"Aunt told me it was safe to trust in God."
Next to Ellen, Dr. Collins was interested to watch the effect of the letter on Miss Granby. He was pleased to see her slyly wipe a tear from her eye, and then, with something of a struggle between her pride and conviction of duty, she rose, and approaching her pupil, said, with real feeling,—
"I have been grievously mistaken, Ellen; I really believed from your confession that you were guilty. Will you forgive me?"
Ellen caught her hand and kissed it repeatedly, exclaiming, eagerly,—
"I love you now just as well as I did before. I was vexed at first; but I remembered that you couldn't trust me as well as you can Mary, because I used to tell falsehoods, you know."
"I shall always trust you in future, my dear child. You have taught me more than one lesson by your ready forgiveness."
"So that you no longer wonder that her old uncle doats on her," said the doctor, laughing, as he seated his niece on his knee. "But you must pity poor Josey. She had a bitter pill to swallow this morning. It needed all the influence of the lawyer I took with me to induce her to take it."
LIES OF POLITENESS.
THE school to which Alice Saunders was sent was different in almost every respect from the fashionable establishment of Mrs. Lerow. In regard to the studies, Miss Salsbury labored far more to discipline the mind, and lay a thorough foundation upon which a good education might be reared up, than to have her young pupils pointed at as ladylike and accomplished.
In her thirty years of experience in teaching, she had seen many young misses sacrificed to their own or their parents' love of what was merely superficial in learning,—preferring a smattering of French, ability to sing a few Italian operas, and to dance gracefully, to those acquirements which would fit them for the real duties and responsibilities of life. She had an old-fashioned opinion, that when a young lady left school, her education was by no means complete,—that only a substructure was formed upon which a beautiful temple might be raised.
If Alice had been under her influence at an earlier age, the seeds of vanity and deceit which had early taken root in her young mind might have been eradicated; but half a year in such a hot-house as Mrs. Lerow's school had brought these shoots to a fearful state of maturity.
With Miss Salsbury's discernment, it did not require many hours' acquaintance with her new pupil to give her an insight into the purposes and motives which governed the young lady. Beautiful in person, bewitching in manner, but wholly destitute of moral rectitude, could the preceptress have consulted her own wishes, she would have sent Alice directly back to her father, so much did she shrink from the responsibility involved in the moral training of such a girl. Then she doubted her own wisdom in introducing so artful a character among her other pupils.
"Certainly," was her mental exclamation, "with such an influence to oppose, I must be doubly vigilant."
As the house was too full to allow the new scholar a room by herself, and as the preceptress was far too conscientious to expose those committed to her care to such intimate companionship as would be unavoidable in roommates, she turned with a sigh from the parlor, where she had been talking with Alice, to make hasty arrangements for giving her a room with one of the under teachers, who was her own niece, a young lady of Christian courtesy and great integrity of character.
In half an hour, Miss Saunders was introduced to a pleasant chamber on the third flight, where she found Miss Farley, her new room-mate, awaiting her.
Emma Farley was an agreeable young lady of twenty years, wholly unacquainted with her aunt's motives in putting Miss Saunders under her care, and very favorably impressed in regard to the new-comer.
On the other hand, Alice was deeply chagrined at the idea of being under the constant surveillance of a teacher; but she was quite too much a woman of the world, and had profited too well by Aunt Clarissa's example to betray such a feeling. Indeed, the first words she spoke expressed exactly the opposite sentiment.
"What a pleasant room!" she said in her sweet, languid voice. "I am very happy to share it with you. I think we shall have delightful times together."
While the new miss lazily arranged her wardrobe in the closet and drawers, the acquaintance progressed rapidly. Alice, with a degree of art far beyond her years, praised her companion's hair, complexion, and general appearance,—accounting herself most fortunate in being thrown in with one evidently accustomed to the best society,—and then drew from the unsuspecting teacher an account of the families in the neighborhood, with difficulty concealing her pleasure at the announcement that an academy for young men was in flood-tide of success at the other end of the village.
"Of course," she remarked in an indifferent tone, lazily arranging a box of laces to hide her eagerness, "the pupils here are allowed no intercourse with the young gentlemen?"
"Aunt Salsbury is as cautious as possible," answered Miss Farley; "but as Dr. Bowles's pupils occupy the opposite wing to ours in church, they know each other by sight, and as a number of our young ladies have brothers there, some visiting is unavoidable."
"Of course," was the careless reply.
Alice returned to her wardrobe, the school formerly so much dreaded being invested with new interest.
"What do you think of Miss Saunders?" anxiously inquired Miss Salsbury, at a late hour the same evening.
"I think she will be a great acquisition to the school," was the enthusiastic reply. "She is lovely in person, and as far as I can judge, of a bright mind."
"Yes, there is no doubt of that, Emma; but her morals,—has her conscience been cultivated quite as diligently as her personal charms?"
"I see no reason to think the contrary." Emma repeated part of the conversation, and then retired.
"I must guard against prejudice," said the preceptress to herself; "but, if I do not mistake, my unsuspicious niece has been duped by a few lies of politeness. But time will show the real character of my new pupil."
Less than a fortnight sufficed, not only for mutual acquaintance between the young ladies, but also to raise Alice to the height of popularity. Her dress and her opinions were quoted as law; her most trifling acts commented upon with favor; while her frequent remissness in the recitation room was excused on account of her inability to apply herself closely without bringing on an excruciating pain in her head. This artifice the young girl had resorted to immediately upon ascertaining that none of the tricks to evade duty so successful in Mrs. Lerow's school would avail here. So far, the plea of ill-health had worked well.
Alice had been in the recitation room but a few times before she found that she could neither make use of copied exercises, nor glance at her book held adroitly inside a fan. The teachers were so thorough, and required so many explanations of the rules, that no such artifices availed. She must either give her attention wholly to the business of study, or invent some plausible excuse for not doing so.
Alice, however, was too experienced in deceit to allow her tactics to fail her now, and therefore resorted to the plea of headache, which her natural delicacy of complexion enabled her to simulate with a good chance of success.
She had been twice to church, where even Miss Salsbury's strict ideas of propriety could detect nothing wrong. But the young girl had made good use of her eyes, and was aware, long before the extravagant compliments reached her through sisters of the young gentlemen, that her beauty had caused no slight degree of excitement among the susceptible youth ranged on the opposite seats in church.
Even the very gentlemanly-looking under teacher, sitting at the head of the back slip to overlook the conduct of his charge, had fixed his bright blue eyes on the new-comer with far more than ordinary interest.
At the close of the second week, Alice wrote her father that, though she was greatly disappointed at being compelled to leave Mrs. Lerow's school, she now was happy here, as the teachers were very kind, and aimed to do their scholars good. She complained, however, of headache on severe application to study; and requested her father to ask Miss Salsbury to allow her more time for exercise in the open air.
Mr. Saunders was delighted with the apparent improvement in his daughter. He wrote at once to the preceptress, begging the lady to give Alice all possible indulgence that her rules would allow in regard to the hours of exercise.
Hitherto the young girl had conducted herself with such seeming propriety that she completely blinded her teachers, so that Miss Salsbury, in endeavoring to make amends for her former distrust, gave the new scholar far more credit than she deserved.
In the mean time, these first weeks did not pass without some advance on the part of Dr. Bowles's pupils toward an acquaintance with the beautiful stranger. All those who could form any excuse to gain an entrance into the charmed mansion eagerly availed themselves of the opportunity. Alice, on one pretext and another, had been called down to the parlor and introduced to half a dozen of them. After this, projected walks and incidental meetings in the street caused the acquaintance to ripen faster than was desirable.
Miss Saunders, the beauty and heiress, the model of taste in dress and fashion, had already acquired more influence in the school than any young lady had done since its formation. But, sad to say, in order to attain this popularity, she had uttered, without one compunction of conscience, lies of politeness and lies of flattery almost without number.
An incident occurred in school about this time, which directed the attention of the preceptress to this vice.
A little girl named Clara Dalton, the youngest scholar, had been detected several times in equivocation, and once in a deliberate falsehood. The circumstances were these.
Wednesday and Saturday afternoons were half-holidays; and under certain restrictions, the pupils were allowed to employ themselves as they chose. It was a rule, however, that they should not exceed a certain limit in their walks without special permission. Somehow or other, Clara had formed the acquaintance of a girl living quite at the other extreme of the village; and as Miss Salsbury for some reason disapproved the intimacy, she had forbidden Clara to visit her.
Wednesday morning came again, inviting all lovers of green fields and pure air to walk forth. Miss Gleason, one of the older pupils, having arisen earlier than common, was sauntering through the garden with a volume of poems in her hand, when she heard a low murmur of voices close to the hedge separating the garden from the road.
"I will!" exclaimed a low, earnest voice. "I'll tell you how I can manage it. I'll get one of the girls to ask Miss Salsbury if we may go to the post office. We'll start early, and while the girl has gone in, I'll run across the fields to your house, as fast as I can go."
"So you can!" answered another voice. "I'll be there somewhere to meet you. Be sure to bring the money, and I'll have the earrings all ready."
"Good-by, then; you'd better go now, or somebody will see you."
"What an old tiger Miss Salsbury must be, to keep you caged up so!" said the street girl, spitefully. "Come as early as you can."
The young lady stood still, greatly troubled. Should she—ought she to report to the preceptress? She had recognized the voice as Clara's; and soon after, the child crept cautiously from her hiding place, and ran stealthily toward the house. After some hesitation, she decided that she was not called upon to mention what she had seen.
In the evening, there was some unusual excitement in the hall, and presently a child's voice was heard crying bitterly. It was Clara, who had just reached home, her clothes soiled and torn, and her eyes swollen with crying.
The preceptress led her forward into the large recitation room, where most of the scholars were assembled, and commenced an investigation of the case. It was ascertained that, immediately after dinner, Clara and a young companion, Annie Mellege, started together for the post office, being charged with letters from several of the young ladies. At the door of the office, Clara stopped to tie her shoe, and Annie went in alone. When she came out, her companion was nowhere to be found.
Miss Gleason started; this was the plan she had heard in the morning.
When questioned why she left so suddenly, Clara sobbed and hid her face in her apron; but as Miss Salsbury waited calmly for her to speak, she said at last, that she heard an organ-grinder down a lane near by, and ran to find him, when a great dog flew at her, and tore her dress. Then a woman came out of a house and pulled her in and made her stay there.
"That is a very unlikely story," said Miss Salsbury, shaking her head; "but as you have cried yourself sick, I shall postpone any farther examination of your case till morning."
LIES OF TRADE.
NOT a word was said on the subject of the previous evening until the lessons for the morning had been recited; and then Miss Salsbury called upon the young ladies to resume their seats at their desks.
"I wish to make some remarks," she began, "on a subject of vital importance to every one of you; that is, the habit, too prevalent at the present day, of falsifying the word. But first I will relieve your curiosity concerning Clara by informing you that, early in the morning, she was overheard planning an excursion which she was well aware was contrary to the rules of the school. With premeditated deceit and cunning, painful to think of in one of her years, she carried these plans into execution, slipped away from the companion she had induced to join her in a walk, and ran for half a mile to meet a child with whom I had forbidden her to associate.
"Here she disobeyed another rule and bought a pair of earrings without permission of any teacher to make such a purchase. This morning, a lady came to claim the earrings which the wicked child had stolen from her. I went to Clara's room, where I had left her till she was willing to confess where she had been, and found the jewelry thrust into her pocket; but even then she made many excuses before she would confess the truth. I shudder to think that I have a child under my care so dreadfully addicted to the sin of lying. And I think perhaps no time will be so favorable as the present for impressing the enormity of this offence upon your minds.
"The subject for discussion and essays this week will, therefore, be the various methods by which persons falsify their word, such as lies of convenience, lies of flattery, lies of malignity, etc., etc. To aid you in the examination of the subject, I wish to direct your attention to Mrs. Opie's excellent work on lying, which you will find in the library, and more particularly to the word of God. In your essays on this subject, I wish you to quote and illustrate as many passages of Scripture as possible."
The bell for the long recess then was rung, and the scholars dispersed to talk over poor Clara's sin, and to speculate on the punishment she would receive.
A group of young misses stood together on the lawn, eagerly listening to Miss Gleason's account of the stolen interview of the morning. When she had finished, one pupil said,—
"It's horrid to think that such a little girl should be so deceitful!"
"It's so mean to lie!" rejoined another. "I should be ashamed to show my face if I had told an untruth!"
"God showed his displeasure at the sin," remarked Amelia Davis, gravely. "I think I shall take the case of Ananias and Sapphira for my composition."
At this moment, Alice gracefully crossed the lawn and joined the group. On her head she wore a bewitching straw hat, trimmed with a long drab plume and tied with ribbon of the same hue. Her complexion was as delicate as an infant's, the color in her cheeks being somewhat heightened by her excitement.
"What a fuss Miss Salsbury makes about a few white lies that child has told!" she said, her lip curling contemptuously. "I doubt whether Clara is old enough to know that there is any harm in what she said,—such a little thing as she is!"
"But if the fault is not corrected while she is young," said the lady who last spoke, "it will grow upon her. I can conceive of no worse trait than to be a confirmed liar."
"Certainly. Of course lying is vulgar, to say nothing of its being immoral; but I don't believe the child meant to deceive, or would have done so, if she hadn't been frightened into it. She wanted the earrings, and, as the girl offered to sell them, I don't see how she can be much blamed."
The young ladies seemed rather surprised at this view of the case, coming as it did from one they admired; and presently the baneful influence began to work; for one of them said, playfully,—
"I think Miss Salsbury is making quite too much of it."
"Of course she is. I dare say she would call me a liar for sending word 'not at home' to a caller whom I wish to avoid, as if it were not everywhere understood that it means you are engaged; or because I reply that 'my tablet is full of engagements,' when a disagreeable gentleman wishes to dance with me. If she knew anything of fashionable society, she would understand that such white lies are unavoidable. It would be an insult to a gentleman to refuse to dance with him."
"Oh, how I wish I could go to a ball!" exclaimed one enthusiastic young lady. "I don't think there would be much danger of my having to tell white or black lies; I'd dance with every one who asked me."
"I shall never go into fashionable society if such deception is necessary," remarked Amelia Davis, in a serious tone.
Friday afternoon was devoted to the composition, each young lady signing hers with a mark known only to the teacher. These were placed in a box, and pupils, generally the highest class, were called to the platform in succession to read them. As some of these explain the different kinds of lying I shall copy them.
The first read was entitled "Lies of Trade," and was as follows:—
"The sin of lying is denounced in the Bible in the same catalogue with the most heinous crimes. In the Revelation we read, 'For without are dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers, and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.' The punishment denounced against them is dreadful: 'All liars shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone.'"There are many kinds of lies; but I shall only mention one of them, which I shall call lies of trade. In these are embraced all the different forms of deception by which persons dispose of the articles they have for sale. I was once acquainted with a storekeeper who confessed many of these tricks of the trade, as he called them, and insisted they were perfectly harmless. For instance, he used to tell customers that calico would wash like a piece of white cloth, which was literally the fact, though they understood him to mean that the colors were fast."Or he would say, 'I gave a dollar a yard for this silk by the piece, and cannot afford to sell it less than one twenty-five,' when these very goods had been bought at auction prices, and would bring a good profit at ninety cents."Or, when questioned as to quality and durability, he would answer, 'This delaine is all wool,' when he knew it to be part cotton; 'it will wear like iron,' when he more than suspected it to be tender, and, therefore, wished to be rid of it."This storekeeper also told me of tricks by which the grocers try to get off cheap or injured articles. They mix sand with sugar, adulterate tea and spices, sell barley for coffee, and Indian meal for ginger, all the time giving their word that the articles are pure and of the best quality."
The next composition began in this way:—
"What is a lie? By some writers it is explained as an intention to deceive."Can a person be guilty of lying who does not speak? I think he can; for a single motion of the head will sometimes convey a wrong impression."What is the difference between a lie and a falsehood? A person may tell what is not true, or a falsehood, without the intention to deceive, which constitutes a lie."What does the Bible say of lying lips? 'The lip of truth shall be established forever; but a lying tongue is but for a moment.' 'Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord.' 'He that speaketh lies shall not escape.' 'Speak ye every man the truth to his neighbor.'"Is there such a thing as a lie of flattery? There is; and I will give an instance."A girl named Hannah Morrill once lived with a lady as a kind of companion. She soon discovered that her mistress had a weak mind and was very susceptible to praise. The lady was exceedingly homely; but Hannah flattered her with the assurance that she was fine-looking and remarkably intelligent. She falsely quoted the opinion of others who agreed with her that her mistress was a pattern of elegance, taste, and refinement, until she succeeded in convincing the lady that her glass deceived her as to her personal appearance and that, as to her other qualities, her modesty had hitherto blinded her as to her many excellences."In this way Hannah gained many favors, and was so much encouraged by them, that she became so gross in her flatteries that at last her mistress began to suspect her of insincerity. Wishing to try her, she brought from the store an elegant lilac silk, more suited to a bride than to a lady past sixty. Expressing, herself, a doubt whether this color was becoming to her age, she asked Hannah's opinion, when the girl warmly declared that she was only slandering herself when she thought the color trying to her complexion; for it made her look like a young miss, holding the rich folds up before her."Only half convinced, the lady was called from her chamber to see company, from which she returned suddenly, unobserved by any one. Hearing loud talking and laughing in the next room, she stopped a moment to listen, and soon heard Hannah mimic her voice and manner before the mirror."'What an old fool she must be to believe you!' answered the cook, with a coarse laugh."'I can make the simpleton believe black is white,' urged Hannah; 'I told her, yesterday, that her old yellow, crooked teeth were the envy of half the young ladies, and the silly creature actually swallowed the flattery.'"'Not quite,' said a low, stern voice; 'that lilac silk I brought from the store to test your frankness. If you had told me what I knew to be true,—that it was ill-suited to me,—I intended to have given it to you. I am glad I have been undeceived in season to dismiss both of you from my service. I will give you an hour to pack your trunks; and at the end of that time, I will have a constable here to search them; for I am not so great a simpleton but that I understand that a person who will lie to her benefactress will steal from her whenever opportunity occurs.'"Many interesting anecdotes illustrating different kinds of lies are given by Mrs. Opie in her book on lying."
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LIES OF CONVENIENCE.
THE composition next in order was scarcely finished when Miss Salsbury requested the young lady who was reading to pass the copy to her.
Glancing at it with a look of serious displeasure, she took a small book from her desk, compared the signature with one marked there, directed the reading to proceed, and then sat more than usually erect, while attending to the composition which followed.
"Of all lies," commenced the young lady, "those which relate to the character of others are the most to be dreaded. These lies are in direct violation of the ninth command: 'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.' How often, for the sake of telling news, we are tempted to repeat stories to the disadvantage of others, even though we know they are untrue."There is a fault of this nature, not quite so common, of which I will give an instance."A lady in rather high life was in the habit of underrating her own beauty, talents, and taste in order to have others praise her. One evening she attended a religious meeting appointed for conversation with the pastor. After confessing her own sinfulness, she said,—"'I scarcely think there can be mercy for such a wicked creature as I am.'"She expected that these words, wholly insincere on her part, would lead the clergyman to express his admiration of her lovely moral character; but the good man, either wholly deceived by her apparent distress, or wishing to give her a deserved rebuke, said,—"'Madam, you are far more sinful than you have described. You have offended God's holy laws; you—'"'I should like to know what I've done!' she exclaimed, in great wrath, rising and standing defiantly before him."
Many of the young ladies laughed on hearing this story, and then Amelia Gleason responded to the call, and rose with such blushing cheeks to read a composition, that her companions conjectured it was her own.
"A young lady, fair and beautiful, sat in a luxuriantly furnished parlor. Statues of the rarest art filled the niches, while paintings from the old masters adorned the walls. The house was evidently the abode of wealth and refinement."The young lady, whose name was Isabel Montgomery, sat, or rather reclined, against one of the large cushions of the divan, with an elegantly bound volume open before her."Suddenly the outer door was heard to open. Isabel started, her cheeks flushing, and her eyes beaming with pleasure. The servant entered, bearing a beautifully embossed card on a silver salver."The lady's breast heaved. It was evident a crisis in her young life was approaching; but suddenly the scene changed."'Pshaw!' she exclaimed, angrily. 'It's that tiresome old maid. Why didn't you tell her I was out? You're a stupid piece not to know I didn't wish to be disturbed! But I wont see her. Go, directly, and tell her I'm not at home, and don't expect to be for a month. How provoking!' she said petulantly, when the servant had retired. 'I was sure it was Mr. Clayton.' Then, glancing at her jewelled watch, she added, with a pout on her red lips, 'He prides himself on his punctuality; but it is already one minute past the time.'"The moments lagged wearily, now, until they lengthened themselves into hours; but the expected one did not make his appearance, and at last, disgusted with her lover, with herself, and with life in general, she retired to her own chamber where she indulged in a flood of tears."Indignation at last gave way to anxiety. Some accident must have happened to the loved one. This was the morning which was to decide her fate for life. Frederic Clayton, the most elegant as well as the most wealthy young man in the city had sued for her hand. An appointment was made for him to meet her hither at his counting room at an early hour; and then he begged leave to come and receive his answer from her own sweet lips. No doubt what that answer would be. Something awful must have occurred, or he would have flown on the wings of love to her presence."At last, the thought flashed through her mind that not one visitor had called during the entire morning with the exception of the tiresome old maid, as she invidiously termed her; and this was so unusual a circumstance that she rang the bell furiously to ask the servant whether any callers had presented themselves."The servant-girl entered, a glance of low cunning gleaming from her half-closed eye. Before her mistress could speak, she advanced rapidly with the salver upon which lay several cards."Isabel eagerly clutched at one bearing the name, 'Frederic Clayton,' and screamed, in a voice of passion—"'How came this here? Why wasn't he admitted? How long since he went away?'"'He was in the ante-room, ma'am,' said the girl, 'when I went back with the message to the old lady. He looked very much disappointed, and asked me two or three times if I was sure you were not at home; that he had an appointment with you, and it was very important he should see you this morning. I told him you went off all of a sudden, almost as soon as it was light, and said you shouldn't be back for a month.'"Isabel put out her hand and tried to speak, but her passion choked her voice; then she flew at Bridget and tried to scratch her face."'You old wretch,' she screamed, 'you shall be punished for this! You did it on purpose. I know you did!'"'I haven't told you all,' said the girl, in a triumphant tone. 'The old lady was Mr. Clayton's aunt, and he came with her in her carriage. If she had gone, I should have given him a hint that you were in the parlor expecting of him; but as you bid me say you were away, I valued my character too much to take back my words while she was there. They talked mighty earnest together for a time. Once I thought he'd faint, he looked so pale; and he kept repeating, "I can't believe it! The blow is too sudden! Only a half an hour ago, and I was so happy!""'His aunt pitied him a sight; but it didn't do him a mite of good till she said, "Be a man, Frederic. I acknowledge your future looks dark now; but the day will come when perhaps you will thank the Lord for this." Then they looked around and saw me still standing there, and went away.'"Isabel had stood like a statue; but when Bridget stopped talking, she sank back in the divan, and with one shriek of agony buried her face in her hands. The hour which followed was the darkest her life had ever known; but darker moments still were yet before her. At six o'clock, her father returned to dinner, and sent Bridget to her room to say that he wished to see her immediately."'What does this mean?' he asked, angrily, when, noticing the dreadful pallor of her countenance, his wrath changed to pity."'Where is he—Frederic?' she gasped, trembling in every limb."'On his way to Smyrna with his sick brother. I found him waiting at my office when I reached it, impatient to gain my consent not only to your engagement, but to an immediate marriage, in order that you might accompany him abroad. They would wait, in that case, until the next vessel, which sails in a fortnight. I mentioned the trousseau, but he said all that could be attended to in Paris before your return. I found out, too, that Elise Bosworth, your mother's old friend, is Clayton's aunt, and was waiting to bring him here to use all the influence she possessed, through her love for your mother, to induce you to forego all the ceremony so natural to the occasion, be married at once, and accompany him abroad. She brought a casket of diamonds which were her sister's for her wedding gift. After some hesitation, I gave my consent, and expected, on reaching home, to find the house in an uproar of preparation, when, just before I left my office, I received this letter from poor Clayton, together with an enclosed note directed to you.'"Isabel, who had sank back almost fainting, mechanically stretched out her hand for the letter. The one to herself was as follows:"'Isabel, farewell. Hope whispered a different result to my wooing; but I have deceived myself. I am not yet calm enough to write; the shock was too sudden. Your father will explain. You are to be absent a month. Before your return, I shall be thousands of miles away. Perhaps I shall never return. May God bless you and give you a worthier, though you can never have a more loving, friend!"'FREDERIC CLAYTON.'""As my composition has already extended far beyond the contemplated limits, I will only add that a long and dangerous illness followed Isabel's lie of convenience. Near the close of the year, she persuaded her father to accompany her abroad, where, in a gay party in Paris, she met Mr. Clayton and his beautiful young wife. Having heard, through friends in his native city, the story which Bridget, dismissed in disgrace, had so diligently circulated, he had learned to thank God for preventing his union with one who could thus trample on the commands of his holy word which says, 'Lie not one to another.'"
LIES OF AUTHORSHIP.
SOME of the young misses had noticed Miss Salsbury's displeasure when one of the compositions was read, and wondered at the cause. They did not have to wait long for an explanation. The next morning, just before the preceptress struck the bell for school to be dismissed, she said,—
"Young ladies, I would like your attention for a few moments. Yesterday, among the compositions I noticed one which sounded strangely familiar. I at once examined the private mark by which I identify the writings of each of my pupils, and immediately after the close of the session, I took a book from my library and compared the two. They were precisely alike. Not a comma or semicolon wanting in one which was not in the other. You may imagine my surprise and displeasure when I found that I had one scholar who could thus be guilty of a lie of plagiarism, in attempting a composition on the sin of lying.
"I will not at present expose the young lady, whose punishment I have not yet decided upon. As for the rest of you, the consciousness that you have been guilty of no wrong in this respect will uphold you under the common blame which the sin of one of your number has caused you to bear. This crime is as truly a sin as any other lie. The scholar here virtually says to her teachers and schoolmates, 'These are my thoughts and opinions,' when she has been guilty of the meanness of stealing them from others.
"I remember once," added the lady, "of travelling in a stage-coach, when one of the company produced a book to while away the tedious hours of travel. It was a work which had been published anonymously, and had by its merit caused quite an excitement in the reading public.
"'Ah,' exclaimed one lady present, 'you have the new work I see. May I ask you how you like it?'
"I noticed that another lady in the corner seemed greatly confused by this remark; and when the one addressed replied that she greatly admired it, remarked,—
"'You do me too much honor.'
"This of course was as much as saying to the company that she was the author of the book; and from that moment every one of them regarded her with great interest.
"In due time, I reached the end of my journey, and found my friend had invited a large party to do honor to the author of the new work. I entertained not a doubt but I should meet my acquaintance of the stage-coach. Imagine my surprise when I was led forward by my hostess to a seat in the corner, where sat a youthful matron, blushing at the attention paid her, and begging my friend to allow the fact of her being an author to remain, at least for the present, a profound secret.
"In great distress for the truthfulness of my stage companion, I withdrew my friend to another room, and asked her what ground she had for believing Mrs. Gordon, the lady present, to be the author.
"'The very best of reasons,' she said, smiling: 'I read the work in manuscript, and subscribed for a dozen copies of the first edition, before I could persuade my modest friend that the public would regard her work with favor.'
"Now, I ask you, young ladies, what is your opinion of the traveller, who, by her manner, led her companions to believe her the author?"
"It was mean!" "I should die of shame!" "She was guilty of a wicked lie!" exclaimed one and another from different parts of the school.
"And is not that young lady equally guilty who appropriates the words and thoughts of another, and claims them as her own?"
"She is. I'm glad I didn't do it," "And I'm glad," was the echoed response.
"Young ladies," said the preceptress, "before you are dismissed, I have only to add the inspired words, 'These six things doth the Lord hate, yea seven are an abomination to him: a proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief; a false witness that speaketh lies, and him that soweth discord among brethren.'"
For the next fortnight, there was great curiosity among the scholars to know who was the guilty individual referred to; but as Miss Salsbury maintained the most profound silence on the subject, nothing certain could be learned. Several times when the topic was mentioned in the presence of Alice, a contemptuous curl of the lips was her only answer. By this time, however, her sentiments on ethics were pretty well-known, and shrewd conjectures began to be whispered about as to the author of the plagiarism.
Alice found the moral atmosphere of Miss Salsbury's establishment so entirely uncongenial that she would, long ere this, have resorted to some method of leaving, had it not been for private plans which could not be carried out if she were removed to another school.
She had so far conducted herself with the strictest regard to propriety while in her own room, and Miss Farley, her room-mate, though often questioned by her aunt, answered most favorably of the new scholar. But there were methods by which she disobeyed the rules and evaded the laws which her teachers dreamed not of. Neither did they imagine what an influence for evil this heartless, deceitful girl was constantly exercising over one of her young companions.
Ella Morris was a girl of only thirteen years, warm and ardent in temperament, of generous noble impulses, but easily influenced by those she loved. When Alice first entered the school, Ella regarded her with admiration. Miss Saunders's beauty and style were her constant theme out of study hours. The least notice from the handsome stranger was reported to her companions with emotions of pride and pleasure.
Ella had a brother in Dr. Bowles's school who called upon her soon after Alice's first appearance at church. Ned Morris told his sisters to invite Miss Saunders to the parlor, as he wished to be introduced to her. He was a tall youth of eighteen years, with small, effeminate features, going among his companions by the name of "Our Dandy." He was good-natured to a proverb, with a weak mind, but entirely moral in his character. He had been dazzled by Alice's beauty, and now was just shallow enough to imagine her as intelligent as she was lovely in person. Even during that first interview, he had to put a constant constraint on himself to keep from betraying his warm admiration.
After this, Ella had no need to complain of want of attention from her brother. He was constantly sending her notes with presents of oranges, figs, or pine-apples,—all of which he directed her to share with her new friend.
The little girl was almost intoxicated with delight at the praises bestowed upon her by her new friend, until Alice, who one day heard her boasting of some favors, cautioned her not to do so, lest others of her companions should expect the same notice.
After a few weeks, a small perfumed envelope came, enclosed in Ella's letter from her brother, directed to Miss Saunders. Alice would not yet trust the sister sufficiently to confide an answer to her care, but dropped a sentimental epistle into the office with her own hand. After this, the correspondence became very frequent, sometimes Ella's letters and sometimes the mail being the medium of communication between the friends.
Alice now found the benefit of having liberty for early walks;—indeed, it was this very reason that had induced her to write her father to intercede for that privilege with the preceptress. Every morning she was up and dressed before many in the household were awake, and met by appointment Ned Morris, when they walked and talked together.
At last the frequency of Ella's letters and her brother's unusual devotion to her interests began to excite suspicion; and one of the under teachers reported to the preceptress that when Mr. Morris called, he always asked for Miss Saunders to play to him.
The same evening, Miss Salsbury summoned Ella to her private parlor, and made careful inquiries whether there was any correspondence between her brother and any of the scholars.
Alice had already anticipated this question, and bade Ella, as she valued her friendship, never to reveal anything that she knew or suspected on the subject; so that the child at once denied any knowledge of such letters.
But the evils attending wicked companionship had only just commenced. Before this, Ella, though sometimes equivocating, had not told a downright falsehood since she came to the school. Now, unless she would criminate herself, she was obliged often to repeat the sin. From being a merry, contented child, she soon became peevish and ill-tempered. Alice was obliged to employ all her arts of fascination to retain what she considered necessary influence over her.
Through other young gentlemen from Dr. Bowles's seminary, who visited their sisters, the story of Ned Morris's admiration for Miss Saunders began to be circulated through the school, and at last reached the ears of the preceptress.
Summoning Alice to her parlor, she put the question directly to her:
"Are you acquainted with young Morris?"
"Slightly," answered the young girl, in the most indifferent tone. "I was passing the hall door when Ella met me going out with her brother and introduced him; but I was in haste and did not stop long."
"And how many times have you seen him since?"
The lady gazed searchingly in her pupil's face, but could detect nothing to induce the suspicion that the young miss was trying to deceive.
"Really," said she, with a smile, "I cannot remember, as I did not consider it a circumstance of any importance. I suppose I may have seen him four or five times."
"I do not ask the questions from curiosity," added the teacher, "but because your father placed you in my care, telling me that you were a motherless child, and needed special watching. You are well aware that the rules of my school absolutely forbid all correspondence, or special attention even, between my pupils and those connected with Dr. Bowles's seminary. Have you ever violated these rules?"
"Never to my knowledge," was the unhesitating reply.
"I heard a rumor of a communication to you through his sister," said the lady.
"I have not received any such. If Ella knows of a communication, she has not delivered it to me."
"I am relieved to know that such is the fact. Both you and the young gentleman are far too young to form any attachment at present."
In recalling this interview at a later hour, Alice did not feel one qualm of conscience in regard to the dreadful untruths of which she had been guilty; but she was somewhat vexed that anything should have excited the suspicion of the teachers, as now it would be more difficult to evade them.
That very evening, she wrote a note to Mr. Morris, begging him to be more careful what he said of her, and consenting to ride with him the next afternoon which was a half-holiday.
Throwing a veil over her head, she stole softly out to the garden to a place in the hedge accessible from the street, where of late she had placed her letters.
Miss Salsbury acknowledged to her niece that she felt much easier after her interview with Alice, who appeared wholly indifferent to the admiration of Mr. Morris, if indeed any such feelings existed. She even owned that she had been prejudiced against the young lady ever since the affair of the composition; but Alice had explained that, if not to her satisfaction, at least so as to prove that she might have been guilty of such a plagiarism without understanding that it was improper.
It was true that soon after the event occurred, Alice was summoned to account for her misdemeanor. She told the preceptress that in Mrs. Lerow's school, the young ladies all made selections from favorite authors; that the teachers were not only aware of it, but often referred them to particular passages when they found it difficult to select for themselves. This, like most of her other statements, since her arrival at the seminary, was wholly false.
When the teacher explained the deception, she thanked the lady warmly and declared she would never be guilty of copying again.
LYING CONTAGIOUS.
THE next morning, when school was dismissed, Miss Salsbury and her niece, Miss Farley, started immediately for the next town, where they had business. It was near night before they were able to return, and they were driving through a retired street which shortened their distance about a mile, when they saw in front of them a buggy upset, and a crowd rapidly gathering about it.
"I am afraid some one is injured," remarked Miss Farley, as they drew nearer. "See, they are lifting a lady from the ground."
"John," said Miss Salsbury to the driver, "stop here. We cannot get through the crowd and I wish to get out."
The man, who was on the front seat, went on a few yards, stopped, stood up in the carriage to see better, and then said,—
"That's one of our young ladies, ma'am, the one I hear 'em call the beauty."
At this moment, Mr. Morris limped away from the buggy, trying to walk to a house near by. He was evidently suffering, and his face was deathly pale. A horrible suspicion flashed through Miss Salsbury's mind. Miss Saunders, her pupil, had deceived her,—had taken advantage of her absence to break the rules of the school, and ride with Mr. Morris. Without waiting for John to open the door, she turned the handle herself and got out. Two men were assisting Alice up the steps to the house, when Miss Salsbury stopped them.
"You needn't take the young lady up there," she said; "I have a carriage here and will convey her home. If one of you will go for the doctor as quickly as possible, and ask him to call at the Ladies' Seminary, you will do Miss Saunders a great favor."
The men turned and lifted the young miss down the steps.
"John," called his mistress, "take Miss Saunders in your arms and lift her into the carriage as carefully as you used to lift your sick mother. My niece will support her, and I will sit in front."
Mr. Morris stood with his hand to his head, viewing all these arrangements with a stupid gaze of astonishment. It seemed so strange that, of all persons in the world, the preceptress should happen to be there.
Just as they started away and while the crowd stood gazing after them, Miss Salsbury said,—
"Mr. Morris, you will do me a favor if you will request Dr. Bowles to call at the Ladies' Seminary this evening."
Dr. Wilson reached the hall nearly as soon as the preceptress was ready for him. With the proffered assistance of John, Alice was conveyed to her room, where she was laid on the bed, groaning terribly.
"A sad accident, miss!" said the doctor, bending over her.
She opened her eyes and said feebly, "I have broken my arm. I—"
"Get me some camphor or sal volatile," urged the physician, "she is faint; or stay, I have some ammonia."
When she revived, the young lady complained of severe pain in the side and difficulty in drawing a breath. The doctor soon discovered that, in addition to her broken arm, she had broken two ribs.
It was more than an hour before the jacket he wished for a support to her side could be prepared. And then her poor arm must be carefully splintered, so that a second message came from Dr. Bowles before he could leave.
As yet Miss Salsbury had found no time to inquire into the particulars of the accident; but after the patient, under the influence of an anodyne, had fallen asleep, she learned that soon after she rode from the door, Alice and Ella started from the hall for a walk; one of the teachers remembering the fact from the circumstance of Miss Saunders wearing her dress, hat, and mantilla.
Ella returned in less than an hour, saying her companion had extended her walk to the village. Miss Salsbury instantly sent for Ella, who, since the accident, had sat in her room crying bitterly. She was now completely humbled and ready to confess everything.
The preceptress listened with horror as the child unfolded a long tissue of falsehoods into which she had been led by her artful friend.
"I haven't been happy at all as I used to be," sighed Ella. "I wanted to confess to you how wicked I have been, and how wicked Ned was growing, for he has told Dr. Bowles a great many lies; but Alice wouldn't let me."
"Poor child," said her teacher, "I ought to have guarded you from such influences; but I never knew you were intimate."
"Alice told me not to speak to her when others were by. She was afraid you would suspect about Ned," sobbed the weeping girl. "Oh, how sorry my mother will feel! Do you think Ned is hurt so he will die?"
"No, Ella; I do not imagine either he or Miss Saunders are in any immediate danger; but I am more shocked than I can tell you at what I have heard. I hope, dear child, you will learn by this sad experience how dangerous it is to trifle with God's commands. Solomon says, 'A lying tongue is but for a moment.' Sooner or later a liar will be put to confusion, and his words, even though he speak the truth, be distrusted."
"My mother taught me to tell the truth," faltered Ella, her lip quivering; "and I don't believe Ned ever told lies till he knew Alice."
The next morning, when the doctor came, he told her that Alice was far more comfortable than his other patient, who had struck his head against a stone, and had been delirious all night. On first reaching home, however, he had frankly confessed to his teacher his sorrow at having broken the rules of the school, taking all the blame of the accident on himself, saying he was struck with the beauty of Ella's friend, and had repeatedly invited her to ride with him, which she had constantly refused until the occasion when this dreadful accident occurred.
From one of his classmates, the doctor learned that he confessed to have hired the buggy professedly to carry his sister to ride, but always intending to take Alice, and thought the accident a just punishment for the deception he had practised toward his teacher. They rode about ten miles to a neighboring town, and were returning to the place where Miss Saunders wished to alight, when the horse took fright and ran backward against a stone wall, upsetting the buggy and throwing them both to the ground.
During the night, his thoughts ran upon his mother, who he seemed to imagine was standing over him, and whom, in the most heartrending terms, he implored to forgive him.
The first moment of returning consciousness, he begged the nurse to ask his teacher to come to his bedside, and when Dr. Bowles instantly complied, entreated that his mother might not hear of his sad conduct until he could write and confess it to her.
"I am her only boy," he said, feebly putting his hot hand on the doctor's, "and it will not hurt her so much if she hears it from me."
Dr. Bowles readily promised this, offering to send for Mrs. Morris if he wished, only stating that he had met with an accident.
The young man hesitated for a moment, and then said,—
"If I'd done my duty, I shouldn't have been hurt. I ought not to make her suffer for my fault. No, I'll try and do without her, though I never was sick without her being by me."
Miss Salsbury was much affected by this account, and sighed as she remembered that her pupil had, as yet, manifested no penitence. Indeed, she replied to any question that was asked her only in monosyllables, whispering that it hurt her to talk.
The physician pronounced her free from fever, and, ordering that the bandages on the arm should not be disturbed and that the patient should live on gruel for a day or two, he took his leave.
On his departure, the preceptress sat down to her desk, and wrote as follows:
"MR. SAUNDERS."Dear Sir:— When you confided your daughter to my care, you mentioned that she was addicted to falsehood. I, therefore, placed her in the room with my niece, and thought that if she did not receive good impressions from the influences around her, she certainly could do no harm to my other pupils; but I was mistaken. Alice, beautiful and accomplished, soon acquired an influence with her schoolmates which, I am deeply pained to tell you, she has used for evil. She has set her will in defiance of the rules of the school, and brought pain and sorrow, not only upon herself, but upon others."Yesterday she was thrown from a carriage while riding stealthily with a young man, a member of an academy near us. She induced the sister of this youth to be the medium of communication between them, and what was far worse, to tell repeated falsehoods when questioned on the subject."Your daughter was fortunate to escape with a broken arm and two broken ribs. The doctor reports her this morning as doing well; and I have provided a nurse to take the exclusive care of her."Under these circumstances, it is my wish that she should be removed as soon as she is able to bear the journey. I will instantly report to you if there is an unfavorable change, unless you should wish to visit your daughter immediately."Yours respectfully,"M. A. SALSBURY."
PARTY LIES.
SIX months later, let us glance into Mr. Saunders's pleasant parlor; and we shall see whether Aunt Clarissa's prophecy—that when her nieces are older, they will be ashamed to indulge in falsehood—had been fulfilled.
The lady sits midway between the window and the cheerful fire in the grate, earnestly discussing the merits of a gentleman who, after a somewhat prolonged call, has just taken his departure.
Alice is warm in her praises of his moustaches, his white teeth, and his graceful figure. Aunt Clarissa, suddenly awakened to her responsibility as the chaperone of a marriageable young lady, has become strangely cautious.
"Mr. Coleman may be a fine young man for aught I have heard," she says, earnestly; "but we really know nothing of him. I doubt whether your father would approve the acquaintance until he can learn something of the gentleman's whereabouts."
"Pshaw!" murmured the cherry lips. "It's so vexatious to be treated like a child! I'm old enough to judge for myself about my friends, and I'm positive that Mr. James Duncan Coleman is a gentleman in every sense of the word!"
Miss Saunders rose, took a card from the salver, and examined it critically, as if she would read the owner's character from his address.
"Did you notice how gracefully he left the room, and how well he talked about the pictures?" asked Alice, after regarding her aunt for a moment with a smile. "Then none but a real, high-born gentleman would have been so respectful in his address to you. Really, Aunt Clarissa, if I liked him particularly, I should be jealous of you; for he admires you exceedingly." This was lie the first.
The spinster's cheeks were suffused with the least tinge of crimson, and her niece, noticing it, was satisfied that the lever was placed in the right position, and that force was all that she needed in order to raise the burden.
"What do you mean by that remark, Alice?" was asked, with assumed dignity.
"I wonder," said the young girl, laughing "whether women ever outgrow their curiosity? Why, when you were gone to the library to get that piece of mosaic, he said,—
"'What an elegant lady Miss Saunders is! She must be a perfect treasure to your father.'" Lie the second.
"I acknowledge he is singularly pleasing," remarked Aunt Clarissa, after a brief pause. "The next time he calls, I will ask him to stay to dinner. I think your father would be pleased to meet him; and then he could soon find out his antecedents."
Alice pouted. "I don't want him asked for papa to criticise," she exclaimed, rudely. "I care nothing at all about him—" lie the third, "only that he makes an hour pass agreeably. Very likely I shall never meet him again." Lie the fourth.
"Ah, Alice, didn't you engage to dance with him at the ball to-morrow night?"
Days glided into weeks until the spring opened, and Alice by her judicious and well-timed flattery had so well managed her aunt, that nearly every morning found Mr. James Duncan Coleman sitting familiarly in Mr. Saunders's parlor, while that gentleman had as yet to be informed that there was such a person in existence.
The young lady had an indefinite idea that her father would disapprove, certainly in the light of a suitor for her hand, of a man who had no regular employment, except to spend his mornings in detailing gossip and small talk in a lady's parlor, while his evenings alternated between the theatre, opera, and ball-room; and indeed, sometimes a doubt intruded itself into her mind whether such a man could render her happy; but then he was so fond of her, and his moustaches were so splendid. At the very nick of time, as Alice termed it, Mr. Saunders announced his intention of improving Ellen's vacation by taking her and her cousin on a trip to the West.
"If I were pious, like Aunt Collins," exclaimed the young girl, "I should say that papa's journey really seems providential. I have put off inviting Mr. Coleman to dine, on one excuse and another, until I am almost ashamed to look him in the face."
Aunt Clarissa looked grave. She was growing uneasy with the responsibilities resting upon her; and would gladly have shared them with her nephew. Once or twice of late she had noticed that Mr. Coleman started when she had proposed an interview between him and Alice's father; but this her niece readily explained by saying that they were having such nice times together, she presumed he didn't like to have them disturbed. She assured her aunt, again and again, that Mr. Coleman's society was eagerly sought in the best families: that many of her young friends were dying of envy on account of his attentions to her, and that every one she had asked spoke in the highest terms of his moral character. Lie the fifth. She had repeatedly heard dark hints respecting his integrity; but these slanders of course she did not believe.
But for once the spinster was firm, and would not consent that Mr. Coleman should be invited to dine unless there were other guests. On the third day, therefore, after Mr. Saunders's departure, four gentlemen found themselves seated around his hospitable board.
On this occasion, Alice had interfered with the appointments of the table sufficiently to order the servant to display to the best advantage all the rich plate that the house afforded.
"It is so vexatious," Alice exclaimed, with well-acted sincerity, after the guests had partaken of the first course, "that papa did not return to-day as he expected! The house seems so dreary when he is away." Lie the sixth. Oh, Alice!
"Yes," murmured Aunt Clarissa, "he ought to have been at home by the noon train; but on his visits to his daughter, he never knows when to leave. I wish he were here with all my heart."
The last words were true, and were suggested by a sudden start from one of their guests, who sat opposite Mr. Coleman, when the latter gentleman addressed a laughing remark to Alice. There was something in the manner of the former which made her suspect this was not the first time they had met, though they had been introduced half an hour earlier and had shaken hands like strangers.
She watched them until quite assured that the continued gaze of the stranger was far from pleasing to the other, and only waited a favorable opportunity when they had returned to the drawing room to make inquiries on the subject. Only one circumstance helped her to go through the different courses with any degree of comfort, and that was the fact, that her niece, turning from the fulsome compliments of Mr. Coleman, paid marked attention to the other guests.
She might have known Alice well enough to suspect that she was acting out lie the seventh.
Miss Saunders's plot of discovery was, however, prevented by a circumstance which occurred after dinner.
Mr. Coleman was standing under the chandelier, where the strong rays of the gas-light fell directly on him, looking carelessly over a book of choice engravings, while Alice was talking with a gentleman by the window, when the stranger suddenly stepped toward him and, touching his arm, said in a low voice,—
"I think, sir, I have met you before."
"I—I hardly think I have had that honor," returned Mr. Coleman, with an evident struggle to retain his composure.
"It was while on a tour to the lakes," persisted the stranger, "you were in the employ of government."
"Ha, ha! That's a good joke!" Mr. Coleman exclaimed, with a forced laugh. "I wish I had been so fortunate; but, ha, ha, ha! Government has never deigned to notice me."
"Excuse me, sir," replied the other, turning to Miss Saunders who stood near, devouring every word; "but these resemblances are very striking."
At a later hour, the stranger begged Miss Alice to give them some music; and while helping her choose a song, took the opportunity to say,—
"Are you much acquainted with the gentleman yonder calling himself Mr. Coleman?"
"Scarcely at all," she answered, in the same low tone. "He is one of my father's friends, not mine." Lie the eighth.
"I am glad to hear it," he murmured, more as if he were speaking to himself.
The next morning the servant who took care of the silver reported to Miss Saunders that three of the largest forks and a heavy gold-lined pudding spoon were missing.
The spinster's character, as housekeeper, was touched at once. She called all the servants together, and insisted upon an instant and thorough search for the missing articles, threatening, if they were not found, to deduct a sum necessary to replace them from their wages.
"I can answer, for one, that I'm innocent," said the girl who had reported the loss. "I went to the dining hall as soon as I heard the gentlemen go to the parlor, and found Miss Alice's beau there, picking up his handkerchief he said he'd dropped under the table. I began collecting the silver at once; but didn't miss anything until I had washed the forks and was counting them to put them away."
Much displeased, Miss Saunders ordered them not to give up the search; saying of course the forks are somewhere in the house; and then was returning to her chamber when her niece called out from the parlor,—
"Aunt Clarissa, have you seen my bracelet anywhere? I suppose it must have coma unclasped in the evening; for I can't find it in my room."
"What bracelet did you wear, Alice?"
"My new one of course," was the petulant reply, "the one I had to tease papa so long for. It's enough to vex a saint," she added, looking under a large chair. "I don't recollect missing it from my arm in the evening; and I was so tired when I went to bed, I can't remember whether I unclasped it then or not."
"Then it is certain there are thieves about!" shrieked Miss Saunders. "I'll send for a detective at once, and put him on the track. I sha'n't dare to look your father in the face. Why, that bracelet cost sixty dollars, the forks were three apiece, and the pudding-shovel fifteen! I paid for them with my own hands."
A man, plainly dressed in citizen's clothes, soon made his appearance and announced himself as a member of the detective police, to whom Aunt Clarissa gave in detail an account of the missing articles.
"I dare say there is a great deal more stolen," she said, casting her eyes searchingly around the room; "but we have discovered no other loss."
The officer smiled, and after receiving from aunt and niece rather a confused account of the dinner party, during which the spinster freely owned that she wished it had never taken place; and having taken the name and residence of each gentleman carefully down in his note-book, he said he "should like to examine the servants."
Half an hour later he left the house satisfied that the thief, if such there were, did not reside within its walls, promising to give the subject his immediate attention, and report to them at the earliest moment.
One week, two weeks passed, and Alice, in the excitement of present scenes, had almost forgotten her loss. But not so Aunt Clarissa; for several other articles of more or less value had disappeared as remarkably as the first.
Mr. Coleman now had become quite domesticated, as often as two or three times a week stopping to dine, so that nothing but the parting injunction of the detective—that they should say nothing of the theft—prevented the old lady from claiming sympathy from her guest.
One morning in the early part of April, the stranger we met at Mr. Saunders's table was busy in his counting room, when a man entered and asked for five minutes' conversation with him. To what this referred the reader must guess, as they talked with closed doors; but one thing is certain: when the officer emerged from the office, he looked as unlike the man who went in as can well be conceived. His eye flashed and his nostrils dilated in an alarming manner.
The same evening, Alice, having in vain plead with her aunt to allow her to have a ball, had assembled around her a few gay friends, and was in the midst of a merry frolic, when Mr. Saunders unexpectedly returned.
He was an indulgent father, and soon was joining in the conversation, when a ring at the door-bell announced more company.
The stranger entered, and neither aunt nor niece could repress a start of astonishment as they saw he was accompanied by the detective.
But the surprise had scarcely commenced; for Miss Saunders was debating with herself whether she had better take her nephew aside and state that the officer was in her employ, when her hesitation was cut short by seeing the detective suddenly lay his hand on Mr. Coleman's arm, with the words,—
"You are my prisoner."
It is needless to tell of the shrieks of Alice, the horror and secret remorse of Aunt Clarissa, the surprise and displeasure of the host, and the despair of the convicted thief.
In vain the latter exclaimed in accents of terror, "You have mistaken the man!"
The stranger referred in explicit words to a meeting in Sing Sing: while the officer informed him that, as the stolen articles had been found in his trunk, he might as well prepare for a return to government service.