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.
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 wouldn'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."