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 desirous 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."
"I tell you it must be, Esther," quickly replied Mr. Howland.
"Nothing else will save the boy."
"It lacks only that to complete his ruin," said Mrs. Howland,
firmly. "Never, Andrew--never will he go on board of a vessel with
my consent."
And the mother burst into tears.
"I don't wish to have any contention about this matter, Esther,"
said Mr. Howland, gravely, as soon as his wife had grown calm, "and
I don't mean to have any. But I wish you to understand that I am in
earnest. Being fully satisfied that the last hope for Andrew is to
send him to sea, I have fully made up my mind to do it. I have
already spoken to the captain of a vessel trading to South America.
A few months on ship-board will tame him. He'll be glad enough to
behave himself when he gets home."
"I have no faith in this remedy," replied Mrs. Howland, somewhat to
the surprise of her husband, who expected to silence her, as usual,
with his broadly asserted ultimatum. "Severe remedies have been
tried long enough. In my view, a milder course pursued toward the
boy would effect more than any other treatment."
"Mildness! Haven't we tried that, over and over again? And hasn't it
only encouraged him to bolder acts of disobedience?"
Mrs. Howland sighed. Her mind went back to the past, but none of
these instances of mild treatment could she remember. The iron hand
had been on him from the beginning, crushing out the good, and
hardening the evil into endurance.
"Andrew," said she, after sitting for some time with her eyes upon
the floor, speaking in a very calm voice, "he is my son as well as
yours--and his welfare is as dear to me as it is to you. As his
mother, I am entitled to a voice in all that concerns him; and now,
in the sight of heaven, I give my voice distinctly against his being
sent to sea."
Mr. Howland seemed startled at this bold speaking in his wife,
which, to him, amounted to little less than rebellion against his
authority. As the head of the family, it was his prerogative to
rule; and he had ruled for years with almost undisputed sway. Not in
the least inclined did he feel to give up now, the power which he
believed, of right, belonged to him. A sharp retort trembled for a
moment on his lips; but he kept back its utterance. He did not,
however, waver a single line from his purpose, but rather felt it
growing stronger.
No more was said at this time by either. Mrs. Howland sought the
earliest opportunity to be alone with her son, when she informed him
of his father's purpose to send him to sea. Andrew was somewhat
startled by this information, and replied, instantly--
"I don't want to go to sea, mother."
"Nor do I wish you to go, Andrew," said Mrs. Howland. "You are too
young to bear the hard usage that would certainly fall to your lot.
But your father is very determined about the matter."
"I won't go!" boldly declared the boy.
"Andrew! Andrew! don't speak in that manner," said the mother in a
reproving voice.
"I'll run away first!"
An indignant flush came into the lad's face as he said this.
Mrs. Howland was both startled and alarmed at this bold and
unexpected declaration, and for a time she hardly knew what to say.
At length, in a voice so changed that Andrew looked up, half
wonderingly, into her face, she said--
"My son, do you love me?"
Not until the question was repeated did Andrew make any reply. Then
he answered, in a low, unsteady voice, for something in her manner
had touched his feelings.
"You know I love you, mother; for you are the only one who loves
me."
"For the sake, then, of that love, let me ask you to do one thing,
Andrew," said Mrs. Howland.
"What is that mother?"
"Go back to your teacher, and ask him to take you into the school
again."
A flush came warmly into the boy's face, and he shook his head in a
positive manner.
"I wish you to do it for my sake, Andrew," urged Mrs. Howland.
"I can't, mother. And it would not do any good."
"Yes, it will do good. You were wrong in not going punctually to
school. All that is now required of you is to acknowledge this, and
ask to be restored to your place."
Andrew stood silent and gloomy by his mother's side.
"Were you not wrong in absenting yourself from school at the proper
hour?" asked Mrs. Howland, in a calm, penetrating voice.
There was no reply.
"Say, Andrew?" urged the mother.
"Yes, ma'am. I suppose I was."
"Was not your teacher right in objecting to this?"
"I suppose so."
"And right in sending you home if you would not obey the rules of
the school?"
The boy assented.
"Very well. Then you alone are to blame for the present trouble, and
it rests with you to remove it. For my sake, go back to school,
promise to do right in future, and ask to be reinstated. Will not
this be better than going to sea, or leaving your father's
house, as you thoughtlessly threatened to do just now?"
The tender earnestness with which Mrs. Howland spoke, more than the
reasons she urged, subdued the stubborn spirit of the boy.
"You know how determined your father is," she continued. "In his
intention to send you to sea he is entirely in earnest, and nothing
will prevent his doing so but your going back to school. You
threaten to run away. That would avail nothing. You are but a boy,
and would be restored to us in a week. Think of the trouble you will
bring upon me. Andrew! Andrew! unless you do as I desire, you will
break my heart."
Giving way at this point to the pressure on her feelings, Mrs.
Howland wept bitterly; and, greatly subdued by his mother's grief,
Andrew drew his arm around her neck, and wept with her.
"Go, dear," said Mrs. Howland, as soon as she had recovered herself,
parting the hair upon the forehead of her boy, and pressing her lips
upon it--"go, and secure your own self-approbation and my happiness,
by doing as I desire. Go, now, while your heart beats rightly. Go,
and save your mother from untold wretchedness."
And again Mrs. Howland pressed her lips to his forehead. Happily,
she prevailed over him. Acting from the good impulses with which she
had inspired his better nature, he went to the teacher, who readily
consented to take him back into the school on his promise of more
orderly conduct in future.
"Andrew has gone back to school," said Mrs. Howland to her husband,
on his return home in the evening.
"Gone back to school? I thought the teacher had expelled him."
"Andrew went to him, and promised amendment."
"He did?"
"Yes. After I had talked with him a long time, he consented to do
so."
"It is well," briefly, and with much severity in his tone, replied
Mr. Howland. He was greatly relieved at this unexpected result;
although neither in word or manner did he let his real feelings
appear.