University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
WARPED.

IT is the early breakfast hour at a small frame
house, situated about a mile from the staid but
thriving village of Pushton. But the indications
around the house do not indicate thrift. Quite
the reverse. As the neighbors expressed it, “there
was a screw loose with Lacey,” the owner of this
place. It was going down hill like its master. A
general air of neglect and growing dilapidation impressed
the most casual observer. The front gate
hung on one hinge; boards were off the shackly
barn, and the house had grown dingy and weather-stained
from lack of paint. But as you entered
and passed from the province of the master to that
of the mistress, a new element was apparent, struggling
with, but unable to overcome, the predominant
tendency to untidiness and seediness. But
everything that Mrs. Lacey controlled was as neat
and cleanly as the poor overworked woman could
keep it.

At the time our story becomes interested in
her fortunes, Mrs. Lacey was a middle-aged woman,
but appeared older than her years warranted, from
the long-continued strain of incessant toil, and
from that which wears much faster still, the depression

of an unhappy, ill-mated life. Her face wore
the pathetic expression of confirmed discouragement.
She reminded you of soldiers fighting when
they know it is of no use, and that defeat will be
the only result, but who fight on mechanically, in
obedience to orders.

She is now placing a very plain but wholesome
and well-prepared breakfast on the table, and it
would seem that both the eating and cooking were
carried on in the same large and general living
room. Her daughter, a rosy-cheeked, half-grown
girl of fourteen, was assisting her, and both mother
and daughter seemed in a nervous state of expectancy,
as if hoping and fearing the result of a near
event. A moment's glance showed that this event
related to a lad of about seventeen, who was walking
about the room, vainly trying to control the
agitation which is natural even to the cool and experienced
when feeling that they are at one of the
crisis periods of life.

It could not be expected of Arden Lacey at his
age to be cool and experienced while light curling
hair, blue eyes, and a mobile sensitive mouth, expressed
anything but a stolid self poise, or cheerful
endurance. Any one accustomed to observe character
could see that he was possessed of a nervous
fine-fibred nature capable of noble achievement
under right influences, but also easily warped and
susceptible to sad injury under brutal wrong. He
was like those delicate and somewhat complicated
musical instruments that produce the sweetest

harmonies when in tune and well played upon, but
the most jangling discords when unstrung and in
rough ignorant hands. He had inherited his nervous
temperament, his tendency to irritation and excess,
from the diseased over-stimulated system of his
father, who was fast becoming a confirmed inebriate,
and who had been poisoning himself with bad
liquors all his life. From his mother he obtained
what balance he had in temperament, but owed
more to her daily influence and training. It was
the one struggle of the poor woman's life to shield her
children from the evil consequences of their father's
life. For her son she had special anxiety, knowing
his sensitive high-strung nature, and his tendency
to go headlong into evil if his self-respect and control
were once lost. His passionate love for her
had been the boy's best trait, and through this she
had controlled him thus far. But she had thought
that it might be best for him to be away from his
father's presence and influence if she could only
find something that accorded with his bent. And
this eventually proved to be a college education.
The boy was of a quick and studious mind. From
earliest years he had been fond of books, and as
time advanced, the passion for study and reading
grew upon him. He had a strong imagination,
and his favorite styles of reading were such as
appealed to this. In the scenes of history and
romance he escaped from the sordid life of toil and
shame to which his father condemned him, into a
large realm that seemed rich and glorified in contrast.
When he was but fourteen the thought of
a liberal education fired his ambition and became
the dream of his life. He made the very most of
the district school to which he was sent in winter.
The teacher happened to be a well educated man,
and took pride in his apt, eager scholar. Between
the boy's and the mother's savings they had obtained
enough to secure private lessons in Latin
and Greek, and now at the age of seventeen, he
was tolerably well prepared for college.

But the father had no sympathy at all with
these tastes, and from the incessant labor he required
of his son, and the constant interruptions
he occasioned in his studies even in winter, he had
been a perpetual bar to all progress.

On the day previous to the scene described in
the opening of this chapter, the winter term had
closed, and Mr. Rule, the teacher, had declared that
Arden could enter college, and with natural pride
in his own work as instructor, intimated that he
would lead his class if he did.

Both mother and son were so elated at this
that they determined at once to state the fact to
the father, thinking that if he had any of the natural
feelings of a parent, he would take some pride
in his boy, and be willing to help him obtain the
education he longed for.

But there is little to be hoped from a man who
is completely under the influence of ignorance
and rum. Mr. Lacey was the son of a small farmer
like himself, and never had anything to recommend

him but his fine looks, which had captivated poor
Mrs. Lacey to her cost. Unlike the majority of his
class, who are fast becoming a very intelligent part
of the community, and are glad to educate their
children, he boasted that he liked the “old ways,”
and by these he meant the worst ways of his father's
day, when books and schools were scarce, and few
newspapers found their way to rural homes. He
was, like his father before him, a graduate of the
village tavern, and had imbibed bad liquor and his
ideas of life from that questionable source at the
same time. With the narrow-mindedness of his
class, he had a prejudice against all learning
that went beyond the three R's, and had watched
with growing disapprobation his son's taste for
books, believing that it would spoil him as a farm
hand, and make him an idle dreamer. He was less
and less inclined to work himself as his frame became
diseased and enfeebled from intemperance, and
he determined now to get as much work as possible
out of that “great hulk of a boy,” as he called
Arden. He had picked up some hints of the college
hopes, and the very thought angered him.
He determined that when the boy broached the subject
he would give him such a “jawing” (to use his
own vernacular) “as would put an end to that nonsense.”
Therefore both Arden and his mother,
who are waiting as we have described in such perturbed
anxious state for his entrance, are doomed
to bitter disappointment. At last a heavy red-faced
man entered the kitchen, stalking in on the white
floor out of the drizzling rain with his muddy boots
leaving tracks and blotches in keeping with his
character. But he had the grace to wash his grimy
hands before sitting down to the table. He was
always in a bad humor in the morning, and the
chilly rain had not improved it. A glance around
showed him that something was on hand, and he
surmised that it was the college business. He at
once thought within himself,

“I'll squelch the thing now, once for all.”

Turning to his son, he said, “Look here, youngster,
why haint you been out doing your chores?
D'ye expect me to do your work and mine too?”

“Father,” said the impulsive boy with a voice
of trembling eagerness, “if you will let me go to
college next fall, I'll do my work and yours too.
I'll work night and day—”

“What cussed nonsense is this?” demanded
the man harshly, clashing down his knife and fork
and turning frowningly toward his son.

“No, but father, listen to me before you refuse.
Mr. Rule says I'm fit to enter college and that I
can lead my class too. I've been studying for this
three years. I've set my heart upon it,” and in his
earnestness, tears gathered in his eyes.

“The more fool you, and old Rule is another,”
was the coarse answer.

The boy's eyes flashed angrily, but the mother
here spoke.

“You ought to be proud of your son, John; if
you were a true father you would be. If you'd encourage

and help him now, he'd make a man
that—”

“Shut up! little you know about it. He'd
make one of your snivelling white fingered loafers
that's too proud to get a living by hard work. Perhaps
you'd like to make a parson out of him. Now
look here old woman, and you too, my young cock,
I've suspicioned that something of this kind was
up, but I tell you once for all it won't go. Just as
this hulk of a boy is gettin of some use to me, you
want to spoil him by sending him to college. I'll
see him hanged first,” and the man turned to his
breakfast as if he had settled it. But he was startled
by his son's exclaiming passionately,—

“I will go.”

“Look a here, what do you mean?” said the
father, rising with a black ugly look.

“I mean I've set my heart on going to college
and I will go. You and all the world shan't hinder
me. I won't stay here and be a farm drudge all
my life.”

The man's face was livid with anger, and in a
low hissing tone he said,—

“I guess you want taking down a peg, my college
gentleman. Perhaps you don't know I'm
master till you're twenty one,” and he reached down
a large leather strap.

“You strike me if you dare,” shouted the
boy.

“If I dare! haw! haw! If I don't cut the cussed
nonsense out of yer this morning, then I never

did,” and he took an angry stride toward his son
who sprang behind the stove.

The wife and mother had stood by growing
whiter and whiter, and with lips pressed closely together.
At this critical moment she stepped before
her infuriated husband and seized his arm,
exclaiming,—

“John, take care. You have reached the end.”

“Stand aside,” snarled the man, raising the
strap, “or I'll give you a taste of it, too.”

The woman's grasp tightened on his arm, and
in a voice that made him pause and look fixedly at
her, she said,—

“If you strike me or that boy I'll take my children
and we will leave your roof this hateful day
never to return.”

“Haint I to be master in my own house?” said
the husband sullenly.

“You are not to be a brute in your own house.
I know you've struck me before, but I endured it
and said nothing about it because you were drunk,
but you are not drunk now, and if you lay a finger
on me or my son to-day, I will never darken your
doors again.”

The unnatural father saw that he had gone too
far. He had not expected such an issue. He had
long been accustomed to follow the lead of his
brutal passions, but had now reached a point
where he felt he must stop, as his wife said. Turning
on his heel, he sullenly took his place at the
table muttering,—

“It's a pretty pass when there's mutiny in a
man's own house.” Then to his son, “You won't
get a d—n cent out of me for your college business,
mind that.”

Rose, the daughter, who had been crying and
wringing her hands on the door-step, now came
timidly in, and at a sign from her mother, she and
her brother went into another room.

The man ate for a while in dogged silence, but
at last in a tone that was meant to be somewhat
conciliatory, said,—

“What the devil did you mean by putting the
boy up to such foolishness?”

“Hush!” said his wife imperiously, “I'm in no
mood to talk with you now.”

“Oh, ah, indeed, a man can't even speak in his
own house, eh? I guess I'll take myself off to
where I can have a little more liberty,” and he
went out, harnessed his old white horse, and started
for his favorite groggery in the village.

His father had no sooner gone than Arden
came out and said passionately,—

“It's no use, mother, I can't stand it; I must
leave home to-day; I guess I can make a living,
at any rate I'd rather starve than pass through
such scenes.”

The poor, overwrought woman threw herself
down in a low chair and sobbed, rocking herself
back and forth.

“Wait till I die, Arden, wait till I die, I feel it
won't be long. What have I to live for but you

and Rosy, and if you, my pride, and joy, go away
after what has happened, it will be worse than
death,” and a tempest of grief shook her gaunt
frame.

Arden was deeply moved. Boylike he had
been thinking only of himself, but now as never
before he realized her hard lot, and in his warm
impulsive heart there came a yearning tenderness
for her such as he had never felt before. He took
her in his arms and kissed and comforted her, till
even her sore heart felt the healing balm of love
and ceased its bitter aching. At last she dried her
eyes with a faint smile, and said,—

“With such a boy to pet me, the world isn't
all flint and thorns yet.”

And Rosy came and kissed her too, for she was
an affectionate child, though a little inclined to be
giddy and vain.

“Don't worry, mother,” said Arden. “I will
stay and take such good care of you, that you will
have many years yet, and happier ones, too, I
hope,” and he resolved to keep this promise, cost
what it might.

“I hardly think I ought to ask it of you, though
even the thought of your going away breaks my
heart.”

“I will stay,” said the boy, almost as passionately
as he had said, “I will go.” “I now see
how much you need a protector.”

That night the father came home so stupidly
drunk that they had to half carry him to bed,

where he slept heavily till morning, and rose considerably
shaken and depressed from his debauch.
The breakfast was as silent as it had been stormy
on the previous day. After it was over, Arden followed
his father to the door and said,—

“I was a boy yesterday morning, but you made
me a man, and a rather ugly one too. I learned
then for the first time, that you occasionally strike
my mother. Don't you ever do it again, or it will
be worse for you, drunk or sober. I am not going
to college, but will stay home and take care of her.
Do we understand each other?”

The man was in such a low shattered condition
that his son's bearing cowed him, and he walked
off muttering,—

“Young cocks crow mighty loud,” but from
that time forward he never offered violence to his
wife or children.

Still his father's conduct and character had a
most disastrous effect upon the young man. He
was soured, because disappointed in his most cherished
purpose, at an age when most youths scarcely
have definite plans. Many have a strong natural
bent, and if turned aside from this, they are
more or less unhappy, and their duties instead of
being wings to help forward in life, become a galling
yoke.

This was the case of Arden. Farm work, as he
had learned it from his father, was coarse, heavy
drudgery, with small and uncertain returns, and
these were largely spent at the village rum shops

in purchasing slow perdition for the husband, and
misery and shame for his wife and children.

In respectable Pushton, a drunkard's family, especially
if poor, had a very low social status. Mrs.
Lacey and her children would not accept of bad associations,
so they scarcely had any. This ostracism,
within certain limits is perhaps right. The
preventive penalties of vice can scarcely be too great,
and men and women must be made to feel that
wrong doing is certain to be followed by terrible
consequences. The fire is merciful in that it always
burns, and sin and suffering are inseparably linked.
But the consequences of one person's sin so often
blight the innocent. The necessity of this from
our various ties, should be a motive, a hostage
against sinning, and doubtless restrains many a one
who would go headlong under evil impulses. But
multitudes do slip off the paths of virtue, and helpless
wives, and often helpless husbands and children,
writhe from wounds made by those under sacred
obligations to shield them. Upon the families of
criminals, society visits a mildew of coldness and
scorn that blights nearly all chance of good fruit.
Only society is very unjust in its discriminations,
and some of the most heinous sins in God's sight
are treated as mere eccentricities, or condemned in
the poor, but winked at in the rich. Gentlemen
will admit to their parlors, men about whom they
know facts, which if true of a woman, would close
every respectable door against her, and God frowns
on the christian (?) society that makes such arbitrary

and unjust distinctions. Cast both out, till
they bring forth fruits meet for repentance.

But we hope for little of a reformative tendency
from the selfish society of the world; changing human
fashion rules it, rather than the eternal truth
of the God of love. The saddest feature of all, is
that the shifting code of fashion is coming more
and more to govern the church. Doctrine may remain
the same, profession and intellectual belief
the same, while practical action drifts far astray.
There are multitudes of wealthy churches, that
will no more admit associations with that class
among which our Lord lived and worked, than
will select society. They seem designed to help
only respectable, well-connected sinners, toward
heaven.

This tendency has two phases. In the cities
the poor are practically excluded from worshipping
with the rich, and missions are established for them
as if they were heathen. I have no objection to
costly magnificent churches. Nothing is too good
to be the expression of our honor and love of God.
But they should be like the cathedrals of Europe,
where prince and peasant may bow together on the
same level, as they are in Divine presence. Christ
made no distinction between the rich and poor
regarding their spiritual value and need, nor should
the christianity named after him. To that degree
that it does, it is not christianity. The meek and
lowly Nazarene is not its inspiration. Perhaps
the personage he told to get behind him when

promising the “kingdoms of the world and the
glory of them,” has more to do with it.

The second phase of this tendency as seen in
the country, is kindred but unlike. Poverty may
not be so great a bar, but moral fallings off are more
severely visited, and the family under a cloud,
through the wrong-doing of one or more of its
members, are treated very much as if they had a
perpetual pestilence. The highly respectable keep
aloof. Too often the quiet country church is not a
sanctuary and place of refuge to those whom either
their own or other's sin has wounded, a place where
the grasp of sympathy and words of encouragement
are spoken, but rather a place where they
meet the cold critical gaze of those who are
hedged about with virtues and good connections.
I hope I am wrong, but how is it where you live,
my reader? If a well-to-do thriving man of integrity
takes a fine place in your community, we all
know how church people will treat him. And
what they do is all right. But society—the world,
will do the same. Is christianity—are the followers
of the “Friend of publicans and sinners,” to do no
more?

If in contrast a drunken wretch like Lacey
with his wife and children come in town on top of
a wagon-load of shattered furniture, and all are
dumped down in a back alley to scramble into the
shelter of a tenement house as best they can, do
you call upon them? Do you invite them to your
pew? Do you ever urge and encourage them into

your church and make even one of its corners home-like
and inviting?

I hope so; but alas, that was not the general
custom in Pushton, and poor Mrs. Lacey had acquired
the habit of staying at home, her neighbors
had formed the habit of calling her husband a
“dreadful man,” and the family “very irreligious,”
and as the years passed they seemed to be more
and more left to themselves. Mr. Lacey had
brought his wife from a distant town where he had
met and married her. She was a timid, retiring
woman, and time and kindness were needed to
draw her out. But no one had seemingly thought
it worth while, and at the time our story takes an
interest in their affairs, there was a growing isolation.

All this had a very bad effect upon Arden. As
he grew out of the democracy of boyhood he met
a certain social coldness and distance which he
learned to understand only too early, and soon returned
this treatment with increased coldness and
aversion. Had it not been for the influence of his
mother and the books he read, he would have inevitably
fallen into low company. But he had
promised his mother to shun it. He saw its result in
his father's conduct, and as he read, and his mind
matured, the narrow coarseness of such company
became repugnant. From time to time he was
sorely tempted to leave home which his father
made hateful in many respects, and try his fortunes
among strangers who would not associate him with

a sot; but his love for his mother kept him at her
side, for he saw that her life was bound up in him,
and that he alone could protect her and his sister
and keep some sort of a shelter for them. In his
unselfish devotion to them his character was noble.
In his harsh cynicism toward the world and especially
the church people, for whom he made no allowance
whatever—in his utter hatred and detestation
of his father, it was faulty, though allowance
must be made for him. He was also peculiar in
other respects, for his unguided reading was of a
nature that fed his imagination at the expense of
his reasoning faculties. Though he drudged in a
narrow round, and his life was as hard and real as
poverty and his father's intemperance could make
it, he mentally lived and found his solace in a world
as large and unreal as an uncurbed fancy could create.
Therefore his work was hurried through mechanically
in the old slovenly methods to which he
had been educated, he caring little for the results,
his father squandering these; and when the necessary
toil was over, he would lose all sense of the
sordid present in the pages of some book obtained
from the village library. As he drove his milk cart
to and from town he would sit in the chill drizzling
rain, utterly oblivious of discomfort, with a half
smile upon his lips, as he pictured to himself some
scene of sunny aspect or gloomy castellated grandeur
of which his own imagination was the architect.
The famous in history, the heroes and heroines
of fiction, and especially the characters of
Shakspeare were more familiar to him than the
people among whom he lived. From the latter he
stood more and more aloof, while with the former
he held constant intercourse. He had little in
common even with his sister, who was of a very different
temperament. But his tenderness toward
his mother never failed, and she loved him with
the passionate intensity of a nature to which
love was all, but which had found little to satisfy it
on earth, and was ignorant of the love of God.

And so the years dragged on to Arden, and his
twenty-first birthday made him free from his father's
control as he practically long had been, but it
also found him bound more strongly than ever by
his mother's love and need to his old home life.