WHILE Mr. Howland yet paced the floor in a perturbed state of mind, after the severe flogging he had given to Andrew, and while he meditated some further and long-continued punishment for the offences which had been committed, a servant handed him a note. It was from Andrew's teacher, and was to this effect—
"From careful inquiry, I am entirely satisfied that your son, when he threw the stone at William Wilkins, was acting in self-defence, and, therefore, is blameless. Wilkins is a quarrelsome, overbearing lad, and was abusing a smaller boy, when your son interfered to protect the latter. This drew upon him the anger of Wilkins, who would have beaten him severely if he had not protected himself in the way he did. Before throwing the stone, I learn that Andrew made every effort to get away; failing in this, he warned the other not to come near him. This warning being disregarded, he used the only means of self-protection left to him. I say this in justice to your son, and to save him from your displeasure. As for Wilkins, I do not intend to receive him back into my school."
For a long time Mr. Howland remained seated in the chair he had taken on receiving the teacher's note. His reflections were far from being agreeable. He had been both unjust and cruel to his child. But for him to make an acknowledgment of the fact was out of the question. This would be too humiliating. This would be a triumph for the perverse boy, and a weakening of his authority over him. He had done wrong in not listening to his child's explanation; in not waiting until he had heard both sides. But, now that the wrong was done, the fact that he was conscious of having done wrong must not appear. In various ways he sought to justify his conduct. At length he said, half aloud—
"No matter. He deserved it for something else, and has received only his deserts. Let him behave himself properly, and he'll never be the subject of unjust censure."
It was thus that the cold-hearted father settled, with his own conscience, this question of wrong toward his child. And yet he was a man who prayed in his family, and regularly, with pious observance, attended upon the ordinances of the church. In society he was esteemed as a just and righteous man; in the church as one who lived near to heaven. As for himself, he believed that severity toward his boy, and intolerance of all the weaknesses, errors, and wayward tendencies of childhood, were absolutely needed for the due correction of evil impulses. Alas! that he, like too many of his class, permitted anger toward his children's faults to blind his better judgment, and to stifle the genuine appeals of nature. Instead of tenderness, forbearance, and a loving effort to lead them in right paths, and make those paths pleasant to their feet, he sternly sought to force them in the way he wished them to go. With what little success, in the case of Andrew, is already apparent.
Angry at the unjust punishment he had received, the boy remained alone in his room until summoned to dinner.
"He doesn't want anything to eat," said the servant, returning to the dining-room where the family were assembled at the table.
"Oh, very well," remarked the father, in a tone of indifference, "fasting will do him good."
"Go up, Anna," said Mr. Howland to the servant "and tell him that I want him to come down."
That word would have been effectual, for Andrew loved his mother; but Mr. Howland remarked instantly:
"No, no! Let him, remain. I never humor states of perverseness. If he wishes to fast he can be gratified."
Mrs. Howland said no more, but she took only a few mouthfuls of food while she sat at the table. Her appetite was gone. After dinner she went up to Andrew's room with a saucer of peaches and cream. The moment she opened the door the lad sprung toward her, and while tears gushed from his eyes, he said—
"Indeed, indeed, mother, I was not to blame! Bill Wilkins was going to beat me—and you know, he's a large boy."
"But you might have killed him, Andrew," replied the mother, with a gentle gravity that, in love, conveyed reproof. "It is dangerous to throw stones."
"I had to defend myself, mother. I couldn't let him beat me half to death. And I told him to keep off or I would strike him with the stone. I'm sure I wasn't to blame."
"Why, was he going to beat you, Andrew? What did you do to him?" asked Mrs. Howland.
"I'll tell you, mother," replied the boy. "He was pounding with his fist a poor little fellow, not half his size, and I couldn't stand and see it if he was a bigger boy than me. So I took the little boy's part; and then he turned on me and said he'd beat the life out of me. I ran from him and tried to get away, but he could run the fastest, and so I took up a stone and told him to keep off. But he was mad, and wouldn't keep off. So I struck him with it, and, mother, I'd do it again to-morrow. No boy shall beat me if I can defend myself."
"Why didn't you tell your father of this?" asked Mrs. Howland.
"I tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen to me," said the lad, with ill-concealed indignation in his voice. "And he never will listen to me, mother. He believes every word that is said against me, and flogs me whether I am guilty or not. I'm sure he hates me!"
"Hush! hush my boy! don't say that. Don't speak so of your father."
"Well, I'm sure he don't love me," persisted Andrew.
"Oh, yes, he does love you. He only dislikes what is wrong in you. My son must try to be a good boy."
"I do try, mother; I try almost every day. But somehow I do wrong things without thinking. I'm always sorry at first; sorry until father begins to scold or whip me, and then I don't seem to care anything about it. Oh, dear! I wish father wasn't always so cross!"
While Andrew thus talked, his tears had ceased to flow; but now they gushed over his cheeks again, and he leaned his face upon his mother's bosom. Mrs. Howland drew her arms closely around her unhappy boy, while her own eyes became wet. For many minutes there was silence. At last she said, in a kind, earnest voice—
"I've brought you a nice saucer of peaches and cream, Andrew."
"I don't want them, mother," replied the lad.
"You'll be hungry before night, dear. It's nearly school-time now, and you'll get nothing to eat until you come home again."
"I don't feel at all hungry, mother."
"Just eat them for my sake," urged Mrs. Howland.
Without a word more Andrew took the saucer.
"Ain't they nice?" asked Mrs. Howland, as she saw that her boy relished the fruit and cream.
"Yes, dear mother! they are very good," replied Andrew; "and you are good, too. Indeed I love you, mother!"
The last sentence was uttered with visible emotion.
"Then, for my sake, try and do right, Andrew," said Mrs. Howland, tenderly.
"I will try, mother," returned the boy. "I do try often; but I forget myself a great many times."
Soon after Andrew started for school. On arriving, his teacher called him up and said—
"Did your father get my note?"
"I don't know, sir," replied Andrew.
"What did he say to you?"
The boy's eyes sunk to the floor and he remained silent.
"I sent your father a note immediately," said the teacher, "telling him that you were not to blame."
Andrew looked up quickly into his teacher's face, while a shadow fell upon his countenance.
"You don't know whether he received it?"
"No sir."
The teacher called up another lad, and inquired if he had delivered the note given him at the dwelling of Mr. Howland, as directed. The boy replied that he had done so.
"Very, well. You can take your seat."
Then turning to Andrew, the teacher said—
"Was it about William Wilkins that your father sent for you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You told him how it was?"
The boy was silent.
"He didn't punish you, surely?"
Tears trembled on the closing lashes of the injured child; but he answered nothing. The teacher saw how it was, and questioned him no farther. From that time he was kinder toward his wayward and, too often, offending scholar, and gained a better influence over him.
Not for a moment, during the afternoon, was the thought that his father knew of his blamelessness absent from Andrew's mind. And, when he returned home, his heart beat feverishly in anticipation of the meeting between him and his parent. He felt sure that the teacher's note had reached his father after the punishment had been inflicted; and he expected, from an innate sense of right and justice, that some acknowledgment, grateful to his injured feelings, of the wrong he had suffered, would be made. There was no thought of triumph or reaction against his father. He had been wrongly judged, and cruelly punished; and all he asked for or desired was that his father should speak kindly to him, and say that he had been blamed without a cause. How many a dark shadow would such a gleam of sunshine have dispelled from his heart. But no such gleam of light awaited his meeting with his father, who did not even raise his eyes to look at him as he came into his presence.
For awhile Andrew lingered in the room where his father sat reading, hoping for a word that would indicate a kinder state of feeling toward him. But no such word was uttered. At length he commenced playing with a younger brother, who, not being able to make him do just as he wished, screamed out some complaint against him, when Mr. Howland looked up, suddenly, with a lowering countenance, and said, harshly—
"Go out of the room, sir! I never saw such a boy! No one can have any peace where you are!"
Andrew started, and made an effort to explain and excuse himself, for he was very anxious not to be misunderstood again just at this time. But his father exclaimed, more severely than at first.
"Do you hear me, sir! Leave this room instantly!"
The boy went out hopeless. He felt that he was unloved by his father. Oh! what would he not have given—what sacrifice would he not have made—to secure a word and a smile of affection from his stern parent, whom he had known from childhood only as one who reproved and punished.
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