looked forth. Here was a new temptation.
The roof of a piazza, built out from a second story, came up to
within a foot of the window-sill. He had often ventured upon this
roof, and he sprung out upon it again without a moment's hesitation
or reflection, and running along, with the lightness of a cat,
gained the roof of the back building, which he ascended to the very
apex, and then placed himself astride thereof. Here he sat for some
minutes looking around him and enjoying the prospect. On the end of
the back building was fastened a strong pole, running up into the
air some ten feet. On the top of this pole was a bird-box, in which
a pair of pigeons had their nest. Two young pigeons had been hatched
out, and now nearly full-fledged and ready to fly, they were
thrusting their glossy heads from the box, and looking about from
their airy height.
A fluttering of wings, as the mother-bird returned with food for her
young ones, attracted the attention of Andrew, and looking up, he
saw the young pigeons. Instantly came a desire to remove them from
their nest. But the way to that nest was too difficult and perilous
for him to think of securing his wish. This was the first
impression. Then he fixed his eye on the nest, and watched the old
bird, as she sat on a ledge that projected from the box, while she
distributed to her younglings the food she had brought. Thus sat the
boy at the moment his mother left the dining-room with the
comfortable supper she had prepared for him, and there she would
have found him in comparative safety, had she not been prevented
from carrying out the kind promptings of her heart.
The longer Andrew gazed at the young birds, the more desirous did he
become to get them in his possession. Over and over again he
measured the height and thickness of the pole with his eyes,
calculating, all the while, his ability to climb it, and the amount
of danger attendant on the adventure.
"I'm sure I could do it," said he, at length rising from the place
where he sat and walking with careful step to the edge of the roof,
at the point above which the pole projected. Grasping the pole
firmly, he first leaned his body over until he could see in a
perpendicular line to the pavement in the yard below, a distance of
more than forty feet. For a moment his head swam, as he looked from
the dizzy height; but he shut his eyes and clung to the pole until
self-possessed again. Then he looked up at the bird-box and reaching
his hands far above his head, grasped the pole firmly and drew his
body a few inches, upward. Clinging tightly with his legs to retain
the slight elevation he had acquired, he moved his hands farther
along the pole, and then drew himself higher up. Thus he progressed
until he had reached a point some five or six feet above the roof,
when his strength became exhausted, and, unable to retain even the
position he had acquired, his body slowly descended the pole,
swinging around to the side opposite the roof. On reaching the
bottom it was as much as he could do to get himself once more in a
position of safety, where he stood for a few moments, until he could
recover himself. He then tried the ascent again. This time he nearly
reached the box, when his strength once more failed him, and he had
to slide down the pole as before. But Andrew was not a lad to give
up easily anything he attempted to do. Difficulties but inspired him
to new efforts, and he once more tried to effect the perilous
ascent, firmly resolved to reach the box at the third trial. In his
eagerness, he became unconscious of all danger, and commenced
clambering up the pole with as much confidence as if it had been
placed on the ground.
Great violence had been done to the feelings of Mrs. Howland by her
husband. His stern rebuke hurt her exceedingly. She did not feel
that she was doing wrong in yielding to the appeals of her heart in
favor of her wayward, ever-offending boy. Her mother's instinct told
her, that he needed kindness, forbearance, and frequent exemption
from punishment; and she felt that it was better for him to have
this, even though in gaining it for him she acted in violation of
her husband's wishes and command--yea, even though her child knew
that such was the case. Sadly was she aware of the fact, that the
father's iron-handed severity had nearly crushed affection out of
the heart of his child; and that all obedience to him was extorted
under fear of punishment. And she well knew that her interference in
his favor, while it could not estrange him from his father more than
he was already estranged, would give her greater influence over him
for good. Such were the conclusions of her mind--not arrived at by
cold ratiocination, but by woman's shorter way of perception. And
she knew that she was right.
Hurt in her own feelings was she, by her husband's harsh, rebuking
words, and sad for the sake of her boy, as she returned to the
dining-room. For some time she remained there, debating with herself
whether she should stealthily convey something more than the bread
and water to Andrew, or take him the meager supply of food his
father had ordered. In the end her feelings triumphed. A large slice
of cake and an apple were placed in her pocket. Then with the bread
and water she went up to her son's chamber.
"Bless me! what a boy!" fell from the lips of Mrs. Howland, as she
pushed open the door and saw the disordered condition of the room.
The chairs were scattered about the apartment, and through the
caning of one of them was a large hole. The wash-bowl and pitcher
were on the floor, and a good deal of water spilled around. The
bed-clothes were nearly all dragged off; and it was plain, from the
feathers scattered about, that Andrew had been amusing himself with
jumping on the bed. Lifting her eyes to the tester, Mrs. Howland saw
nearly a yard of the valance torn away and hanging down.
"Oh, what a boy!" she again murmured. "He seems possessed with a
spirit of mischief and destruction. Andrew!"
She called the lad's name, but there was no answer.
"Andrew! where are you?" The mother looked searchingly about the
room. But she neither saw the boy nor heard his voice. Perceiving
now that the back-window was open, she sprung to it with a sudden
thrill of alarm. The first object that caught her sight, was Andrew
suspended in the air on the pole that supported the pigeon-box. He
was just about reaching the object of his perilous adventure. A wild
scream of terror came from the mother's lips, ere she had time to
think of self-control. The scream, as it pierced suddenly the ears
of Andrew, startled and unnerved him. A quick muscular exhaustion
followed, and ere he could recover from the confusion and weakness
of the moment, his hands were dragged from their hold, and he went
flashing down from the eyes of his mother like the passing of a
lightning gleam. Another scream thrilled on the air, and then Mrs.
Howland sunk swooning to the floor.
Mr. Howland was just stepping into the yard, when his son fell,
crushed by the terrific fall, at his feet.
"Oh, father!" came in a voice of anguish from the yet conscious boy,
as he lifted one hand with a feeble effort toward his parent. Then a
deathly whiteness came ever his face, and he fainted instantly.
On the arrival of a physician it was found that Andrew's left arm
was broken in two places, his left ancle dislocated, and two ribs
fractured. As to the internal injury sustained, no estimate could be
made at the time. He did not recover fully from the state of
insensibility into which he lapsed after the fall, until the work of
setting the broken bones and reducing the dislocation was nearly
over. His first utterance was to ask for his mother. She was not
present, however. Her cries, at seeing the peril and fall of her
child, brought a domestic to the room, who found her lying
insensible upon the floor. Assistance being called, she was removed
to her own chamber, where she remained, apparently lifeless for the
space of half an hour. When she recovered, her husband was pacing
the chamber floor with slow, measured steps, and his eyes cast down.
"Andrew! Is he dead?" were her first words. She spoke in a low
voice, and with forced composure.
Mr. Howland paused, and approached the bed on which lay his pale
exhausted wife, just awakened from her death-like unconsciousness.
"No, Esther. He is not dead," was calmly replied.
"Is he badly hurt"?
The mother held her breath for a reply.
"Yes, badly, I fear," answered Mr. Howland, in the same calm voice.
"Will he live?" almost gasped the mother.
"God only knows," replied Mr. Howland. Then glancing his eyes upward
piously, he added, "If it be His will to remove him, I--"
"Oh, Andrew! don't say that!" quickly exclaimed the mother. "Don't
say that!"
"Yes, Esther, I will say it," returned Mr. Howland, in a steady
voice. "If it be His good pleasure to remove him, I will not murmur.
He will be safer _there_ than here."
"Oh, my poor, poor boy!" sobbed Mrs. Howland. "My poor, poor boy!"
To think that he should come to this? Oh, it was wrong to send him
off as he was sent! to punish him so severely for a little thing.
Heaven knows, he had suffered enough, unjustly, without having this
added!"
"Esther!" exclaimed Mr. Howland, "this from you!"
The distressed mother, in the anguish of her mind, had given
utterance to her feelings, with scarce a thought as to who was her
auditor. The sternly uttered words of her husband subdued her into
silence.
"I did not expect this from you, Esther," continued Mr. Howland,
severely, "and at such a time."
And he stood looking down upon the mother's pale face with a
rebuking expression of countenance. Mrs. Howland endured his gaze
only for a few moments, and then buried her face in the bed-clothes.
Her husband, as his eyes remained fixed upon her form, saw that it
was agitated by slight convulsions, and he knew that she was
striving to suppress the sobs in which her heart was seeking an
utterance. For a little while he stood looking at her, and then
retired, without speaking, from the chamber, and sought the one
where the physician was yet engaged with Andrew. The lad was
insensible when he left him a short time before; now signs of
returning animation were visible.
"Mother!--mother! Where is mother?" he at last said, opening his
eyes, and glancing from face to face of those who were gathered
around him.
"You have nearly killed your mother," replied. Mr. Howland,
expressing, without reflection, the feeling of anger toward the lad
that was still in his heart.
An instant change was visible in the countenance of Andrew; a change
that caused the physician to turn suddenly from his patient and say,
in a low, severe tone--
"Sir! Do you wish to murder your child?"
Mr. Howland felt the rebuke, yet did not his eyes sink for a moment
beneath the steady gaze of the physician, who, after a moment's
reflection, added--
"Pray, sir, don't speak to your child in this way at the present
time. It may be as much as his life is worth. If he have done wrong,
his punishment has been severe enough, Heaven knows! How is his
mother?"
"Better. She has recovered from her faintness," replied Mr. Howland.
The door opened while he was yet speaking, and Mrs. Howland came in,
looking pale and agitated. The physician raised his finger to enjoin
prudence, and then turning to Andrew said, in a cheerful voice,
"Here is your mother, my boy."
Mrs. Howland came quickly to the bedside. As she bent over to kiss
the white-faced sufferer, the child sobbed out--
"Oh mother!--dear mother!"
The mother's frame quivered under the pressure of intense feeling,
and she was on the eve of losing all self-control, when the
physician whispered in her ear.
"Be calm, madam--the life of your child may depend on it!"
Instantly the mother was calm in all that met the eye. Close to her
child she bent, and with a hand laid gently on his clammy forehead,
she spoke to him words of comfort and encouragement, while the
physician proceeded in the work of bandaging his broken and injured
limbs.
As for Mr. Howland, he walked the floor with compressed and silent
lips, until the physician's work was done. He pitied the suffering
boy, yet there was nothing of what he called weakness in his pity.
The idea that Andrew was suffering a just retribution for his wrong
conduct, was distinctly present to his mind. And he even went so far
as to put up a prayer that the pain he was enduring, and must for a
long time endure, might work in him a salutary change--might lead to
his reformation.
In due time the poor boy was made as comfortable as the nature of
his injuries would permit, and quiet and order restored to the
agitated family.
"You see, my son, that punishment always follows evil conduct."
These were the first words spoken by Mr. Howland to his suffering
boy, as soon as he found himself alone with him. And then he
lectured him on disobedience until the poor child grew faint.
CHAPTER V.
THE boy recovered, in due time, from his injuries, but there was no
manifest change in his character, nor was there any relaxing of the
iron hand of authority with which his father sought to hold him back
from evil. It is no matter of wonder that he grew hardened and
reckless as he grew older; nor that, to avoid punishment, he sought
refuge in lying, secretiveness, and deceit.
The other children--there were three beside Andrew--being different
in character, were more easily subdued under the imperious will of
their father, whom they feared more than they loved. Assuming, in
his own mind, that Andrew's will had been permitted to gain strength
ere an effort had been made to control it, Mr. Howland resolved not
to fall into this error in the case of the children who followed;
and, assuredly, he did not. Through the rigors of unfailing
punishment for every act of wrong-doing, they were forced into the
way he would have them go, and though rebellion was often in their
hearts, it was rare, indeed, that it found its way into act, except
when there was the utmost certainty that their misconduct would not
be found out. Thus they learned to act hypocritically toward their
father, and to regard him as one who marred, instead of promoting
their pleasure.
Mr. Howland had one son besides Andrew--one son and two daughters.
Mary was next to Andrew, Edward came next to her, and Martha was the
youngest. Edward resembled his father more than any of the other
children. He was cold and calm in his temperament, and little
inclined to be drawn aside by the restless, vagrant spirits that
were ever luring Andrew from the strict line laid down for him by
his father. Daily perceiving the great value attached by his father
to external propriety of conduct, Edward made a merit of what to him
was easy. This vexed Andrew, who had opportunities for knowing all
about the worth of Edward's apparent excellencies, and he sneeringly
applied to him the epithet of "Saint," which was the cause of his
drawing down upon himself, in more than one instance, the
displeasure of his father. But he had become so used to censure and
reproof, that it had little influence over him. Let him do wrong or
right, he was almost sure to be harshly judged, and he had, by the
time he was sixteen, almost ceased to care what others thought of
his conduct.
Mary, whose age was next to that of Andrew, failed to acquire any
influence over her brother. She had been fretful and peevish as a
child, and he had worried her a great deal, and, in consequence,
received frequent punishment on her account. This tended naturally
to disunite them, and make them cold toward each other. Instead of
Mr. Howland striving, as their mother ever did, to reconcile their
difficulties, and make them friends, he would listen to Mary's
complaints against Andrew, and mark his displeasure by reproof or
punishment. Trifles, that would have been in a little time forgotten
and forgiven, were raised into importance by the stern father, and
sources of unhappiness and enmity created out of the most ordinary,
childish misunderstandings. Thus, in his mistaken efforts to destroy
what was evil in his children, he was only rooting the evils he
would remove more deeply in the groundwork of their minds. Instead
of harmonizing, his actions had the constant effect of disuniting
them. Brotherly love and sisterly affection had small chance for
growth in the family over which he presided.
For all this, out of his family Mr. Howland was highly respected and
esteemed. He had the reputation of being one of the most upright,
just, and humane men in the community; and many wondered that he
should have so bad a son as Andrew, whose reputation abroad was
little better than at home. At school he was almost constantly
involved in quarrels with other boys; and, from the immediate
neighborhood of Mr. Howland, complaints frequently came of his bad
conduct and reckless annoyances toward neighbors. In truth, Andrew
was a bad boy; self-willed and overbearing toward his companions; a
trespasser on the rights and privileges of others; and determinedly
disobedient to his father. But for all this his father was to blame.
While sternly repressing the evil in his child, he had not lovingly
sought to develop the good. While vainly striving to root out the
tares which the enemy had sown, he had injured the tender wheat,
whose green blades were striving to lift themselves to the sunlight.
Alas! how many parents, in their strange blindness, are doing the
same work for their unhappy children.
Amid all the perverseness that marked the character of Andrew; amid
all his hardness and wrong-doing; his attachment to Emily Winters
remained as pure and earnest at sixteen, as when a child he suffered
punishment rather than give up her society. Emily, who was about his
own age, had grown, by this time, into a tall, graceful girl, and
was verging on toward womanhood with a rapidity that made the boy's
heart tremble as he marked the distance which an earlier development
of body was placing between him and the only one, except his mother,
that he had ever loved.
Between the families of Mr. Howland and Mr. Winters there was no
intercourse. Mr. Howland early imbibed a strong prejudice against
Mr. Winters, who did not happen to be a church member, and who, on
that account, was believed by Mr. Howland to be capable of doing
almost any wrong action, if tempted thereto. Certain things done by
Mr. Winters, who was independent in his modes of thinking and
acting, had been misunderstood by Mr. Howland, or judged by one of
his peculiar standards of virtue. From that time he was considered a
bad man; and, although Mrs. Winters, who was a woman beloved by all
that knew her, called upon Mrs. Howland when the family of the
latter came into the neighborhood, Mr. Howland positively forbade a
return of the call. Less obedient to his arbitrary commands did he
find his son. Andrew formed an early friendship for little Emily,
and sought every opportunity, spite of restriction and punishment,
to enjoy her society.
This was continued until the children grew to a size that caused the
parents of Emily to observe the attachment as one far from being
agreeable to them, and to feel (sic) desirons of drawing a line of
separation between their daughter and a boy so notoriously bad as
Andrew Howland. When the children were twelve years old, they felt
bound to take some action in the case, and began by giving Andrew a
gentle hint, one day, to the effect that his visits to their house
were rather too frequent. This was enough for the high-spirited boy.
He left, with a burning spot on his cheek, vowing, in his
indignation, that he would never enter their door again, nor speak
to Emily. But it was much easier to keep the first part of this
promise than the last. As early as the next day he met Emily on his
way to school. She was going to school also, and had much farther
to, walk than himself. To enjoy her society, he went with her all
the way. This made him late, and he was in consequence, kept in by
the teacher, half an hour after his own school was dismissed. But
this punishment did not deter him from repeating the act on the next
day and on the next. From that time he rarely came to school until
ten or fifteen minutes after the session was opened; and, sometimes,
Emily was late also. Reproof and punishment doing no good, the
teacher sent a note to Andrew's father, complaining of his want of
punctuality. A severe reprimand was the consequence. This failing of
the desired effect, the boy was put on bread and water for days at a
time. But complaints from the teacher still arriving, corporeal
punishment was added. No change, however, followed. In the end
Andrew was sent home from school as incorrigible.
"What shall I do with the boy!" was the despairing exclamation of
Mr. Howland, when this event occurred. "Idleness will complete his
ruin, and he is too young to put out."
"I will send him to sea," was the final conclusion of his mind,
after debating the matter for some days, and talking with several
friends on the subject. Mr. Howland was generally in earnest when he
decided a matter, and but little given to change his purposes. And
he was in earnest now. But the moment his intention was announced to
his wife, there came from her an unexpected and vigorous opposition.
"No, Andrew," said she, with an emphasis unusual to her in
addressing her husband, "that must not be."
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