I HATE him!”
Thus, in a loud, angry voice, spoke a lad named Charles Freeman. His face was red, and his fair white brow disfigured by passion.
“Yes, I hate him! and he had better keep his distance from me, or I—”
“What would you do, Charles?” asked the lad’s companion, seeing that he paused.
“I don’t know what I might not be tempted to do. I would trample upon him as I would upon a snake.”
For a boy fourteen years of age, this was a dreadful state of mind to be in. The individual who had offended him was a fellow-student, named William Aiken. The cause of offence we will relate.
Charles Freeman was a self-willed, passionate boy, who hesitated not to break any rule of the institution at which he was receiving his education, provided, in doing so, he felt quite sure of not being found out and punished. On a certain occasion, he, with two or three others, who were planning some act of insubordination, called into the room of William Aiken and asked him to join them.
“It will be such grand sport,” said Freeman.
“But will it be right?” asked the more conscientious lad.
“Right or wrong, we are going to do it. Who cares for the president and all the faculty put together? They are a set of hypocrites and oppressors: make the best you can of them.”
“They don’t ask us to do anything but what is required by the rules of the institution; and then, I think, we ought to obey.”
“You are wonderfully inclined to obedience!” said Charles Freeman, in a sneering voice. “Come, boys! We have mistaken Master Aiken. I did not know before that he was such a milksop. Come!”
The other lads retired with Freeman, but they did not insult Aiken, for they knew him to be kind-hearted and honourable, and felt more disposed to respect him for his objections than to speak harshly to him for entertaining them. Aiken made no reply to the insulting language of the hot-headed, thoughtless Charles Freeman, although his words roused within him an instant feeling of indignation, that almost forced his tongue to utter some strong, retaliating expressions. But he controlled himself, and was very glad, as soon as his visitors had left him, that he had been able to do so.
On the next morning, before daylight, some persons, unknown to the faculty, brought from a neighbouring field a spiteful ram, and tied him, with a strong cord, to a post near the door of the president’s dwelling. The president, who was very near-sighted, always read prayers in the chapel at five o’clock in the morning. At the usual hour he descended from his chamber, and came out at his front door to go to the chapel, which was distant some fifty yards. It was a little after break of day. In the dim morning twilight, the president could see but indistinctly even objects that were very near to him.
The ram, which had, after his fierce struggles with those who had reduced him to a state of captivity, lain down quietly, roused himself up at the sound of the opening door, and stood ready to give the president a rather warm reception the moment he came within reach of him. Unconscious of the danger that menaced him, the president descended from the door with slow and cautious steps, and received in his side a terrible blow from the animal’s head, that threw him, some feet from where he was standing, prostrate upon the ground. Fortunately the ram had reached within a few inches of the length of his tether when the blow was given, and could not, therefore, repeat it, as the object of his wrath was beyond his reach.
The president was rather severely hurt; so much so that he was unable to go to the chapel and read morning prayers, and was confined to his chamber for some days. No investigation into the matter was made until after he was able to be about again. Then he assembled all the students together and stated to them what had occurred, and the pain he had endured in consequence, and asked to have the individuals who had been guilty of this outrage designated. All were silent. One student looked at another, and then at the assembled faculty, but no one gave the desired information, although many of those present knew the parties who were engaged in the act. Finding that no one would divulge the names of those who had been guilty of the outrage against him, the president said,—
“Let all who know nothing of this matter rise to their feet.”
Charles Freeman was the first to spring up, and one after another followed him, until all had risen except William Aiken. The president paused for some moments, and then ordered the young men to take their seats.
“William Aiken will please to come forward,” said the president. As the lad rose from his seat, several of the faculty, who had their eyes upon Freeman, and who had reason for suspecting that he knew about as much of the matter as any one, noticed that he cast a look of anger towards Aiken.
“It seems, then, that you know something about this matter,” said the president.
“All I know about it,” replied Aiken, “is, that I was applied to by some of my fellow-students to join them in doing what has been done, and that I declined participating in it.”
“For what reason, sir?”
“Because I thought it wrong.”
“Who were the students that applied to you?”
“I would rather not answer that question, sir.”
“But I insist upon it.”
“Then I must decline doing so.”
“You will be suspended, sir.”
“I should regret that,” was the lad’s manly reply. “But as I have broken no rule of the institution, such a suspension would be no disgrace to me.”
The president was perplexed. At this point one of the professors whispered something in his ear, and his eye turned immediately upon Freeman.
“Let Charles Freeman come forward,” he said.
With a fluctuating countenance the guilty youth left his seat and approached the faculty.
“Is this one of them?” said the president.
Aiken made no reply.
“Silence is assent,” the president remarked; “you can take your seat, young man.”
As Aiken moved away, the president, who had rather unjustly fixed upon him the burden of having given information, tacitly, against Freeman, said, addressing the latter:—
“And now, sir, who were your associates in this thing?”
“I am no common informer, sir. You had better ask William Aiken. No doubt he will tell you,” replied the lad.
The president stood thoughtful for a moment, and then said,—
“Gentlemen, you can all retire.”
It was as the students were retiring from the room where this proceeding had been conducted that Freeman made the bitter remarks about Aiken with which our story opens. It happened that the subject of them was so close to him as to hear all he said. About ten minutes after this, against the persuasion of a fellow-student, Freeman went to the room of Aiken for the satisfaction of telling him, as he said, “a piece of his mind.” Aiken was sitting by a table, with his head resting upon his hand, as Freeman came in. He looked up, when his door opened, and, seeing who it was, rose quickly to his feet, and advanced towards him a few steps, saying, with a smile, as he did so:—
“I am glad you have come, Charles. I had just made up my mind to go to your room. Sit down now, and let us talk this matter over with as little hard feelings as possible. I am sure it need not make us enemies. If I have been at any point in the least to blame, I will freely acknowledge it, and do all in my power to repair any injury that I may have done to you. Can I do more?”
“Of course not,” replied Charles, completely subdued by the unexpected manner and words of Aiken.
“I heard you say, a little while ago, that you hated me,” resumed William. “Of course there must be some cause for this feeling. Tell me what it is, Charles.”
The kind manner in which Aiken spoke, and the mildness of his voice, completely subdued the lion in the heart of Freeman. He was astonished at himself, and the wonderful revulsion that had taken place, so suddenly, in his feelings.
“I spoke hastily,” he said. “But I was blind with anger at being discovered through you.”
“But I did not discover you, remember that, Charles.”
“If you had risen with the rest—”
“I would not, in word or act, tell a lie, Charles, for my right hand,” said Aiken, in an earnest voice, interrupting him. “You must not blame me for this.”
“Perhaps I ought not, but—”
Freeman left the sentence unfinished, and rising to his feet, commenced walking the floor of Aiken’s room, hurriedly. This was continued for some minutes, when he stopped suddenly, and extending his hand, said,—
“I have thought it all over, William, and I believe I have no cause of complaint against you; but I acknowledge that you have against me. I have insulted you and hated you without a cause. I wish I could act, in all things, from the high principles that govern you.”
“Try, Charles, try!” said Aiken with warmth, as he grasped the hand of his fellow-student.
“It will be no use for me to try,” returned Freeman, sadly. “I shall be expelled from the institution; my father will be angry; and I shall perhaps be driven, by my hot and hasty spirit, to say something to him that will estrange us, for he is a man of a stern temper.”
“Don’t fear such consequences,” said Aiken kindly. “Leave it to me. I think I can make such representations to the president as will induce him to let the matter drop where it is.”
“If you can do so, it may save me from ruin,” replied Freeman, with much feeling.
William Aiken was not deceived in his expectations. He represented to the kind-hearted but rather impetuous president the repentant state of Freeman’s mind, and the consequences likely to arise if he should be expelled from college. The president made no promises; but nothing more was heard of the subject. From that time the two students were warm friends; and Freeman was not only led to see the beauty and excellence of truth and integrity of character, but to act from the same high principles that governed his noble-minded friend.
There is not one of our young readers who cannot see what sad consequences might have arisen, if William Aiken had not kept down his indignant feelings, and been governed by kindness instead of anger.
