Books: The Iron Rule
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T.S. Arthur >> The Iron Rule
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A loud knocking on the street door was now heard. By this time, a
servant who had retired came down from her room and was moving along
the passage, when Mr. Howland intercepted her, with the question--
"Where are you going?"
"Some one rung the bell," replied the servant.
"Never mind; go back to your room. You needn't open the door."
"Andrew isn't in yet," said the servant, respectfully.
"Didn't I say, go back to your room?" returned Mr. Howland, in a
sharp voice.
Twice more the bell was rung, and twice more the knocking was
repeated. Then all remained silent.
"Come, Esther!" said Mr. Howland to his wife, who was sitting on a
sofa, with her face buried in her hands. "Let us go up stairs. It is
late."
The mother did not stir.
"Esther! did you hear me?"
Slowly, more like a moving automaton than a living creature, did
Mrs. Howland arise from her place, and follow her husband up to
their chamber. There, without uttering a word, she partially
disrobed herself, and getting into bed, buried her tearful face in a
pillow. Mr. Howland was soon by her side. Both lay without moving
for nearly half an hour, and then the heavy respiration of the
husband told that he was asleep. The moment this was apparent, Mrs.
Howland, who had lain as still as if locked in deep slumber, crept
softly from the bed, and then, with a quick, eager motion, commenced
putting on a wrapper. This done, she drew a pair of slippers on her
feet, glided noiselessly from the room, and hurried down to the
street door, which she softly opened.
The mother had hoped to find her erring son still there. But, as she
looked anxiously forth into the darkness, no human form was
perceived.
"Andrew!" she called, in a low voice, as she stepped from the door,
and threw her eyes up and down the street: "Andrew!"
But all was silent. Descending to the pavement, she passed along a
few yards to the steps of the next house, a faint hope in her mind
that Andrew might have seated himself there in his disappointment
and fallen asleep. But this hope was not realized. Then she passed
on to the next house, and the next, with the same purpose and the
same result. She was near the corner of the street, when the sound
of a closing door fell upon her ear, and the thought that the wind
might have shut her own door upon her, filled her with sudden alarm.
Running back, she found that what she had feared was too true. She
was alone in the street, half-dressed and with her head uncovered,
and the door, which closed with a dead-latch, shut against her.
To ring the bell was Mrs. Howland's first impulse. But no one
answered to the summons. Every ear was sealed in slumber, and, even
were that not the case, no one would come down, unless her husband
should awaken, and discover that she was not by his side. Again and
again she pulled the bell. But eagerly though she listened, with her
ear to the door, not the slightest movement was heard within.
While the mother shrunk close to the door in a listening attitude,
the sound of a slow, heavy step was heard approaching along the
street. Soon the form of a man came in view, and in a little while
he was in front of Mrs. Howland, where he paused, and after standing
and looking at her for a few moments, said,
"What's the matter here?"
Mrs. Howland trembled so, that she could make no answer.
The man put his hand on the iron railing, and lifted one foot upon
the stone steps leading to the door of the house, saying as he did
so,
"Do you live here?"
"Yes!" was replied in a low, frightened voice.
Mrs. Howland now looking at the man more closely, perceived, by his
dress, that he was one of the night policemen, and her heart took
instant courage.
"Oh," said she, forgetting, for the moment, the unpleasant
circumstances by which she was surrounded, and turning to the man as
she spoke, "have you seen anything of my son--of Mr. Howland's
son--about here to-night?"
"Mrs. Howland! Is it possible!" replied the man, in a respectful
voice. Then he added, "I saw him go down the street about half an
hour ago."
"Did you! And do you know where he has gone?"
"No, ma'am. He passed on out of sight."
A low moan escaped the mother's lips at this intelligence. A few
moments she stood silent, and then placed her hand upon the
bell-pull and rung for admittance.
"Is the door locked?" asked the watchman, manifesting surprise.
"No; the wind blew it to, and it has become fastened with the
dead-latch."
Both stood silent for some time, but no one answered the bell. The
night dews were falling upon the mother's head, and the night air
penetrating her thin garments. A shiver ran through her frame, and
she felt a constriction of the chest as if she had inhaled sulphur.
Again she rung the bell.
"Does no one know of your being out?" asked the watchman.
"All are asleep in the house," replied Mrs. Howland.
At this the watchman came up the steps, and struck two or three
heavy blows upon the door with his mace, the sound of which went
reverberating through the house, and startling Mr. Howland from his
slumber. But not perceiving immediately that his wife was absent
from her place by his side, and thinking that his son had renewed
his efforts to gain admission, the latter did not make a motion to
rise. In a few moments, however, the repeated strokes of the mace,
to which was added the loud call of a man in the street below caused
him to start up in bed. He then perceived that his wife was not by
his side. With an exclamation, he sprang upon the floor, and
throwing up the window, called out--
"Who's there?"
"Come down and open the door," was answered by the watchman.
"Who wants to come in?" asked Mr. Howland, his mind beginning by
this time to get a little clear from the confusion into which it was
at first thrown.
"I do," replied a voice that threw all into bewilderment again.
"Bless me! What does this mean!" exclaimed Mr. Howland, aloud, yet
speaking to himself.
"Open the door, quickly," called out Mrs. Howland, in a tone of
distress. "Come down and let me in."
Hurriedly Mr. Howland now dressed himself and went down. As he
opened the door, his wife glided past him, and ran up stairs. The
watchman retired without speaking to the confused and astonished
husband, who, recovering his presence of mind, reclosed the door and
followed his wife to their chamber.
"Esther! What is the meaning of all this?" asked Mr. Howland, with
much severity of manner.
But there was no reply.
"Will you speak?" said he, in a tone of authority.
The home-tyrant had gone a step too far. The meek, patient,
long-suffering, much enduring wife, was in no state of mind to bear
further encroachments in the direction from which they were now
coming. Suddenly she raised herself up from whence she had fallen
across the bed, and looking at her husband with an expression that
caused him to step back a pace, involuntarily answered.
"By what authority do you speak to me thus?"
"By the authority vested in me as your husband," was promptly
answered.
"I was on God's errand, Mr. Howland; searching after the weak, the
simple, and the erring! Have you anything to say against the
mission? Does your authority reach above His?"
And the mother, lifting her hand, pointed trembling finger upward,
while she fixed an eye upon her husband so steady that his own sunk
beneath its gaze.
For the space of nearly a minute, the attitude of neither changed,
nor was the silence broken. Twice during the time did Mr. Howland
lift his eyes to those of his wife, and each time did they fall,
after a few moments, under the strange half-defiant look they
encountered. At last he said firmly, yet in a more subdued, though
rebuking voice,
"This to me, Esther?"
"Am I not a mother?" was asked in response to this, yet without a
perceptible tremor in her voice.
"You are a wife, as well as a mother," replied Mr. Howland, "and, as
a wife, are under a sacred obligation to regard the authority
committed to your husband by God."
"Have I not just said to you," returned Mrs. Howland, "that I was on
God's errand? Does your authority go beyond His?"
"When did He speak to you?" There was a covert sneer in the tone
with which this half impious interrogation was made.
"I heard his still, small voice in my mother's heart," replied Mrs.
Howland, meekly, "and I went forth obedient thereto, to seek the
straying child you had so harshly and erringly turned from your
door: thus does God shut the door of Heaven against no wandering one
who comes to it and knocks for entrance."
"Esther! I will not hear such language from your lips!" There was an
unsteadiness in the voice of Mr. Howland, that marked the effect his
wife's unexpected and searching words had produced.
"Then do not seek to stand between me and my duty as a mother," was
her firm reply. "Too long, already, have you placed yourself between
me and this duty. But that time is past."
As Mrs. Howland uttered these words, she passed across the room to a
window, which she threw up, and leaning her body out, looked
earnestly up and down the street. For a reaction like this Mr.
Howland was not prepared. He was, in fact, utterly confounded. Had
there been the smallest sign of irresolution on the part of his
wife--the nearest appearance of weakness in the will so suddenly
opposed to his own--he would have known what to do. But nothing of
this was apparent, and he hesitated about advancing again to the
contest, while there was so strong a doubt as to the issue.
For a long time Mr. Howland moved about the room, while his wife
continued to sit, listening, at the window.
"Come, Esther," said the former, at length, in a voice greatly
changed from its tone when he last spoke. "You had better retire. It
is useless to remain there. Besides, you are in danger of taking
cold. The air is damp and chilly."
"You can retire--I shall sleep none, to-night," was answered to
this. And then Mrs. Howland looked again from the window.
"Where--where can he have gone?" she said aloud, though speaking to
herself. "My poor, unhappy boy!"
Mr. Howland made no answer to this. He had no satisfying
intelligence to offer, nor any words of comfort that it would be of
avail to speak.
Thus the greater portion of that long remembered night was
passed--Mrs. Howland sitting at the window, vainly waiting and
watching for her son, and Mr. Howland walking the floor of the room,
his mind given up to troubled and rebuking thoughts. In his hardness
and self-will he had justified himself up to this in his course of
conduct pursued toward his children; but he was in doubt now. A
question as to whether he had been right or not had come into his
mind, and disturbed him to the very centre.
CHAPTER VIII.
WHEN Mr. Howland threatened his son with exclusion from the house,
if he were away at ten o'clock, Andrew's feelings were in a state of
reaction against his father, and he said to himself, in a rebellious
spirit--
"We'll see if you will."
But after growing cooler, he came into a better state of mind; and,
in view of consequences such as he knew would be visited on him,
decided not to come in contact with his father in this
particular--at least not for the present. If turned from his own
door at midnight, where was he to find shelter? This question he
could not answer to his own satisfaction.
After supper, on the evening succeeding that in which he had visited
the theatre, Andrew left home and went to an engine-house. in the
neighborhood, where he joined about a dozen lads and young men as
idle and aimless as himself. With these he spent an hour or two,
entering into their vicious and debasing conversation, when a person
with whom he had gone to see the play on the previous evening,
proposed to him to go around to the theatre again. Andrew objected
that he had no money, but the other said that he could easily
procure checks, and volunteered to ask for them. Still Andrew, whose
thoughts were on the passing time, refused to go. He meant to be
home before the clock struck ten.
"Come round with me, then," urged the lad.
"What time is it?" asked Andrew.
"Only a little after nine o'clock," was replied.
"Are you certain?"
"Oh, yes. I heard the clock strike a short time ago. It isn't more
than a quarter past nine."
"I thought it was later than that."
"No. It's early yet; so, come along. I want to talk to you."
Thus urged, Andrew went with the boy. The theatre was some distance
away. Just as they reached it, a clock was heard to strike.
"Bless me!" exclaimed Andrew.
Three--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--TEN!" And, as he uttered
the last word, he started back the way he had come, running at full
speed. It was ten o'clock--the hour he was required to be at home,
under penalty of having the door closed against him. How troubled he
felt! How strongly his heart beat! He had not intended to disregard
his father's command in this instance. In fact, during the day, he
had reflected more than usual, and many good resolutions had formed
themselves in his mind.
"I wish I could be better," he said to himself involuntarily, a
great many times. And then he would sigh as he thought of the
difficulties that were in his way. At dinner time he came to the
table with his feelings a good deal subdued. But it so happened,
that, during the morning, Mr. Howland had heard of some impropriety
of which he had been guilty a month previous, and felt called upon
to reprimand him, therefore, with considerable harshness. The
consequence was, that the boy left the table without finishing his
dinner, at which his father became very much incensed. The angry
feelings of the latter had not subsided when tea-time came, and he
met the family at their evening meal with the clouded face he too
often wore. The supper hour passed in silence. After leaving the
table, Andrew, to whom the sphere of the house was really
oppressive, from its entire want of cheerfulness and mutual good
feeling, went out to seek the companionship of those who were more
congenial.
"There's nothing pleasant here," he said, as he stood in the door,
half disposed to leave the house. "If there only was! But I won't
think of it!" he added with impulsive quickness; and, as he murmured
these words, he descended the steps to the street, and walked slowly
away.
Thus, it will be seen, the wayward boy was virtually driven out by
the harshness and want of sympathy which prevailed at home, to seek
the society of those who presented a more attractive exterior, but
who were walking in the paths of evil, and whose steps tended to
destruction.
But, though thus thrust out, as it were, from the circle of safety,
Andrew still preserved his intention of being at home at the hour
beyond which his father had warned him not to be away. It has been
seen how, through an error as to time, he was betrayed into
unintentional transgression. Not an instant did he pause on his
return from the theatre, but ran all the way homeward at a rapid
speed. Arriving at the door, he pulled the bell, and then stood
panting from excitement. For a short time he waited, in trembling
anxiety, but no one answered his summons. Then he rung the bell more
violently than before. Still none came to let him in, and his heart
began to fail him.
"Surely father don't mean to keep me out!" said he to himself. "He
wouldn't do that. Where am I to go for shelter at this hour?"
And again he pulled the bell, causing it to ring longer and louder
than before. Then he leaned close to the door and listened, but no
sound reached his ears. Growing impatient, he next tried knocking.
All his efforts to gain admission, however, proved unavailing; and
ceasing at last to ring or knock, he sat down upon the stone steps,
and covering his face with his hands, wept bitterly. For over a
quarter of an hour he remained seated at the threshold of his
father's house, from which he had been excluded. During that period,
much of his previous life passed in review before him, and the
conclusions of the boy's mind were at last expressed in these
words--
"I believe father hates the very sight of me! He says I'm going to
ruin, and so I am; but he is driving me there. What does he think
I'm going to do, to-night? If he cared for me, would he let me sleep
in the streets? I have tried to do right, but it was of no use. When
I tried the hardest, he was the crossest, and made me do wrong
whether I would or not. I don't care what becomes of me now!"
As Andrew uttered these last words, a reckless spirit seized him,
and starting up, he walked away with a firm step. But he had gone
only a block or two, before his mind again became oppressed with a
sense of his houseless condition, and pausing, he murmured, in a sad
under tone--
"Where shall I go?"
For a little while he stood irresolute, and then moved on again. For
several squares farther he walked, with no definite purpose in his
mind, when he came to a row of three or four unfinished houses, the
door of one of which was partially opened; at least so much so, that
it was only necessary to pull off a narrow strip of board in order
to effect an entrance. With the sight of these houses came the
suggestion to the mind of Andrew that he might find a place to sleep
therein for the night, and acting upon this, he passed up the plank
leading to the door least securely fastened, and soon succeeded in
getting it open. But, just as he stepped within, a heavy hand was
laid upon him from behind, and a rough voice said--
"What are you doing here, sir?"
Turning, Andrew found himself in the custody of a policeman.
For a few moments every power of mind and body forsook the unhappy
boy, and he stood shrinking and stammering before the officer--thus
confirming a suspicion of intended incendiarism in the mind of that
functionary.
"Come! you must go with me." And the officer commenced moving down
the plank that connected the door with the ground, drawing Andrew
after him.
"I was only going to sleep there," said the frightened boy, as soon
as the power of speech had returned.
"Of course," returned the policeman, "I understand all that. But
I'll find a better place in which you can spend the night. So come
along with me."
Remonstrance on the part of Andrew was all in vain, and so, watching
an opportunity, he made an effort to escape. But he ran only a few
yards before he was tripped up by the officer, when falling, he
struck his forehead on the curb-stone, wounding it severely.
"Look here!" said the officer, in a resolute voice, passing his
heavy mace before the eyes of Andrew; "if you try this again I'll
knock you senseless!"
Then grasping his arm more firmly, he added--
"Move along quickly!"
With his head aching severely from the fall, and the blood trickling
down his face from the wound on his forehead, Andrew walked along by
the side of the officer, who continued to keep hold of him. In
passing under a gas-lamp, they met a lady and gentleman. The former
Andrew recognized at a glance, and she knew him, even with his
bloody face, and uttered a cry of surprise and alarm. It was Emily
Winters returning with her father from the house of a friend, where
they had stayed to an unusually late hour. The officer was about
pausing, but Andrew sprung forward, saying as he did so, in an under
tone--
"Don't stop!"
At the same instant Mr. Winters urged on his daughter, and the
parties were separated in a moment.
"Unhappy boy!" said the father of Emily, who had also recognized
Andrew, "his folly and evil are meeting a just but severe return.
His poor mother!--when she hears of this it will almost break her
heart. What an affliction to have such a son!"
"Did you see the blood on his face?" asked Emily, in a choking
voice, while her hand shook so violently, as it rested on the arm
of, her father, that he felt the tremor in every nerve.
"I did," he replied.
"What was the matter? He must be badly hurt. What could have done
it?"
"He's been quarreling with some one, I presume," coldly replied Mr.
Winters, who did not like the interest his daughter manifested.
Emily made no reply to this, and they walked the rest of the way
home in silence.
CHAPTER IX.
IT was within an hour of daylight when Mrs. Howland, worn down by
her long vigil, fell asleep, and an hour after the sun had risen,
before her troubled slumber was broken. Then starting up, she
eagerly inquired of her husband, who had already arisen, and was
walking about the room, if Andrew had yet returned. Mr. Howland
merely shook his head.
Soon after, breakfast was announced, and the family assembled at the
table; but one place was vacant.
"Where is Andrew?" asked Mary.
No answer was made to this question; and Mary saw by the expression
of her parents faces, that to repeat it would not be agreeable. A
few moments afterward the bell rung. As the steps of a servant were
heard moving along the passage toward the door, Mr. and Mrs. Howland
sat listening in breathless expectation. Soon the servant came down,
and said that a man wished to see Mr. Howland.
At these words the latter started up from the table and left the
room. At the street door he found a man, whose appearance indicated
his attachment to the police of the city.
"Mr. Howland!" said he, respectfully, yet with the air of a man who
had something not very agreeable to communicate.
"That is my name," replied Mr. Howland, striving, but in vain, to
assume an air of unconcern.
"You are wanted at the Mayor's office," said the policeman.
"For what purpose?" was inquired.
"Your son is before his Honor, on a charge of attempting to set fire
to a row of new buildings last night."
At this intelligence, Mr. Howland uttered an exclamation of
distress, and stepping back a pace or two, leaned heavily against
the wall.
"Well! What is wanted with me?" asked the unhappy father, recovering
himself, after a few moments.
"To go his bail," replied the officer. "The Mayor demands a thousand
dollars bail, in default of which, he will have to go to prison and
there await his trial."
"Let him go to prison!" said Mr. Howland, in a severe tone of voice.
He was beginning to regain his self-possession.
"No, Andrew!" came firmly from the lips of Mrs. Howland, who had
followed her husband, unperceived, to the door, and who had heard
the dreadful charge preferred against her son. "Don't say that! Go
and save him from the disgrace and wrong that now hang over his
head--and go quickly!"
"Yes, Mr. Howland," said the officer, "your lady is right. You
should not let him go to prison. That will do him no good. And,
moreover, he may be innocent of the crime laid to his charge."
"He must be innocent. My boy has many faults, but he would not be
guilty of a crime like this," said Mrs. Howland. "Oh, Mr. Howland!
go! go quickly and save him from these dreadful consequences. If you
do not, I must fly to him. They shall not imprison my poor boy!"
"This is folly, Esther!" returned Mr. Howland, severely. "He has got
himself, by his bad conduct, into the hands of the law, and it will
do him good to feel its iron grip. I am clear for letting him at
least go to prison, and remain there for a few days. By that time he
will be sick enough of his folly."
"I would not advise this," suggested the officer. "Depend upon it,
if his present position is of no avail toward working change for the
better--sending him to prison will harden, rather than reform him."
"Andrew!" said Mrs. Howland, with a firmness and decision of tone
that marked a high degree of resolution on her part--"if you do not
go his bail, I will find some person who will."
"Esther!" The offended husband fixed a look of stern rebuke upon his
wife; but her large eyes looked steadily into his, and he saw in
them, not rebellion, or anger--but a spirit that his own heart told
him instinctively, it would be folly for him to oppose. That look
determined his action.
"I'll go with you," said he, after pausing a few moments, turning to
the officer as he spoke.
The charge brought against Andrew by the watchman, was an intention
to set fire to the buildings in which he found him. Several
unfinished houses had been burned of late, and there was some
excitement in the public mind thereat. Had it not been for this,
Andrew might have made his way into the building where he intended
to sleep, without, in all probability, attracting attention.
Unfortunately for him, a few matches were found in one of his
pockets. This fact, added to his attempt to escape, and the rather
exaggerated statement of the watchman, caused the Mayor to look upon
the case as one that ought to go before the Court. He accordingly
decided to require an appearance, under bail.
Not a word was spoken to Andrew by his stern father, on the arrival
of the latter at the Mayor's office. Mr. Howland looked at the
evidence which went to support the charge of intended incendiarism
against his son, and to his mind, prejudiced as it was against that
son, the evidence was conclusive. In fact, the watchman's eyes had
seen rather more, than in reality, was to be seen, and his testimony
was strongly colored.
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