THUS the struggle went on, Mr. Howland's power to control his boy growing less and less every year. Naturally, considering the relation of the two families of Mr. Howland and Mr. Winters, and the bad reputation of the son of the former, the intercourse between Andrew and Emily was more and more restricted. Still their friendship for each other remained, to a certain extent, undiminished, and they met as often as favorable circumstances would permit. To Emily, the kind feelings entertained for the wayward boy proved sources of frequent unhappiness. Few opportunities for speaking against him were omitted by her parents, and she never heard his name coupled with words of censure without feeling pain. One half that was said of him she did not believe; for she saw more of the bright side of his character than did any one else.
As before intimated, by the time Emily gained her sixteenth year, she had developed so far toward womanhood, that Andrew, who still remained a slender boy in appearance, felt his heart tremble as he looked upon her, and thought of the distance this earlier development had placed between them. And even a greater distance was beginning to exist—the distance that lies between a pure mind and one that is corrupt. As Andrew grew older, he grew worse, and the sphere of his spiritual quality began to be felt, oppressively, at times, by Emily, during the periods of their brief intercourse. Moreover, she was ever hearing some evil thing laid to his charge. At length their intimate intercourse came to an end, and, with the termination of this, was removed the last restraint that held the lad in bounds of external propriety. The cause of this termination we will relate: As Andrew grew older, he grew more and more self-willed, and strayed farther and farther from the right way. Social in his feelings, he sought the companionship of boys of his own age, and by the time he was seventeen, had formed associations of a very dangerous character. Though positively forbidden by his father to be out after night, he disregarded the injunction, and went from home almost every evening. At home there was nothing to attract him; nothing to give him pleasure. A shadow was ever on the brow of his father, and this threw a gloom over the entire household. But, abroad, among his companions, he found a hundred things to interest him. All license tends toward further extremes. It was not long before Andrew found ten o'clock at night too early for him. The theatre was a place positively interdicted by his parents; and, restrained by some lingering respect for his mother's feelings, Andrew had, up to the age of seventeen, resisted the strong desire he felt to see a play. At last, however, he yielded to temptation, and went to the theatre. On returning home about eleven o'clock, he found his father sitting up for him. To the stern interrogation as to where he had been so late, he replied with equivocation, and finally with direct falsehood.
"Andrew," said Mr. Howland, at length, speaking with unusual severity of tone, and with a deliberation and emphasis that indicated a higher degree of earnestness than usual, "if you are out again until after ten o'clock, you remain out all night. To this my mind is fully made up. So act your own good pleasure."
The father and son then separated.
Ten o'clock came on the next night, and Andrew had not returned. For the half hour preceding the stroke of the clock, Mr. Howland had walked the floor uneasily, with his ear harkening anxiously for the sound of the bell that marked his son's return; and, as the time drew nearer and nearer, he half repented the utterance of a law, that, if broken, could not, he feared, but result in injury to the disobedient boy. At last the clock struck ten. He paused and stood listening for over a minute; then he resumed his walk again, and continued his measured paces for over ten minutes longer, intending to give his erring son the benefit of that space of time. But he yielded thus much in his favor in vain. Anger at this deliberate disobedience of a positive order then displaced a portion of anxiety, and he closed, mentally, the door upon his child for that night.
Of his purpose, Mr. Howland said nothing to his wife. He hoped that she would be asleep before Andrew returned, if he returned at all before morning. But in this his hope was not realized. The fact of Andrew's having staid out so late on the night before had troubled her all day, and she had made up her mind to sit up for him now until he came home.
"Come, Esther, it is time to go to bed," said Mr. Howland to his wife, seeing that she made no motion towards retiring.
"You go. I will sit up for Andrew," was replied.
"Andrew can't come in, to-night," said Mr. Howland.
The mother sprung to her feet instantly; her face flushing, and then becoming very pale.
"I told him, last night, that if he staid out again until after ten o'clock, there would be no admission for him until morning. And I shall assuredly keep my word!"
"Oh, Andrew! Don't, don't do this!" pleaded the unhappy mother, in a low, choking voice. "Would you turn an erring son from your door, when danger is hovering around him?"
"He turns himself away. The act is his, not mine," replied Mr. Howland, coldly.
As he spoke, the bell rung.
"There he is, now!" exclaimed the mother, starting toward the door.
"Esther!" Mr. Howland stept in front of his wife, and, looking sternly in her face, added, "Haven't I just said that there was no entrance for him, to-night?"
"But it's early! It's only a few minutes after ten," eagerly replied the mother.
"It's past ten o'clock, and that settles the matter," returned Mr. Howland.
"But where will he go?" asked the mother.
"To the Station House, if he can find no better place. To-morrow he will most probably have a higher appreciation of the comforts of home."
As Mr. Howland closed this sentence, the bell rung again.
"Andrew! I must let him in!" exclaimed the mother, in a tone of anguish, and she made a movement to pass her husband. But a strong hand was instantly laid upon her arm, and a stern voice said—
"Don't interfere with me in this matter, Esther! As the father of that wayward boy, it is my duty to control him."
"This is driving him from his home; not controlling him!"
"I'll bear the responsibility of what I am doing," said Mr. Howland, impatiently. "Why will you interfere with me in this way?"
"Is he not my son also?" inquired Mrs. Howland, passing, in her distress of mind, beyond the ordinary spirit of her intercourse with her self-willed husband.
"I am his father," coldly replied the latter, "and knowing my duty toward him, shall certainly do it."
The bell was rung again at this moment, and more loudly than before.
"Oh, Andrew! let me beg of you to open the door!" And Mrs. Howland clasped her hands imploringly, and lifted her eyes running over with tears to her husband's face.
"It cannot be opened to-night, Esther!" was the firm reply. "Have I not said this over and over again. Why will you continue these importunities? They are of no avail."
A loud knocking on the street door was now heard. By this time, a servant who had retired came down from her room and was moving along the passage, when Mr. Howland intercepted her, with the question—
"Where are you going?"
"Some one rung the bell," replied the servant.
"Never mind; go back to your room. You needn't open the door."
"Andrew isn't in yet," said the servant, respectfully.
"Didn't I say, go back to your room?" returned Mr. Howland, in a sharp voice.
Twice more the bell was rung, and twice more the knocking was repeated. Then all remained silent.
"Come, Esther!" said Mr. Howland to his wife, who was sitting on a sofa, with her face buried in her hands. "Let us go up stairs. It is late."
The mother did not stir.
"Esther! did you hear me?"
Slowly, more like a moving automaton than a living creature, did Mrs. Howland arise from her place, and follow her husband up to their chamber. There, without uttering a word, she partially disrobed herself, and getting into bed, buried her tearful face in a pillow. Mr. Howland was soon by her side. Both lay without moving for nearly half an hour, and then the heavy respiration of the husband told that he was asleep. The moment this was apparent, Mrs. Howland, who had lain as still as if locked in deep slumber, crept softly from the bed, and then, with a quick, eager motion, commenced putting on a wrapper. This done, she drew a pair of slippers on her feet, glided noiselessly from the room, and hurried down to the street door, which she softly opened.
The mother had hoped to find her erring son still there. But, as she looked anxiously forth into the darkness, no human form was perceived.
"Andrew!" she called, in a low voice, as she stepped from the door, and threw her eyes up and down the street: "Andrew!"
But all was silent. Descending to the pavement, she passed along a few yards to the steps of the next house, a faint hope in her mind that Andrew might have seated himself there in his disappointment and fallen asleep. But this hope was not realized. Then she passed on to the next house, and the next, with the same purpose and the same result. She was near the corner of the street, when the sound of a closing door fell upon her ear, and the thought that the wind might have shut her own door upon her, filled her with sudden alarm. Running back, she found that what she had feared was too true. She was alone in the street, half-dressed and with her head uncovered, and the door, which closed with a dead-latch, shut against her.
To ring the bell was Mrs. Howland's first impulse. But no one answered to the summons. Every ear was sealed in slumber, and, even were that not the case, no one would come down, unless her husband should awaken, and discover that she was not by his side. Again and again she pulled the bell. But eagerly though she listened, with her ear to the door, not the slightest movement was heard within.
While the mother shrunk close to the door in a listening attitude, the sound of a slow, heavy step was heard approaching along the street. Soon the form of a man came in view, and in a little while he was in front of Mrs. Howland, where he paused, and after standing and looking at her for a few moments, said,
"What's the matter here?"
Mrs. Howland trembled so, that she could make no answer.
The man put his hand on the iron railing, and lifted one foot upon the stone steps leading to the door of the house, saying as he did so,
"Do you live here?"
"Yes!" was replied in a low, frightened voice.
Mrs. Howland now looking at the man more closely, perceived, by his dress, that he was one of the night policemen, and her heart took instant courage.
"Oh," said she, forgetting, for the moment, the unpleasant circumstances by which she was surrounded, and turning to the man as she spoke, "have you seen anything of my son—of Mr. Howland's son—about here to-night?"
"Mrs. Howland! Is it possible!" replied the man, in a respectful voice. Then he added, "I saw him go down the street about half an hour ago."
"Did you! And do you know where he has gone?"
"No, ma'am. He passed on out of sight."
A low moan escaped the mother's lips at this intelligence. A few moments she stood silent, and then placed her hand upon the bell-pull and rung for admittance.
"Is the door locked?" asked the watchman, manifesting surprise.
"No; the wind blew it to, and it has become fastened with the dead-latch."
Both stood silent for some time, but no one answered the bell. The night dews were falling upon the mother's head, and the night air penetrating her thin garments. A shiver ran through her frame, and she felt a constriction of the chest as if she had inhaled sulphur. Again she rung the bell.
"Does no one know of your being out?" asked the watchman.
"All are asleep in the house," replied Mrs. Howland.
At this the watchman came up the steps, and struck two or three heavy blows upon the door with his mace, the sound of which went reverberating through the house, and startling Mr. Howland from his slumber. But not perceiving immediately that his wife was absent from her place by his side, and thinking that his son had renewed his efforts to gain admission, the latter did not make a motion to rise. In a few moments, however, the repeated strokes of the mace, to which was added the loud call of a man in the street below caused him to start up in bed. He then perceived that his wife was not by his side. With an exclamation, he sprang upon the floor, and throwing up the window, called out—
"Who's there?"
"Come down and open the door," was answered by the watchman.
"Who wants to come in?" asked Mr. Howland, his mind beginning by this time to get a little clear from the confusion into which it was at first thrown.
"I do," replied a voice that threw all into bewilderment again.
"Bless me! What does this mean!" exclaimed Mr. Howland, aloud, yet speaking to himself.
"Open the door, quickly," called out Mrs. Howland, in a tone of distress. "Come down and let me in."
Hurriedly Mr. Howland now dressed himself and went down. As he opened the door, his wife glided past him, and ran up stairs. The watchman retired without speaking to the confused and astonished husband, who, recovering his presence of mind, reclosed the door and followed his wife to their chamber.
"Esther! What is the meaning of all this?" asked Mr. Howland, with much severity of manner.
But there was no reply.
"Will you speak?" said he, in a tone of authority.
The home-tyrant had gone a step too far. The meek, patient, long-suffering, much enduring wife, was in no state of mind to bear further encroachments in the direction from which they were now coming. Suddenly she raised herself up from whence she had fallen across the bed, and looking at her husband with an expression that caused him to step back a pace, involuntarily answered.
"By what authority do you speak to me thus?"
"By the authority vested in me as your husband," was promptly answered.
"I was on God's errand, Mr. Howland; searching after the weak, the simple, and the erring! Have you anything to say against the mission? Does your authority reach above His?"
And the mother, lifting her hand, pointed trembling finger upward, while she fixed an eye upon her husband so steady that his own sunk beneath its gaze.
For the space of nearly a minute, the attitude of neither changed, nor was the silence broken. Twice during the time did Mr. Howland lift his eyes to those of his wife, and each time did they fall, after a few moments, under the strange half-defiant look they encountered. At last he said firmly, yet in a more subdued, though rebuking voice,
"This to me, Esther?"
"Am I not a mother?" was asked in response to this, yet without a perceptible tremor in her voice.
"You are a wife, as well as a mother," replied Mr. Howland, "and, as a wife, are under a sacred obligation to regard the authority committed to your husband by God."
"Have I not just said to you," returned Mrs. Howland, "that I was on God's errand? Does your authority go beyond His?"
"When did He speak to you?" There was a covert sneer in the tone with which this half impious interrogation was made.
"I heard his still, small voice in my mother's heart," replied Mrs. Howland, meekly, "and I went forth obedient thereto, to seek the straying child you had so harshly and erringly turned from your door: thus does God shut the door of Heaven against no wandering one who comes to it and knocks for entrance."
"Esther! I will not hear such language from your lips!" There was an unsteadiness in the voice of Mr. Howland, that marked the effect his wife's unexpected and searching words had produced.
"Then do not seek to stand between me and my duty as a mother," was her firm reply. "Too long, already, have you placed yourself between me and this duty. But that time is past."
As Mrs. Howland uttered these words, she passed across the room to a window, which she threw up, and leaning her body out, looked earnestly up and down the street. For a reaction like this Mr. Howland was not prepared. He was, in fact, utterly confounded. Had there been the smallest sign of irresolution on the part of his wife—the nearest appearance of weakness in the will so suddenly opposed to his own—he would have known what to do. But nothing of this was apparent, and he hesitated about advancing again to the contest, while there was so strong a doubt as to the issue.
For a long time Mr. Howland moved about the room, while his wife continued to sit, listening, at the window.
"Come, Esther," said the former, at length, in a voice greatly changed from its tone when he last spoke. "You had better retire. It is useless to remain there. Besides, you are in danger of taking cold. The air is damp and chilly."
"You can retire—I shall sleep none, to-night," was answered to this. And then Mrs. Howland looked again from the window. "Where—where can he have gone?" she said aloud, though speaking to herself. "My poor, unhappy boy!"
Mr. Howland made no answer to this. He had no satisfying intelligence to offer, nor any words of comfort that it would be of avail to speak.
Thus the greater portion of that long remembered night was passed—Mrs. Howland sitting at the window, vainly waiting and watching for her son, and Mr. Howland walking the floor of the room, his mind given up to troubled and rebuking thoughts. In his hardness and self-will he had justified himself up to this in his course of conduct pursued toward his children; but he was in doubt now. A question as to whether he had been right or not had come into his mind, and disturbed him to the very centre.
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