Books: The Iron Rule
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T.S. Arthur >> The Iron Rule
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The required security given, Mr. Howland, without turning toward his
son, or speaking to him, left the office.
"You can go home, young man," said the Mayor, addressing Andrew.
"Oh, sir!" exclaimed the unhappy boy, in a distressed tone--"I am
not guilty of this thing. Father turned me from the door because I
was not at home at ten o'clock, and I had no place to sleep."
"Disobedience to parents ever brings trouble," replied the Mayor, in
a voice of admonition. "Go home, and try to behave better in future.
If innocent, you will no doubt be able to make it so appear when
your trial comes on before the Court."
Slowly the lad arose, and with a troubled and downcast look, retired
from the office.
"Where is Andrew?" eagerly asked the mother, as Mr. Howland entered
the house, after returning from the errand upon which he had gone.
"I left him at the Mayor's office," was coldly replied.
"Did you go his bail?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't he come home with you?"
"I didn't ask him."
"Andrew!"
Mr. Howland started at the tone of voice with which his name was
pronounced. Again there was an expression in the eyes of his wife
that subdued him.
"I gave bail for his appearance at Court, and then came away. He
will, no doubt, be home in a few minutes," he replied. "But I do not
wish to hold any intercourse with him; for he has disgraced both
himself and me."
"Is he not your son?" asked the mother, solemnly.
"He is not a son worthy of affection and regard."
"Andrew! when the sons of men wandered far away from God, and broke
all his laws, did He turn from them as you have turned from this
erring boy? No! All day long He stretched forth His hands to them,
and said, in a voice full of infinite kindness, 'Return unto Me; why
will you die?' It is not Godlike to be angry at those who sin
against us; but Godlike to draw them back with cords of love from
error. Oh, Andrew! you have wronged this boy!"
"Esther! I will not hear the utterance of such language from any
one!" exclaimed Mr. Howland, whose imperious nature could ill brook
an accusation like this.
"I have uttered only what I believe to be true," answered the wife,
in a milder tone, yet with a firmness that showed her spirit to be
unsubdued. No further words passed between them. Half an hour
afterward, up to which time Andrew had not come home, Mr. Howland
left the house and went to his place of business.
Time passed on until nearly noon, and yet Andrew was still away.
Mrs. Howland, whose mind was in a state of strong excitement, could
bear her suspense and fear no longer, and she resolved to go out and
seek for her wandering son. She had dressed herself, and was just
taking up her bonnet, as the door of her room opened, and Andrew
came in, looking pale and distressed. Across his forehead was a
deep, red mark, the scar left by the wound he received, when he fell
on the pavement, in the attempt to escape from the watchman.
"My son!" exclaimed Mrs. Howland, in a voice that thrilled the poor
boy's heart--for it was full of sympathy and tenderness--and then
she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Overcome by this reception, Andrew wept aloud. As soon as he could
speak, he said--
"Indeed, indeed, mother! I am innocent. You wouldn't let me in last
night, and I was going to sleep in the building, when the watchman
came and said I meant to set it on fire! I'm bad enough, mother, but
not so wicked as that! Why should I set a house on fire?"
"I didn't believe it for a moment, Andrew," replied Mrs. Howland.
"But, oh! isn't it dreadful?"
"I'm not to blame, mother," said the weeping boy. "I didn't mean to
stay out later than ten. But I was deceived in the time. I was a
good way off when the clock struck, and I ran home as fast as I
could. I'm sure it wasn't ten minutes after when I rang the bell.
But nobody would let me in; not even _you_, mother--and I thought so
hard of _that!_"
With what a pang did these last words go through the heart of Mrs.
Howland.
"I wanted to let you in," replied the mother, "but your father said
that I must not do so."
"And so you left me to sleep in the streets," said the boy, with
much bitterness. "I couldn't have turned a dog off in that way!"
"Don't, don't speak so, Andrew! You will break my heart!" returned
the mother, sobbing, "I did open the door for you, but you were not
there."
"I knocked and rung a good while."
"I know. But I had to wait until your father was asleep. Then I went
down, but it was too late."
"Yes--yes, it was too late," said Andrew, speaking now in a firmer
voice. "And it is too late now. I am to be tried as a felon, and it
may be, will be sent to the State Prison. Oh, dear!"
And he covered his face with his hands, and sobbed.
What little comfort she had to offer her unhappy child, was offered
by Mrs. Howland. But few rays of light came through the heavy clouds
that enveloped both of their hearts.
At dinner time, Andrew declined meeting his father at the table.
"Go and tell him," said the unyielding man, when the servant, who
had been sent to his room to call him to dinner, came back and said
that he did not wish to come down, "that he cannot have a mouthful
to eat unless he comes to the table."
"No, no, Andrew--don't say that!" quickly spoke Mrs. Howland.
"I do say it, and I mean it," replied Mr. Howland, fixing his eyes
rebukingly upon his wife.
Mrs. Howland answered nothing. But her purpose to stand between her
unrelenting husband and wandering son, was none the less fixed; and
in her countenance Mr. Howland read this distinctly. Accordingly, so
soon as the latter had left the house, she took food to Andrew, who
still remained in his room, at the same time that she expressed to
him her earnest wish that he would meet the family at the tea-table
in the evening.
"I don't want to meet father," he replied to this. "He will only
frown upon me."
"He is, of course, very much fretted at this occurrence," said the
mother. "And you cannot much wonder at it, Andrew."
"He is more to blame than I am," was answered in an indignant tone.
"Don't speak of your father in that way, my son," said the mother, a
gentle reproof in her voice.
"I speak as I feel, mother. Is it not so?"
An argument on this subject Mrs. Howland would not hold with her
boy, and she therefore changed it; but she did not cease her appeals
to both his reason and his feelings, until he yielded to her wishes.
At supper time he joined the family at table--it was his first
meeting with his father since morning. Oh, what an intense desire
did he feel for a kind reception from his stern parent! It seemed to
him that such a reception would soften everything harsh and
rebellious, and cause him to throw himself at his feet, and make the
humblest confessions of error, and the most truthful promise of
future well doing. Alas! for the repentant boy! no such reception
awaited him. His father did not so much as turn his eyes upon his
son, and, during the meal, maintained a frigid silence. Andrew ate
but a few mouthfuls. He had no appetite for food. On leaving the
table, he went into one of the parlors, whither he was followed in a
little while, by his younger brother, Edward, who was, by nature,
almost as hard and unsympathsizing as his father. It was the first
time, on that day, that the two boys had been alone.
"Set a house on fire!" said Edward, in a half-sneering,
half-censorious, tantalizing voice.
"If you say that again, I'll knock you down!" fell sharply from the
lips of Andrew, in whom his father's repulsive coldness was
beginning to awaken bad feelings.
"Set a house on fire!" repeated Edward, in a tone still more
aggravating.
The words had scarcely left his tongue, ere the open hand of his
brother came along side of his head, with a force that knocked him
across the room. At this instant Mr. Howland entered. He made no
inquiry as to the cause of the blow he saw struck, but took it for
granted that it was an unprovoked assault of Andrew upon his
brother. Yielding to the impulse of the moment, he caught the former
by the arm, in a fierce grip, and struck him with his open hand, as
he had struck his brother, repeating the blow three or four times.
Andrew neither shrunk from the blows, cried out, nor offered the
smallest resistance, but stood firmly, until his incensed father had
satisfied his outraged feelings.
"You forgot, I suppose, that I could strike also?" said the latter
angrily, when he released his son from the tight grasp, with which
he held him.
"No sir," replied Andrew, with a calmness that surprized, yet still
more incensed his father; "I thought nothing about it. I punished
Edward as he deserved; and if he says to me what he did just now,
will repeat the punishment, if it cost me my life."
"Silence!" cried Mr. Howland.
"I said nothing but the truth," spoke up Edward.
"What did you say?" inquired the father.
"I told him that he'd set a house on fire."
"And lied when he said it," calmly and deliberately spoke Andrew.
"Silence! I'll have no such language in my presence!" angrily
retorted Mr. Howland.
"It is bad enough to be accused falsely by a lying policeman," said
Andrew, "but to have the charge repeated by my own brother is more
than I can or will bear. And I warn Edward, in your presence, not to
try the experiment again. If he does he will not escape so lightly."
"Silence, I say!"
Andrew remained silent.
"Edward, leave the room," said Mr. Howland. There was little
sternness in his voice, as he thus spoke to his favorite boy.
The lad retired. For several minutes Mr. Howland walked the floor,
and Andrew who had seated himself, waited in a calm, defiant spirit,
for him to renew the interview. It was at length done in these
words--
"What do you expect is to become of you, sir?"
Not feeling inclined to answer such an interrogation, Andrew
continued silent.
"Say!" repeated the father, "what do you think is to become of you?"
Still the boy answered not a word.
"Under bail to answer for a crime--"
"Which I never committed--nor designed to commit!" spoke up Andrew,
quickly interrupting his father, and fixing his eyes upon, him with
an unflinching gaze.
"It is easy to make a denial. But the evidence against you is
positive."
"The evidence against me is a positive lie!" was Andrew's indignant
response.
"I won't be talked to in this way!" said Mr. Howland, in an offended
tone. "No son of mine shall insult me!"
"A strange insult to a father, for a son to declare himself innocent
of a crime falsely laid to his charge," replied Andrew, with a
strong rebuke in his voice. "A true father would be glad--"
"Silence!" again fell harshly from the lips of Mr. Howland.
"Silence, I say; I will hear no such language from a son of mine!"
Without a word, Andrew arose, and, retiring from the room, took up
his hat and left the house--the relation between him and his father
by no means in a better position than it was before. Within a few
minutes of ten o'clock the boy returned, and, being admitted, went
up to his room without joining the family.
On the next morning, one or two of the daily papers contained an
account of Andrew's arrest, with his father's name and all the
particulars of the transaction. Any one reading this account, with
the reporter's comment, could not help but believe that Andrew was a
desperate bad boy, and undoubtedly guilty in design of incendiarism.
"See what a disgrace you have brought upon us!" exclaimed Mr.
Howland, flinging a paper, containing this mortifying intelligence
in the face of his son.
The boy took up the paper, and read the paragraph referred to with a
burning cheek. He made no remark, but sat for some time in a state
of profound abstraction. No one guessed the thoughts that were
passing through his mind, nor the utter hopelessness that was lying,
with a heavy weight, upon his spirit. Before him was the image of
Emily. She had seen him with his blood-disfigured face, in the hands
of the watchman; and now she would see this slanderous story, and
what was worse, believe it!
Some two hours subsequently, while walking along the street, Andrew
perceived Emily, within a few paces of him. He looked her steadily
in the face, and saw that she saw him; for a quick flush overspread
her countenance. But, averting her eyes, she passed him without a
further sign of recognition.
At night-fall, the boy did not return to his home.
Anxiously did the time pass with Mrs. Howland until ten o'clock, and
yet he was away. Eleven--twelve--one o'clock, pealed on the ear of
the watching mother, but he came not. It was all in vain that her
husband remonstrated with her. His words passed her unheeded; and
she remained waiting and watching, until near the hour of morning,
but her waiting and watching were all in vain.
Two days passed--yet there came no tidings of the absent boy. On the
third day, Mrs. Howland received the following letter:--
"MY DEAR MOTHER:--I have left my home--forever! What is to become of
me, I do not know. But I can remain with you no longer. Father
treats me like a dog--or worse than a dog; and he has never treated
me much better. I have tried to do right a great many times; but it
was of no use. The harder I tried to do right, the more he found
fault with me. He was always blaming me for something I didn't do.
It is all a lie of the watchman's about my setting the house on
fire. Such a thing never entered my mind. Father (sic) would't let
me in, and I had to sleep somewhere. He wouldn't speak a word for me
in the Mayor's office. So it's all his fault that I am to be tried
before the Court. But I'm not going to be sent to the Penitentiary.
Father is my bail for a thousand dollars. I shall be sorry if he has
to pay it; but it will be better for him to do that, than for me to
go to the Penitentiary for nothing. So, good-by, mother, I love you!
You have always been good to me. If father had been as good, I would
have been a better boy. Don't grieve about me. It's better that I
should leave home. You'll all be happier. If I ever return to you, I
will be different from what I am now. Farewell mother! Don't forget
me. I will never forget you. Don't grieve about me. The thought of
that troubles me the most. But it is better for me to go away,
mother--better for us all. Farewell.
"ANDREW."
CHAPTER X.
A YEAR elapsed before any tidings of the wanderer came. Then Mrs.
Howland received a few lines from him, dated in a Southern city,
where he spoke of having just arrived from South America. He had
little to say of himself, beyond that he was well; and did not speak
of visiting home.
After reading this letter, Mrs. Howland placed it in the hands of
her husband, who read it also, and then gave it back without a
remark. He checked an involuntary sigh as he did so. Not the
slightest reference was made to him by his son; a fact that he did
not overlook, and that he did not observe without a sense of
disappointment. The long absence of his wayward boy had softened his
feelings toward him; and with pain he remembered many acts of
harshness that now seemed to have in them too much of the element of
severity. At the term of the Court, which was held soon after Andrew
went away, the Grand Jury failed to obtain sufficient evidence to
justify the finding of a bill against him, and released the security
given for his appearance at Court. This fact, with a previous
questioning of the policeman by whom Andrew had been arrested,
satisfied Mr. Howland that the boy had been unjustly suspected of an
intention to commit a crime. But this conviction had come too late.
The effects of that unjust accusation had already fallen in sad
consequences upon the head of the poor boy; and the father could not
force from his mind the painful conviction that he was, mainly,
responsible for these consequences.
Another year went by, but during all the time, no further tidings
came of Andrew. To his first letter, Mrs. Howland had immediately
replied, urging him, by every tender consideration, to return to his
home. But she had no means of knowing whether it had ever been
received. Upon her the effect of his absence had been, for a time,
of the most serious character. For a few weeks after he went away,
both body and mind were prostrated; to this succeeded a state of
mental depression, which continued so long that her friends began to
fear for her reason. Not until after the lapse of a year, when she
received the above-mentioned letter from her son, did her mind
attain to anything like its former state. The knowledge that he was
yet, alive, that he thought of her, and still cherished her memory,
gave a new impulse to her fainting spirit, and a quicker motion to
the circle of life. There was yet room to hope for him. But, as time
went on, there came not back even a faint echo to the voice she had
sent after him, her heart failed her again. Yet time, which imparts
strength to all in trouble, had done its work for her also. The care
and labor that ever attend the mother's position among her children,
had bent her thoughts so much away from Andrew, that, while his
absence left a constant weight upon her feelings, it did not crush
them down as before, into a waveless depression.
The second year of Andrew's absence came to a close; but nothing
further was heard from him. And it was the same with the third,
fourth, and fifth years. In the meantime, there had been many
changes in Mr. Howland's family. Mary had married against her
father's wishes, and both herself and husband had been so unkindly
treated by him on the occasion and afterward, that neither of them
visited at his house.
Henry Markland, the husband of Mary, had been rather a gay young
man, and this, with some other things which had come to his ears,
created a prejudice in the mind of Mr. Howland against him. As to
what was good in Markland, and likely to overbalance defects, he did
not inquire. The hue of his prejudice colored everything. Men like
Mr. Howland, who seek to bend everything into forms suited to their
own narrow range of ideas, are rarely successful in attaining their
ends. The principle of freedom is too deeply interwoven with all the
tissues of the human mind to admit of this. From. earliest infancy
there is a reaction against arbitrary power; and, those who are
wise, have long since discovered that it is a much easier task to
lead than force the young into right ways. Those who would truly
govern children, must first learn to govern themselves. Let a parent
break his own imperious will before he tries to break the will of
his child; and he will be far more successful in the work he essays.
to perform. But not so had Mr. Howland learned his duty in life.
Without being, aware of the fact, he was a domestic tyrant, and
sought to establish a family despotism. And the worst of the whole
was, he did nearly all this work in the name of religion! Not that
he was a hypocrite. No; Mr. Howland was sincere in his professions
of piety. But he was a narrow-minded man, and did much in the name
of religion, that in no way harmonized with its true character. His
faith was a blind faith, and he sacrificed to the god of his
imagination in the unyielding spirit of a dehumanizing superstition.
Of necessity, he marred everything upon which he sought to impress
the form of his own mind.
Erroneous judgment of others is almost certain to mark the
conclusions of such a man's mind; and it is no wonder that Mr.
Howland erred in his conclusions respecting the true character of
his daughter's husband, who had in him many good qualities, and was
sincerely attached to Mary. The great defect appertaining to him,
was the fact that he was not a church member. Mr. Howland did not
look past the veil of a profession, to see if there was in the
ground work of the young man's character a basis of right
principles--the only true foundation upon which a religious
structure can be built. Because he did not belong to the church, and
make an open profession, he classed him with the irreligious, and
considered him as one whose feet were moving swiftly along the road
to destruction.
And so, instead of wisely seeking to win the confidence of the young
man, that he might gain an influence over him for good, Mr. Howland,
offended because his daughter could not obey him in a matter so
vital to her happiness, angrily repulsed and insulted both of them,
even after he saw that a marriage was inevitable. The consequence
was, as has been mentioned, that Markland, who possessed an
independent spirit, would not go to the house of his father-in-law;
and Mary, resenting the wanton attacks that had been made upon her
husband's feelings in more than one or two instances, absented
herself also. Mr. Howland, however much he might regret the hardness
of his unavailing opposition, was not the man to yield anything; and
so the breach remained open, in spite of all the grieving mother's
efforts to heal it.
Of all his children, Mr. Howland saw most to hope for in Edward, who
early perceived it to be his best policy to humor his father, and,
by that means, gain the ends he had in view. Cold in his
temperament, he was generally able to control himself in a way to
deceive his father as to the real motives that were in his heart.
Thus, while Mr. Howland, by his peculiar treatment of his children,
drove some of them off, he made this one a hypocrite.
Not the smallest affection existed between Edward and the other
children, who knew too well the selfish and evil qualities that lay
concealed beneath an external of propriety, put on especially for
his father's eyes. The mother, too, saw beneath the false exterior
assumed by her son, who treated her, except when his father was
present, with little respect or affection.
Martha, the youngest, was a sweet tempered girl, who had managed to
keep, as a general thing, beyond the sphere of antagonism that
marked the intercourse of the other children. To her mother, as she
grew up, she proved a source of comfort; and she could, at almost
any time, dispel by her smiles the cloud that too often rested on
the brow of her morose father.
On reaching his seventeenth year, Edward had been placed in a store
by his father, for the purpose of acquiring knowledge of mercantile
affairs. A young man in this position, if he has any ambition to
make his way in the world, soon gets his mind pretty well filled
with money-making ideas, and sees the way to wealth opening in a
broad vista before him. Every day he hears about this, that, and the
other one, who started in business but a few years before, with
little or no capital, and who are now worth their tens of thousands;
and he thus learns to aspire after wealth, without being made to
feel sensibly the fact, that the number who grow rich rapidly are as
one to a hundred compared with those who succeed as the result of
small beginnings united with long continued and untiring
application. Long before Edward reached his twenty-first year, he
had so fully imbibed the spirit of the atmosphere in which he
breathed, that his mind was made up to go into business for himself
as soon as he attained his majority. This idea Mr. Howland sought to
discourage in his son; but Edward never gave it up. Soon after he
was twenty-one, an offer to go into a business, that promised a
large return was made, provided a few thousand dollars capital could
be furnished. Not a moment did Edward rest until he had prevailed
upon his father, ever too ready to yield a weak compliance to the
wishes of this son, to place in his hands the amount of money
required. To do this, was, at the time, no easy matter for Mr.
Howland, whose own business was far from being as good as usual and
whose pecuniary affairs were not in the most easy condition. Six
thousand dollars was the amount of capital he was obliged to raise,
and it was not accomplished without considerable sacrifice.
Edward and his partner were what are usually called "enterprising
young men," and they drove ahead in the business they had undertaken
at a kind of railroad speed, calculating their profits at an
exceedingly high range. It is not surprising that, by the end of the
first year, they required a little more capital to help them through
with their engagements, the furnishing of which fell upon Mr.
Howland; who, in this emergency, passed his notes to the new firm
for several (sic) thonsand dollars.
It is not our purpose to trace, step by step, the progress of this
young man in the work of ruining his father and disgracing himself
by dishonest practices in business. Enough, that in the course of
three years, the "enterprising young men," who made from the
beginning such rapid strides toward fortune, found their course
suddenly checked, and themselves involved in hopeless bankruptcy.
But, with themselves rested not the evil consequences of failure;
others were included in the disaster, and among them Mr. Howland,
who was so badly crippled as to be obliged to call his creditors
together, and solicit a reduction and extension of the claims they
had against him. To Mr. Howland, this was a crushing blow. He was
not only a man who strictly regarded honesty in his dealings, but he
was proud of his honesty, and in his pride, had often been harsh in
his judgment of others when in circumstances similar to those in
which he was now placed. To be forced to ask of his creditors both a
reduction and an extension, humiliated him to a degree, that for a
time, almost deprived him of the power of doing business. From that
time, there was a perceptible change in the man of iron. His tall,
erect form seemed to shrink downward; his head bent toward his
bosom, and the harsh lines on his brow and around his less tightly
closed lips grew softer. His indignation against Edward was so
great, when he finally comprehended the character of the
transactions in which he had been engaged, involving as they did a
total absence of integrity, that he turned his back upon him
angrily, saying, as he did so--
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