CONFESSION.
While Clinton is on his way home from school, after the discovery of
his offence, let us look in a moment upon his parents.
“After six o’clock, and Clinton has not made his appearance yet,” said
Mrs. Davenport, who had the smoking tea and toasted bread upon the
table, in readiness for the evening meal. “Really, husband, I begin
to feel uneasy about Clinton. He is away from home a great deal more
than he used to be, and when he is here, he seems like a different boy
from what he was a year or two ago. You say you don’t notice anything
unusual about him, but that only shows that a mother’s eye is more
quick to read the heart than a man’s. _I_ see a change in his conduct.
He is more reserved than he used to be; is less affectionate in his
manners, takes less interest in his work and books, and often seems
absent-minded, as though he was thinking of something that he meant to
conceal from us. I don’t like that Jerry Preston, and I’m afraid he is
doing Clinton no good.”
“You are only borrowing trouble when there is no need of it,” replied
Mr. Davenport. “I don’t see but that Clinton behaves as well now as
he ever did. At any rate, I’ve no fault to find with his conduct, and
nobody else has yet made any complaint against him. You must not expect
that he will always be precisely the same little boy he used to be. As
he grows older, he will naturally change, like all the rest of us.”
[Illustration: Clinton at the fire-side]
Before Mrs. Davenport could reply, Clinton entered the room, and
silently took his seat with the family at the supper-table. The
conversation that had just passed, naturally led both his parents to
observe him more closely than usual. Mr. Davenport thought he looked
unusually sober. But the mother, with her penetrating eye, saw more
than this; she saw traces of weeping, and a peculiar expression of
trouble, on the face of Clinton. She noticed, also, that she could not
catch his eye, which was restless and uneasy. He took no part in the
conversation at the table, and ate but little. After tea, he took the
lantern, and brought in from the barn the usual supply of wood and
kindling stuff for the morrow, which was a part of his regular work.
This duty over, he seated himself on a cricket by the fire-side, and
commenced whittling a piece of pine which he had brought in. Annie
had been put to bed, and his father and mother were seated at the
light-stand, which was drawn up in front of the blazing wood-fire. The
same troubled look which Mrs. Davenport had noticed at the tea-table,
was still very plainly visible on Clinton’s face. Indeed, he had
seated himself with the determination not to rise until he had made
his confession to both his parents; and he was thinking how he should
introduce the unpleasant topic, when his father broke the silence by
asking:—
“Clinton, what are you making?”
“I am only whittling,” he replied.
“I see you are whittling,” remarked Mr. Davenport; “I inquired what you
was making.”
“I aint making anything,” replied Clinton.
“That’s a bad sign, Clinty,” continued his father. “I know whittling
is a Yankee accomplishment, but he is a poor Yankee, who whittles away
his stick to nothing. Did you never hear of the fellow who lost his
sweet-heart by doing that very thing?”
Clinton shook his head, in the negative.
“Well,” continued Mr. Davenport, “after the young man had come to an
understanding with the pretty lass whom he intended to make his wife,
he had to go to her father to get his consent to the arrangement. The
father was a shrewd old farmer, and he noticed that his daughter’s
suitor, during the awkward interview, whittled away very industriously
at a stick, just as you were doing a moment ago. The old man watched
the movement of the knife, and at the same time continued to talk
on the prospects of his would-be son-in-law, until the stick had
dwindled down to nothing. Then he said to the young man: ‘Sir, you have
property, and steady habits, and are good-looking; but you can’t have
my daughter. Had you made something,—no matter what,—of the stick you
have whittled away, you could have had her; as it is,—you cannot. Your
property will go as the stick did, little by little, until all is gone,
and your family reduced to want. I have read your true character; you
have my answer.’
“So,” continued Mr. Davenport, “you see what a man lost by whittling
his stick away to nothing. Perhaps he only did it because he had
something on his mind, which he did not know how to get off; but
he took a very foolish way to get over the difficulty, as he soon
discovered.”
This last remark, whether intended so by his father or not, Clinton
took as having a special meaning for him. He thought it an evidence
that his father had noticed his troubled look, and was awaiting
an explanation. So throwing his piece of pine into the fire, and
summoning all his resolution, he said, as his eyes filled with tears:—
“Father, I _have_ got something on my mind that has made me very
unhappy for a good while, and now I want to tell you all about it.”
At these words his mother, who was sewing, dropped her work and
fixed her eyes earnestly upon Clinton. His father, forgetting his
conversation an hour or two previous with Mrs. Davenport, said:—
“I thought something ailed you, Clinton, and I am glad you have
concluded to tell us about it. You have no better friends than your
father and mother, and you ought never to conceal your troubles from
them. Go on with your story.”
Clinton then made a full and frank confession of his misdoing, as
it has been already related. He also gave an account of the manner
in which he had been detected, so far as he had been able to learn,
and narrated the conversation he had held with Master Eaton, that
afternoon. When he concluded his confession, his parents, as well as
himself, were in tears. For some moments there was a silence, unbroken
save by sobs. Mr. Davenport then arose, and pressing Clinton to his
heart, said:—
“My son, I bless God that he has given you courage to make this
confession. You have done very wrong; you have had a narrow escape from
shipwreck,—and all the while _we_ were not dreaming of your danger! O,
how could you deceive us so? But I won’t chide you now. You have done
well to disclose it all, even at this late day,—and I hope you have
learned a lesson from this affair which you will never forget!”
His father and mother continued the conversation for some
time,—pointing out to Clinton, very plainly but kindly, the principal
faults of his character, by which he had been led astray; and warning
him earnestly against associating any more with Jerry, or any other
boys of his stamp. At length, Mr. Davenport inquired what punishment
the teacher had inflicted.
“None,” replied Clinton; “he said, if I would confess the whole affair
to you, he would leave the punishment to you.”
“Well,” said his father, “I will think about it. I could cheerfully
forgive all the past, if you would promise to do better hereafter,—but
I am not sure that this would be the best thing for you.”
“I mean to behave better hereafter,” said Clinton; “but I do not ask
to be pardoned without punishment. I know I deserve to suffer for my
conduct, and I shan’t think hard of it if I do.”
Mr. Davenport said he would consider the matter, and announce his
decision the next day. The family then knelt in prayer; and the erring,
but repentant, son was most affectionately commended to the Divine
forgiveness, and the Good Spirit implored to guide his future steps.
The next morning Clinton attended school, as usual, but Jerry was
absent. Mr. Eaton inquired of Clinton if he had kept his promise,
and seemed much pleased when he answered in the affirmative. He gave
him some good advice, and expressed the hope that he would avoid all
similar errors hereafter. It being Saturday, no school was held in the
afternoon, and Clinton returned home without having seen Jerry.
In the evening, when Clinton was alone with his parents, the subject
which had engrossed the thoughts of all, so earnestly, for the last
twenty-four hours, was again introduced.
“Your mother and I,” said Mr. Davenport, “have talked over your affair,
Clinton, and we have come to the conclusion that the series of offences
was so long, and so aggravated, that the pain of exposure which you
have suffered is hardly sufficient punishment. You did well in making
a confession, it is true; but, you did not do that, until you found
you could no longer conceal your guilt. We have therefore decided that
you must forego your promised trip to Boston next March, by way of
punishment.”
This was, indeed, a severe deprivation to Clinton. For more than six
months he had been anticipating, with delight, the arrival of spring,
when, the winter-school over, he was to spend several weeks with his
uncle and cousins in Boston. But he felt that the disappointment was
deserved, and he made no complaint. His father afterwards added, for
his encouragement, that if his conduct continued unexceptionable, the
suspended visit should come off in the following autumn, after the fall
work was over.
Notwithstanding his disappointment, Clinton went to bed that night
with a lighter heart than he had known before for many weeks. He felt
that he had escaped from a frightful snare, and that he could once
more look his parents and teacher honestly in the face. He determined
to retrieve, by his good conduct, whatever he had lost, in their
estimation; and he felt almost impatient to be tempted again, that he
might show them how firmly he could now resist every evil influence.