The Mother CHAPTER 10.
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Fruit.
About the same time that Clarence Hartley was sent to college — the oldest son of Mr. Archer was sent to sea as the last hope of reclaiming him. He had been allowed to run into all kinds of bad company until he was so degraded, that his mother lost all control over him. And yet, this boy had naturally a more obedient temper than Clarence, and could have been managed far more easily. It is true that the two mothers were placed under different circumstances — nevertheless, even the unhappy external condition of Florence Archer was no excuse. If she had truly loved her child — she could have brought an influence to bear upon him that would have saved him.
At college, Clarence Hartley found himself in a new world. At first, the reckless behavior and bad lives of some of the students, surprised and shocked him. Soon, familiaritywith such things made them seem less reprehensible. He could not only listen to them, but often join heartily in the laugh awakened by some sally of ribald wit. When alone, however, and the remembrance of home arose in his mind, he felt grieved to think that he could have taken pleasure in anything that would so have shocked his mother's ears.
He wrote home every week, and wrote with all the frankness of a mind which had nothing to conceal. Every letter was promptly answered by his mother; and, in every letter from her were some tenderly urged precepts which always came with a timely force. These were not hackneyed repetitions of the same forms that had been enunciated time and again, until all their force was gone; nor did they come to her son in the shape of mere didactics. They had an appropriateness, a beauty, and a force about them, which ever inspired Clarence with a new love of what was morally excellent. If, at any time, he felt inclined to enter the forbidden grounds of pleasure, where too many of the students roved, the very next letter from home would win him back. The love of his mother was about him, like a protecting sphere.
Very different was the case with James Fielding. It was not long before his natural love of companionship caused him to form intimate associations with several of the students whose principles and habits were not good. With these, he spent hours every night in amusements and conversations by no means calculated to elevate the tone of his feelings. He made frequent efforts to induce Clarence to join them, who did so for a few times — but for a few times only. After having spent an evening in drinking, smoking and card-playing, interspersed with songs and conversation such as his ears had never before heard — he found, on retiring to his room, a letter upon his table from his mother. The sight of this letter caused an instant revulsion in his feelings. He did not open it for some time. The very superscription, in the well-known handwriting of his mother, seemed to rebuke him for having felt pleasure in what would have pained her pure mind deeply. When, at length, he opened and read the letter, it affected him to tears.
"My Dear Clarence" — it said, "How much we missed you last night at our family party. There were Marien, Henry, Fanny, and Lillian — but Clarence was away. I believe I thought much oftener of my absent one, than I did of those who were present. Henry accompanied Marien at the piano, on the flute — but not so perfectly as you used to do; and yet he plays very well for one so young. Fanny is improving rapidly in her music; she performed for us a very difficult overture, and did it exceedingly well. She dances, too, with admirable grace. How I wanted you to see her last evening. Dear little Lillian is always talking about you, and asking when you will come home. She grows sweeter and dearer every day. We had a very happy time, indeed, as we always have; but it would have been much happier, had not one been missing.
"I had a visit from Mrs. Fielding yesterday. She says that James has only written to her twice since he has been away. She asked me how often I heard from you; when I told her, every few days, she said that if she could hear from her boy every few weeks — she would be very glad. Your mother thanks you, Clarence, for your promptness in writing. It is a great pleasure for me to hear from you often. How is Thomas Fielding? Is he doing well? I wish he would write home more frequently. I thought his mother looked troubled when she spoke of him."
Clarence sighed and lifted his eyes from the letter on reading this passage. He thought of James Fielding, and the dangerous ground upon which he was standing, and sighed again as he resumed the perusal of his letter. The whole letter came pure and true from a mother's heart, and it so filled the mind of Clarence with images of home, and made that home appear so like a little Heaven, that he experienced a shuddering sensation when he compared it with the scene in which he had so lately been a participant.
"Thank God for such a mother!" he could not help ejaculating, as he read the last line of her letter. "Shall I ever cause her to shed a tear? No — never!"
"You went away too soon last night," said James Fielding to him the next morning. "We had some rare sport after you left, with one of the professors. He guessed that all was not right, and came tapping at the door about eleven o'clock. We let him in, and then mystified him until he was glad to sneak off, half begging our pardons for having suspected us of anything wrong. Ha! ha! It was great fun."
"I think I stayed quite long enough," Clarence replied, gravely.
"Why so?"
"I don't believe any of us were doing right."
"Indeed! Why not?"
"We were doing what we knew would not be sanctioned by the Faculty."
"I suppose we were. But what of that?"
"A good deal, I would think. It is wrong to violate any of the rules and regulations of the institution."
"Humph! If that is wrong, a good many sins are committed with the passage of every twenty-four hours. You are more particular than wise, Clarence. A little fun is pleasant at all times. I go in for it myself."
"Innocent fun is well enough. But where it is sought in wicked courses — it is imminently dangerous. At the last, it bites like a serpent and stings like an adder! When did you hear from home, James?"
"From home? Oh, I'm sure I don't remember. I was going to say I don't hear from there at all; but I have had two letters from mother, filling half a page each."
"When did you write?"
"About a month ago, to say I needed some pocket money."
"I heard from home last night."
"Ah! Got some money, I suppose."
"Of love from my mother, more precious than gold or silver," replied Clarence with some feeling. "She says that your mother complains that you do not write to her."
"Say to your mother, if you please, that I complain that my mother doesn't write to me. So the account will stand balanced. I never could write a letter, except to say I wanted something. And I suppose mother is like me. We will excuse one another."
James spoke with a levity that pained Clarence. He wanted to admonish him, but felt that, in his present mood, it would be useless.
During the first year that Clarence was at college, the principles he had been taught by his mother became rules of action with him. He set his face resolutely against everything that he considered wrong. James Fielding, on the contrary, was among the most thoughtless young men in the institution. His desires and passions were his rulers.
One day he came to Clarence and said —
"There is to be some sport in about a week."
"Is there? What will it be like?"
"We don't intend going to morning prayers until seven o'clock."
"But the regulations say six."
"I know. Six is too early, and we are going to have it at seven."
"You did not come here to make laws — but to observe them," gravely replied Clarence.
"We came here to be instructed, not to be dragged out of bed to morning prayers before day — not to be bamboozled about by arbitrary Professors. It is a public institution, and the Faculty have no right to make oppressive laws."
"If anyone dislikes these laws — let him go home. It is the only honest course. But what else is intended?"
"We intend — "
"We? Have you really joined in this conspiracy against law and order?"
"Certainly I have. With the exception of about twenty, every student is pledged to go through with the matter when it is once started. My duty is to bring you over to our side. We wish to act as one man."
"After you have refused to attend morning prayers — what do you then propose doing?"
"If the hour is changed to seven, all well and good. Nothing more will be done. But if not, our next course will be to attend regularly at six for a week, and scrape the chaplain down."
"What!"
"Completely drown his voice by scraping our feet."
"You certainly are beside yourself, James. I cannot believe that you would join in doing so wrong a deed. In this you would not only insult the institution, but God Himself."
"Oh no. God doesn't have much to do with the six o'clock prayers of college students."
"You speak with an unbecoming levity, James."
"Do I indeed?" The lip of the boy slightly curled.
"What else is to be done?" asked Clarence, not noticing the manner of his companion.
"All sorts of things. Every regulation of the college is to be broken — unless our wishes are complied with. Wait a little, and you will see fun. But let me tell you — it is determined that every student who does not join us, shall be thrown into the horse-pond. You had better consent. I would hate to see anything done to you."
The eyes of Clarence instantly flashed, and his cheeks grew red as crimson.
"I would not consent — if my life were taken," said the high-spirited boy. "But never fear. There is no one here that dare lay his hands upon me."
"Don't trust to that. There are those here who dare lay their hands upon anybody, and who will do it too. Come, then, say you will join us."
"No — never!"
"You will be sorry when it is too late."
"I have no fears."
On the next day, the matter was publicly broached during the college recess, when the students were alone.
"I move," said one, "that we begin on the morning after tomorrow."
"Second the motion," came from three or four voices.
"All who are in favor, hold up your hands."
More than a hundred hands, were thrown into the air.
"All who are opposed will now hold up their hands."
A deep silence followed. Then a single hand was raised — then another, and another, until ten hands were seen above the heads of the crowd. It was the hand of Clarence, which first went up.
A murmur of discontent ran through the body of students, which deepened into execrations and threats. Half a dozen who were nearest Clarence gathered round him, with earnest and half angry remonstrances. His only reply was —
"It is wrong — and I cannot join you."
"The regulation is oppressive," it was argued.
"Then leave the institution — but do not violate its laws."
"That is easily said. But others have a word in that, as well as ourselves. All here are not exactly free to do as they please."
"It is better to endure what seems oppressive, than to do wrong."
"We don't mean to do wrong!" said several voices.
You threaten to throw anyone in the horse-pond who does not join you."
Several of the students looked confused, but one or two cried out — "Certainly we do! And what is more, our threats shall be executed!"
"Right, or wrong?" retorted Clarence, with a meaning look and voice, and turning on his heel, walked away with a firm step.
His manner and words had their effect. He had said but little, but that little caused several who heard him to think more soberly. In nearly every little knot of students that was drawn together in the various rooms that night, was one or more who had become lukewarm. A re-consideration of the matter was moved on the next day, and the question again taken. Instead of a dozen hands raised in the negative, as on the day before — there were now over fifty. From that time, little more was heard upon the subject. The revoltnever took place.
So much for the influence of a single well-ordered, honest mind. Had the natural disposition of Clarence been unchecked, and had no counter-balancing principles been stored up in his mind — he would have been as eager for the proposed rebellion as the most thoughtless students. What evil results might have followed, cannot he told. There were those in the institution who did not like him much after this; but none who did not feel for him an involuntary respect.
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