THE ART OF LYING.
THE mortification of Alice at the degradation of a man who had dared sue for her hand did not speedily pass away. The intimacy had advanced much farther than Aunt Clarissa ever dreamed of. The young miss shuddered as she realized what might have been her doom if she had yielded to his entreaties and been privately married in the neighboring city.
For several weeks, she was more thoughtful than ever before. She could not rid herself of the bitter reflections that were forced upon her; and sometimes confessed to herself that truth and frankness were more to be relied upon than deceit and art.
"I have a great mind—" she exclaimed, one day after there had been a long pause in which neither the young lady nor her aunt felt inclined for conversation, "I have a great mind to set up for a saint, end marry a minister."
The old lady dropped her crocheting, and stared at her niece in amazement.
"It makes me sick of society every time I think of Mr. Coleman," remarked Alice, with a faint smile at her aunt's continued gaze. "I would follow Ellen's example and discard fibbing, or lying, as she bluntly calls it; only truth-telling is often so inconvenient."
"I think Ellen's rule would be a profitable one for all of us," returned Miss Saunders with a heavy sigh. "I mean if it were not carried to an extreme."
"Just so, aunty. Now you are at one extreme and Nelly at the other, while I maintain the happy medium."
"Alice Saunders! What are you talking about?" cried the old lady, growing very white about the mouth. "I insist that you explain yourself immediately."
"Certainly, aunt."
She turned away to conceal a smile, a bitter, scornful smile, and then began suddenly,—
"I can but just remember mother's death. The room had been dark; but all at once nurse fastened back the heavy damask curtains, and a flood of golden light from the setting sun poured into the room, making everything beautiful. I remember just how it shone on mother's face, giving it an unearthly beauty; and how eagerly she gazed through the window at the gorgeous spectacle.
"'See there!' she said, pointing her thin finger toward the illuminated heavens. 'Before the sun rises again, I shall be where there is no darkness, where the Sun of righteousness shines forever and ever.'"
"I didn't know you remembered that, Alice," faltered Miss Saunders, in a softened tone; "but I have heard your father tell of it again and again. Your mother was a good Christian, Alice; but I don't see what that has to do with the subject we were talking about."
"It has everything to do with it; for after mother died, you came; and then our education commenced. I wonder whether I should have been good, if my mother had lived." The last words were uttered softly, as if to herself.
The old lady's face flushed; but she remained silent.
"I'm going to tell you the truth for once, aunty, and I think you'll agree with me that lying is vastly more agreeable. You remember how I praised you to Mr. Langworthy last Sabbath, telling him what a blessing you had been to us motherless children? That was all a fib,—a white or black lie, just as you please to call it, manufactured for a variety of purposes; such as to make you appear to the best advantage, and thus reflect credit on your niece; and to insinuate that I had been under the very best of influences. I thought that course justifiable, and even praiseworthy. Nov I'm going to tell you the plain, unvarnished truth. You are a liar, Aunt Clarissa,—one of the extreme kind, who flinch at nothing to carry out your plans. I can remember I first began to doubt your word when you gave me a dose of rhubarb, telling me it was nice like sugar. That was when you first came to us; and since that hour, I have never known you tell the truth when a lie would suit your purpose better."
"How dare you talk so, Alice?" gasped Miss Saunders, her chin quivering.
"Wait a minute, aunty; I haven't done yet; but I will do you the justice to say that I suppose fibbing has become so confirmed a habit with you that you yourself are scarcely aware of it; and then you have naturally a kind heart which prompts you to make everything as agreeable as possible. This is the reason why, when a visitor comes in, you say flattering things, such as, 'What an exquisite color your silk dress is!' and 'How charmingly suited to your delicate complexion!' or 'How well your children behave, Mrs. So-and-so! I wish Mrs. This-and-that would follow your example;' when, the moment their backs are turned, you laugh at their easy credulity, and want of good taste in the selection of colors."
"Stop! stop, child! I wont hear you talk so! I say it's shameful, after all I've done for you, slaving myself so many years, when I might have lived quietly by myself without any care!"
Alice shrugged her rounded shoulders, saying, archly,—
"Truth isn't pleasant; is it? I wonder what you'll do when Ellen comes home. Why I've only begun to enumerate the ways in which you have taught us to tell white and black lies. Why, there was poor little Jo, who knew as well as I did, when you threatened him with punishment, or promised to tell father some of his tricks, that you never intended to keep your word. Wasn't that a good lesson for a bright, imitative boy to learn? And didn't he learn it to perfection? Perhaps he would have been alive now, if he had been taught to be truthful."
Miss Saunders sprang upon her feet, and caught her breath with difficulty.
"And so you charge me with murder,—the murder of one I loved so dearly that I would have had my hands cut off to save his life! Alice Saunders, I'm telling the truth now if I never did before; and I say that you'll repent of this. You shall repent of it!" Then, with a burst of tears, she left the room.
Five minutes later, the young lady sauntered to the piano and began to play a new and favorite opera. The scene had made little impression on her.
The next week, however, she was delighted to receive an invitation from a former schoolmate to visit her in the country, and gaining the consent of her father, was soon on her way.
Ada or Adeline Morrison was a simple, unassuming girl, who had been easily won to admiration by Alice's beauty of person and ease of manner. She was at this time in need of a confidant, and chose one she supposed possessed of qualities of mind and heart corresponding to her outward appearance. We shall see whether she chose wisely.
Squire Morrison, as he was always called, lived in a handsome house in the village of W—. He was what is sometimes styled a denominational man; that is, he was strongly attached to his own church, and unwilling any of his family should attend any other, or associate with members of other societies.
Now it so happened that a young, unmarried clergyman was about to settle over the new church, and that Ada, in visiting a poor servant of her father's, had met this gentleman, and considered him singularly interesting. Nay, she carried her admiration so far that she would willingly have forsaken the associations of her childhood and youth, for the pleasure of hearing him preach. Twice, indeed, she had enjoyed that privilege, unknown to her parents, while visiting a young friend, and fancied that the clergyman's eyes expressed pleasure at seeing her there.
Alice had scarcely been in the house an hour before she was acquainted with every thought of her friend's heart on this subject. And when Ada with flushing cheeks exclaimed, "Now, if I can only manage to get acquainted with him, I shall be perfectly happy!" she was ready with the answer,—
"Nothing can be easier, my dear; I shall tell your father that I always attend the Presbyterian Church, and of course he will not object to your accompanying your guest. Then if your clergyman is a gentleman, he will inquire us out and call upon us."
Ada clapped her hands and gave her friend a warm demonstration of her affection. It never entered her heart that Alice was planning a deliberate lie, having never entered a Presbyterian church in her life.
Squire Morrison gave his consent when his guest hinted her desire that his daughter should escort her to church. Ada, influenced by real feeling, would have chosen a retired seat, where, unobserved, she could listen to the teaching of the man who occupied so large a portion of her thoughts; but this was not agreeable to Alice, who requested the sexton to show them to a slip near the pulpit.
During the service, the clergyman's eyes rested frequently on those two apparently earnest hearers of the word, causing a thrill of such delight in the heart of poor Ada that she could scarcely conceal her emotion.
Her companion meanwhile was charmed with the intellectual countenance of the preacher, with the elegance of his form, and the rich, mellow tones of his voice. She no longer wondered at the infatuation of her companion, nor hesitated one moment to violate their friendship by a determination to win him for herself if she could.
While Ada was moved to tears by the touching appeal from the pulpit, and forming earnest resolutions of profiting by the discourse, Alice was making her plan for her new conquest. Henceforth the subject of amusements, the theatre, operas, etc., etc., must be tabooed as forbidden pleasures. Religion must be the order of the day; and the artful girl did not hesitate one moment before assuming the sacred guise, nor doubt she could effectually cover the deceit.
After a lingering glance at the desk, the strangers were about to leave the slip, when Ada's friend, Miss Locke, stepped from an opposite pew and welcomed her; then followed an introduction to Miss Saunders, a ceremony Alice never went through in a hurry; and by that time Mr. Barton had reached the aisle on his way out of church.
Nothing was more natural than for his parishioner to introduce him to the strangers, nor for him to walk by their side two-thirds of the way home, as his path was in the same direction. When they parted, Alice was sure she had made an impression.
"Oh, how thankful I am that you came!" cried Ada, pressing her companion's arm. "Didn't it all happen beautifully? And isn't he a splendid preacher?"
Alice smiled complacently.
"He is a gentleman and a scholar," was her cool reply; "and perhaps, if I had not a beau ideal of my own, I might admire him as much as you do. Now I am free to aid you, all in my power."
Two weeks passed, and Mrs. Morrison, a sincere, trusting person, considered her guest a young lady of earnest Christian character; for she not only was present at the three regular services of the Sabbath; but Tuesday and Friday, in company with Ada, wended her way to the vestry, where the weekly lectures were attended. As they went alone, Mr. Barton, as a matter of course, escorted them to Squire Morrison's door, and sometimes entered the parlor for a few minutes. On these occasions, Alice carried on the most of the conversation with the clergyman, while Ada, whose innermost soul had been moved by his pungent appeals, was abundantly content to listen to his instructive remarks. She sometimes envied her friend that she so readily entered into the feelings of the pastor, who, only by an occasional glance, acknowledged her own presence.
Alice had never been so excited and happy as during this visit, which was prolonged from week to week by the cordial invitation of both mother and daughter.
LIES ABOUT RELIGION.
ONE evening, when Alice had been in W— nearly a month, Ada was so unwell that Mrs. Morrison would not consent to her leaving the house. This was a severe disappointment; for, aside from her interest in the preacher, the young girl was deeply affected by the preaching. Indeed, sometimes she thought the desire to live a new life a life of holiness and happiness such as he described that of a Christian to be—was paramount to her wish to gain his friendship. She plead earnestly with her mother; but Ada was an only daughter,—a tender, well-beloved plant, needing constant culture,—and the lady was firm in her refusal.
"I will tell you about the lecture," said Alice, secretly rejoicing in this opportunity to be alone with the pastor, "and perhaps he will call as we return."
There was a peculiar expression on her countenance as she said this, which awoke the first suspicion in Ada that her friend was not sincere; and when left alone, she recalled many circumstances leading to the conviction that Alice was more interested in the clergyman than she would acknowledge.
True, the latter had freely described Mr. Mortimer, a gentleman to whom she declared herself engaged to be married; but the distrust once awakened could not be removed; and the startled girl speedily arrived at the very unpleasant conclusion that her friend had proved unworthy of her confidence.
It was nearly an hour later than usual when the visitor returned; and by this time Mrs. Morrison had become so alarmed for the safety of her guest that she was pressing her husband to go in search of her, when her voice was heard at the door.
She entered, smiling, wholly unprepared for the searching glance with which Ada met her. Her cheeks were brilliant with excitement, and as she stood under the chandelier, toying with her gloves, the light shining full on her beaming features, Mrs. Morrison thought she had never seen a prettier picture, and wondered whether the clergyman did not entertain the same opinion, and whether he could long remain insensible to such charms.
When the young girls retired to their room—for Ada, though weary, had insisted on remaining down-stairs till her friend's return,—Alice evidently labored under some great excitement, which she in vain endeavored to subdue.
"I have so much to tell you," she began: "but your mother has forbidden us to talk long. Mr. Barton inquired after you, and when I told him you were quite ill, was very uneasy."
"Why didn't he come in, then, to see me?" asked Ada, turning aside her face.
"He was detained by some persons in the vestry. Only think how mortifying to me to have to wait there for him, as if I expected of course he would come home with me but there was no alternative, as I dared not come alone."
This was only partly true. Mr. Barton stopped a moment on his way out, and the rest of the time had been passed walking in the moonlight at the young lady's suggestion. She was artful enough to see that, as the clergyman was deeply interested in the duties of his profession, an appeal to him about her own heart would best secure his attention to herself. She commenced, therefore, by telling him that, although she had professed religion (lie the first), she had grown cold and worldly,—that his preaching had roused her to a sense of her danger, and that it was solely to enjoy the privilege of his ministration that she had prolonged her visit from week to week.
Mr. Barton heard her in silence, and then gave her some solemn advice upon the danger of trifling with conscience.
This was not exactly what the young lady had calculated upon; but, disguising her real feelings, she spoke of Ada, and found the gentleman all attention. Vexed at his indifference to herself; and indignant that she had not secured the first place in his esteem, she determined to prevent his forming a particular attachment for Ada.
This was not quite so easy a task as she imagined; for the gentleman was a keen judge of character, and before he had ever seen Alice, formed a high opinion of Ada's merits. Then he often met her friend, Miss Locke: and somehow the conversation always turned on the absent one. The apparently careless remark of the young lady, therefore, that she greatly regretted Ada's want of seriousness (lie the second); but that her mind seemed wholly absorbed in an attachment she had formed, did not weigh as much with him as she expected.
Mr. Barton was too anxious a pastor not to discern the signs of real feeling; and he had too often witnessed the tear of penitence in the eye of Ada to believe the first charge.
The second statement rather startled him, though he gave no outward sign of it, and presently remarked,—
"Miss Morrison has been so tenderly nurtured that her parents will be careful, I suppose, to whom they consign her future happiness."
"Yes," was the artful reply; "and in this case, unfortunately, they do not approve her choice."
Squire Morrison and his good wife had not the slightest idea of any attachment which their daughter had formed, and therefore this was lie the third.
"Indeed!" remarked the minister, not caring to pursue the subject at present. "But just see how brightly the moon is shining upon the water."
He then gave his companion an account of a lake near his father's house, hundreds of miles away; and how the moon, shining on it, converted it into a sheet of burnished silver. Thoughts of home so softened his heart toward his companion that when he left her at Squire Morrison's door, the parting was almost tender.
The next day, Ada was unable to leave her bed; and Alice, who had repeatedly declared that she could not longer postpone her return home, exclaimed that she would not leave her.
The sick girl was glad that her mother's presence prevented her making any reply; for Alice's absence was now as earnestly desired as her presence had formerly been.
A day or two later Miss Locke called and was shown at once into Ada's chamber, where Alice found them after an hour deeply engaged in conversation. Her entrance was followed by a sudden silence, during which her usual sang-froid entirely left her, and she could not conceal her embarrassment and vexation. This was Saturday, and she had been prevented from attending the lecture alone the previous evening by Mrs. Morrison's remark,—
"If I were your mother, Miss Saunders, I should advise you not to go to lecture to-night; though your motive may be excellent, it seems like courting the attention of the clergyman. I have resolved that when you leave, Ada shall never put herself in so awkward a situation."
This suggestion, taken in connection with Miss Locke's long call, led Alice to fear that her remark concerning Ada had been repeated, and that it had excited the mother's displeasure; for, notwithstanding her statement that Ada's parents disapproved her attachment, she believed they would be delighted to have their daughter secure the affection of so good a man as Mr. Barton.
To do Alice justice, she had sense enough to see that the young clergyman was vastly superior to any of the gentlemen she had heretofore dignified with the name of lovers, and, though vexed that he never praised her beauty, yet her heart was touched as it had never been before. The thought that Ada loved him, and that her affection was reciprocated, roused passions in her of whose existence she was wholly unaware. An angry flush, therefore, distorted her features on observing a quick glance of caution from Miss Locke to her friend, and she turned to leave the room, but, with a sudden resolve to prevent all farther private communication, she took a seat near the window, and presently saw Mr. Barton walk deliberately up the front avenue toward the house.
In a moment the thought occurred that he had called to inquire why she was absent the evening previous; but this pleasant fancy vanished at once when the bell rang, and she heard him, through the open door, ask whether Miss Locke was ready to accompany him.
The young lady started, exclaiming,—
"There he is!—There's Mr. Barton! I must go, now!"
This was followed by some earnest, whispered remark to Ada, and the parting words,—
"You'd better follow my advice, dear; frankness is always best."
Ada arose from her chair to watch them walk away, and then returned to her seat.
"Alice," she began, timidly, her pale cheeks flushing crimson, "how could you tell Mr. Barton that I had an attachment which my parents disapproved; and still worse that this attachment prevented my feeling any interest in serious subjects?"
"Did he report that I said so?"
"That is not answering my question, and I have often heard you pronounce it ill-bred to answer one question by asking another. I only asked why you did it. The fact I know very well."
Perceiving that she could not avoid it, Alice smilingly replied,—
"It was all for your good, my dear. You know it is true that you have an attachment, and that your father is so strictly denominational that only his civility to a guest influences him to allow you to hear Mr. Barton preach. How could I infer otherwise than that he would be displeased?"
"But why speak on such a subject to him?" Ada inquired, earnestly. "It appears to me strange and indelicate, besides violating a friend's confidence."
For one moment Alice's thoughts recurred to the scene in Aunt Clarissa's chamber, when the truth made the old lady tremble, and she said to herself, "Truth is certainly very disagreeable;" but she quickly rallied and answered, in a grieved tone,—
"I see. Ada, it is time for me to leave you. You have listened to the counsels of others, and have begun to distrust your old friend. I could explain entirely to your satisfaction; but you are not in a state of mind to listen unprejudiced."
"If you knew how sad I felt when I heard it, you would not say so, Alice. Now justice to yourself demands that you should speak. There is enough of our old friendship left in my heart to plead for you."
"Perhaps I was imprudent," Alice began; "but it was all through my affection for you. I saw you were becoming so much absorbed in your attachment that your health was affected, and that your seriousness was yielding to love; and I wished to convince myself whether the attachment was mutual."
Ada's mild eyes flashed her indignation.
"I was convinced," Alice went on, "that Mr. Barton is heart whole. I don't believe he ever wasted a moment's thought on such a subject."
At this moment Mrs. Morrison entered, and, noticing that her daughter was unduly excited, recommended that Miss Saunders should retire to the parlor where she would soon join her.
After persuading Ada to lie down for a while, the lady went to her guest and requested a few moments' conversation.
"I am sorry to have occasion for what I feel constrained to say to you; but duty to my daughter requires it. I fear we have been deceived in you. A lady visiting in W— informs us that your father has always attended the Baptist church; that your mother was a member there, and that you had never made a profession of religion. She said many other things which I will not repeat. I was aware of this when I advised you not to go to lecture last night; but I was not aware, until within an hour, of the manner in which you have returned our hospitality. I was sewing in the next room, and heard my daughter question you concerning a conversation with Mr. Barton, and I agree with her that it was equally unladylike, unchristian, and ungrateful for you to converse with him as you did. Ada, I am happy to say, agrees with me that it would have been safer for her to confide in her mother, and in the desire you expressed to terminate your visit, which, after these events; must be far from agreeable to either party."
Ten o'clock the next day was the earliest hour that Alice could leave. The entire evening she busied herself in packing her trunk, but in the morning was obliged to join the family at breakfast.
Perhaps the reader can imagine her chagrin when, as they arose from table, the servant brought in an elegant bouquet to which was attached a card with the words, "Miss Ada, with the regards of Charles Barton."
Her surprise was equal to her vexation when she heard Squire Morrison read the card and taking the flowers from the servant, carry them himself to his daughter's room, with the laughing remark,—
"So that's the way the wind blows!"
Alice's parting with the Morrisons was rather constrained. Her journey home was enlivened by reflections that, though truth may sometimes be disagreeable, falsehood proves much more so. Certainly lying had in her case not tended to her happiness or prosperity. She made a half-resolve to turn over a new leaf; but she made it in her own strength, and we shall see that evil habits proved too strong for her.
CLERICAL LIES.
ALICE SAUNDERS had always been called amiable. She certainly thought herself so; but the propensity to falsify her word prompted a line of conduct far from amiable.
Not many weeks after her return home, she was in a large party, when a lady asked her how she had enjoyed her visit to W—.
"Very much," was the indifferent reply.
"Miss Morrison is a charming girl."
"Yes; but I feel anxious about her."
"What can you mean?" inquired the lady. "Is not her health firm?"
Instead of answering directly, Alice inquired,—
"Did you ever hear of Mr. Barton?"
"No, I don't remember the name."
"He is a young clergyman residing in W—. Ada is interested in him; but—" She checked herself, and arched her splendid eyebrows.
At this moment a lady joined their group, and stood arm in arm with the companion of Alice.
"Is he not correct in his morals?" urged the other, judging from her friend's manner that something was amiss.
"I do not call any man correct, who trifles with the happiness of a young lady."
"Certainly not!"
"I have heard other remarks prejudicial to him; but it was sufficient for me to know that after deliberately winning the love and confidence of a beautiful girl, he left her on the appearance of a wealthier rival."
"A man that will do that is a rascal!" exclaimed the new-comer, warmly.
"Are you sure it is not a mistake?" queried the other lady.
"I wish for Ada's sake it could be doubted. Imagine my situation as a guest, knowing what I did, yet not wishing to wound her feelings by telling her."
"You ought to have told her frankly."
"It might have been better; but I had not the moral courage. Really, the worry I had between expediency and a fear of losing Ada's friendship almost spoiled my visit. If I but hinted at the truth, she would at once communicate the fact, with the authority for it; and I should either have been obliged to bring proof, or have been thought officious."
"Either course would have been trying, but if she really loved you, and was worthy of your friendship, she would have appreciated your motives. Could you not hint the facts to her parents in a letter?"
"Oh, no! You cannot be acquainted with Squire Morrison, or you would never think of such a thing. To tell the truth, he was not at first over-pleased with Mr. Barton; but Ada is an only daughter, and he would not thwart her wishes. If he thought the gentleman had been guilty of such meanness, he would set all W— in a blaze."
"What is the name of the deserted lady?" inquired the younger miss.
Alice answered decidedly, "I am not at liberty to tell."
A day or two after, the servant announced Miss Perry and Mrs. Mark, the two ladies with whom the conversation had taken place. After a few moments, the latter said,—
"I have thought much about poor Ada Morrison. Suppose she should marry Mr. Barton and find afterward that he had deceived her."
"I have thought of that," murmured Alice, vexed that the subject was renewed; "and I have determined to do nothing about it."
"What else has he been guilty of?" asked Miss Perry, bluntly.
"They say there are things which would depose him from the ministry, if generally known."
"He must be a villain," returned the young lady. "I don't see how he can be such a hypocrite as to write sermons! I heard him once; but I little thought what a vile creature he was."
"That is the worst of the whole," continued Alice. "If I'm not very much mistaken, whole pages of his fine oratory may be found in the best English divines."
"Shocking! Terrible!" ejaculated Mrs. Mark.
While Miss Perry held up her hands and raised her eyes in silent horror, and said, "I'm going to W— to-morrow. My aunt belongs to Mr. Barton's church. What will she think of him when I tell her what a rascal he is! Why, the state prison is too good a place for him!"
Alice's cheeks burned like fire.
"Remember," she said, "that all I have told you about Mr. Barton or Squire Morrison's family was in strict confidence. I would not have my name connected with such scandal for the world."
"Oh, certainly," remarked Miss Perry.
"I have a doubt whether such iniquity ought to be covered up," rejoined Mrs. Mark.
Three months after her visit to W—, Mr. Saunders pointed out to Alice a paragraph in the paper. It read as follows:
"On the 8th inst., by the Rev. Giles Moody, Rev. Charles Barton to Ada, only daughter of Squire Morrison, of W—."
The young lady read the notice with vexation that her friend had married the man in whom she was interested, and pleasure that her falsehoods troubled her not as she feared they would. Mechanically she ran her eye over the paper, when it fell on the following:—
"We regret to say that Rev. Charles Barton has asked a dismission from his people in W—. This unhappy result has been brought about by slanderous reports concerning the gentleman's moral and clerical character, put in circulation by some evil-minded person. On the first intimation of these, he called a meeting of the church, when he told them frankly of the slanders current in the community, and requested them to co-operate with him in searching out the author, or examining the proof of such statements. He told them he knew nothing how they, individually, or collectively, felt regarding his innocence or guilt; he asked nothing but justice, and justice, with the help of God, he would have."A council of the neighboring churches was therefore called, which most thoroughly examined the grave charges. Mr. Barton urged the investigation. The result contained these resolutions:—"'Resolved, that our beloved brother has been foully and wickedly slandered, but has come forth from this trying ordeal like silver refined in a furnace."'Resolved, that we have no terms in which to express our cordial and unqualified approval of Mr. Barton's course during the whole examination. We commend him anew to the love and confidence of his church and congregation, with the hope that his useful labors among them may long be continued.'"Yet Mr. Barton immediately proffered a request to his people for a dissolution of their connection, giving it as a reason, that a pastor's name should be above reproach; that, however unjustly, his name, both as a gentleman and Christian, had been connected with crimes at which his soul revolted; and that he never again could labor here in the cause of his Master. If the event was to any a sorrowful one, it must be charged to the person or persons who originated the slander."
Alice scarcely breathed until she had read every word. Her hot blood burned like fire. Seizing the paper, she rushed to her own room, locked the door, and threw herself in a chair, covering her face with her hands. Conscience was aroused, and set before her the effects of her own lies.
"Was this the way to return Ada's love and Mrs. Morrison's kindness? How did Mr. Barton offend me that I so shamefully slandered him?"
She began to think she had suffered enough to atone for her crime; that what was done could not be undone now; and therefore that it was useless to mourn longer. But the end was not yet.
Scarcely a month passed before Mrs. Mark called one day and requested to see her alone.
"Do you know," she asked quickly, "about poor Ada Morrison?"
"I know she is married."
After a searching glance, the lady asked,—
"Will you have the goodness to tell me the name of your informant concerning the rumors you heard about Mr. Barton?"
"I regret that I cannot oblige you. I'm sorry I ever mentioned the silly affair."
"Miss Perry is almost frantic at the trouble she has brought upon herself. She was actually brought before the council of ministers, and was forced to give your name as her authority for all the reports. Ada was there; as his betrothed wife, she insisted she had a right to be near him. When she heard your name, she fainted and was carried out of church. She was scarcely able to stand during the wedding ceremony, which she would not consent should be postponed, because Mr. Barton needed her more than ever; and now there are alarming symptoms of a hasty decline from the shock."
The lady paused as she noticed the blanched countenance of her hearer, but presently added, "If you could give me the name of your informant, it would relieve you from the terrible burden now resting on your shoulders."
With a shriek she could not suppress, Alice rushed from the room.
REWARD OF TRUTHFULNESS.
LET us, now, look forward to a period when Ellen has remained with her aunt four summers, and is almost seventeen years of age. She has grown taller by two inches than her elder sister, and is a fine, rosy-looking girl.
In her studies she has advanced until, at her graduation from an academy in P—, she attained the highest rank. And yet there is nothing especially brilliant about this young country maiden, except her flashing black eyes and the rich plaits of her abundant hair when the sun strikes upon them. She is a simple, warm-hearted, enthusiastic girl, as unlike her quiet Cousin Mary as possible, and yet bound to her in the strong love which both of them cherish for their Saviour.
During all these years, she has never once returned to her city home; but she has not remained a stranger to her father. He has spent long weeks with her, and two years in succession has accompanied her and her Cousin Mary to a distant State, where they had relatives. But now, he wrote his sister, his health was feeble, and he absolutely yearned for the company of his daughter at home.
Ellen shed some tears at the thought of parting from friends who had become so dear, but realized at once that duty required her to do all she could for her father's comfort. How she was to conduct herself away from the influences for good which now surrounded her; how she would resist the temptations to worldliness it a large city, were questions which frequently arose in her mind, but which, like all other trials, she left at the foot of the cross.
At this time, it was decided that at the close of another week, her father was to come and conduct her home. She had begged for this postponement because it was just at the commencement of Frank's college vacation, a time long anticipated for the execution of many cherished plans.
The cousins had, during the day, been very busy in tying straw around their favorite bushes, digging up dahlia-bulbs, and preparing the garden for the approaching frost, but had now finished supper, attended family prayers, and had drawn up around the cheerful fire, presenting a home scene reminding one of the familiar words of Cowper:
"Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast;Let fall the curtains; wheel the sofa round."
"Now, Frank, don't forget to make my garden during your spring vacation!" exclaimed Ellen, with a laugh. "Because I shall be here for a long visit in the summer, and I shall want it to look beautifully."
Frank, for a wonder, looked absorbed in his own thoughts; but she was not the girl to let him off.
"If my garden don't look as handsome as Mary's," she went on, after giving his sleeve a playful pull, "I shall know you've forgotten all about me, and I shall—"
A quick, peculiar, earnest glance from under his long lashes rather confused the laughing miss, and she stopped abruptly, with a deep blush.
"It's altogether likely we shall forget you," he said, with an air of perfect gravity. "We shall have so much in P— to distract our thoughts from our friends. You, in the city, going constantly into company, receiving attention from nobody knows who, and going to no one knows how many parties a week, will probably think of us more frequently and remember us much longer."
"You may joke about it as much as you like, Frank," she rejoined, rather more warmly than the occasion called for; "but I know you don't believe any such thing! I'm sure you and Aunt Collins and Mary and everybody knows that this is the dearest home I ever had: and that nothing but my feeling that father needs me makes me happy at all, when I think of leaving it. I love every old stump of a tree and every brown cottage in this dear quiet country place better than all the fine houses and parks there are in the city. And, beside all that, here is Uncle Collins always ready to pull my teeth when they ache, and aunty, dear aunty, to tell me my faults so kindly that I'm afraid I don't feel half bad enough about them, and Mary to love, and you to—"
"To tease," he added, gravely, interrupting her.
"No,—infinitive mode, present tense, passive voice,—'to be teased,' if you please," she added, gayly. "You'll be sorry, sir, when I'm gone, you didn't appreciate my society better; and you'll be glad, if you have any feeling left, to come to B— and see me. Oh, Frank, I hope it isn't wicked, but I really wish you were my own brother! I should be so glad if you were obliged to go with me to the city; for I shall so need somebody to tell me a great many things."
The young collegian made a wry face, and, during the remainder of the evening, scarcely spoke.
The few days which intervened before she was to leave passed rapidly away. Together the cousins visited every nook, hill, and streamlet of their favorite haunts. They talked much of the past, but spoke little of the future. Mary, in her own peculiar way, was continually suggesting some pleasant and improving theme for conversation, and Ellen was constantly regretting that she had not profited better by this dear friend's lovely example.
Frank's conduct was variable: sometimes he was very lively and full of fun; and then, again, his sister's eyes would be fixed upon him with tender reproach, as he answered some question of hers or Ellen's with impatience or bitterness.
To both the doctor and his wife, it was with keen regret that they parted with one who had become to them like an own child. They gave her much good advice; her aunt, especially, talked with her long and earnestly of the duties that were before her, and the necessity of keeping her own heart with all diligence, if she would hope to show those around her that she loved her Saviour.
Of Alice, too, they spoke, and of Aunt Clarissa. Mrs. Collins advised her niece to be obliging and attentive to these relatives, to convince them by her conduct of her desire to please them, so far as she could do so without violating her own conscience, or the duties she owed her God.
On the evening Mr. Saunders arrived, her uncle commended her—
"The child who is to leave those who love her so fondly—to the kind care of her heavenly Father." Asking him to be her protector, her guide, her portion for evermore.
Then they retired to her aunt's chamber, where, with a burst of tears, Ellen exclaimed,—
"To-morrow night I shall hear no prayer! Oh, how shall I act when left to myself?"
"You will have an ever-present Friend, my dear child," said her aunt, suppressing her own emotion. "Go to him freely with all the trials that afflict you. Ask his help as you would ask that of your earthly father. Remember you are his child, adopted into his family, and have a claim upon the promises for support and protection, with which the Bible is filled."
"Dear aunt, what do I not owe you?" sobbed the weeping girl. "Think what I was when I came here! No one but you would have loved a wicked liar. I cannot bear to think of it!"
"There was One who loved you far better than I did; One who gave his life that you might be saved from the consequences of all your sins; One who will go with you to-morrow, and remain with you as long as you desire his presence. Oh, Ellen, keep near to him by prayer! He knows all the trials to which you will be subjected in your Christian course. For your sake, he became a Man of sorrows that he might know how to succor you when you are tempted. You are very, very dear to all of us, Ellen. We shall miss you every hour of the day; and every time we gather around the family altar we shall implore a blessing for you."
Morning dawned,—a blustering, November morning, the dull leaden sky adding to the gloom which surrounded the family as they gathered, at an unusually early hour, around the table for breakfast.
"You must remember your promise, Mary, to make us a long visit this winter, and we'll have a very pleasant time," said Mr. Saunders, as he uttered a few parting words and waited for the carriage. "And Frank has a standing invitation to make our house his home whenever he can leave his studies."
END OF TRUTH AND OF LYING.
THE parting was over, and they were fairly on their way; but Ellen could not so suddenly repress her tears, though her father's voice fell soft and lovingly on her ear. His heart was filled with pleasure at the praises of his child to which he had been listening from Dr. Collins; and, as they hurried on after the iron horse, a smile played on his lip, while she, stealthily wiping her eyes, read again and again a tiny note which Frank had crowded into her hand.
"Forgive, dear cousin, the fretfulness and peevishness I have manifested since the day we dug up the dahlia roots. I meant to have made this last fortnight of your stay in P— so pleasant that you would always have remembered it. My only excuse for my foolish conduct is a remark you made to me that night, but which, at present, I cannot repeat. I know, Ellen, you will try to do right wherever you are; and I hope you will be happy."FRANK."
The evening of the same day found our young friend seated at her father's table, Aunt Clarissa, primly dressed in a rich, rustling black silk, behind the urn, and her own beautiful sister Alice opposite.
Here, in the old familiar rooms, more than she had ever done, did Ellen miss her brother Joseph; but she felt that this was not the time to cherish sad reflections.
"I am in my own dear home," her heart kept repeating, "with a fond father and aunt ready to indulge every wish, however foolish, and a sister more beautiful than I ever dreamed of to be the companion of my every day life."
And yet, before Ellen retired, she felt that she would give all she had for just one glimpse of the friends she had left.
"What are they doing, now?" she asked herself. "Does Frank really miss me as he said he should? I can't imagine what remark of mine he alludes to."
Alice and Ellen had each of them a room fitted for their use in as tasteful a manner as their father could devise. Aunt Clarissa accompanied the latter to her chamber,—for Ellen found, before the first evening had passed, that her handsome sister loved no extra exertion,—and inquired whether she needed any assistance.
"No, indeed," she answered, laughing. "You are just the same dear, kind Aunt Clarissa you were four years ago. You must teach me to help you, and not wait upon a great healthy girl like me."
Miss Saunders took a seat, unasked, and began to explain how carefully she and her nephew had arranged everything for her niece's comfort.
Then Ellen, after expressing her thanks, and saying, "I hope you'll find I'm not ungrateful," took out her small Bible, the gift of Cousin Mary, and began to read.
"Just see how far Mary and I have read together," she said, warmly. "Let me read aloud to you. Here, please take this easy seat."
And, having arranged everything to her satisfaction, she began the ninety-first Psalm, which she read in a manner which proved that she relied upon its blessed promises.
"Good night," said Miss Saunders, rising, when her voice ceased. "You are a very good reader. I shall ask to come in again."
Ellen jumped up and gave her a fervent kiss, which made the spinster's heart warm all night.
The next morning, the sisters were sitting together in Alice's room, when Aunt Clarissa entered; Ellen was just saying,—
"No, I never learned to dance, and I don't expect to go to balls; but I love singing dearly."
Alice arched her splendid eyebrows with astonishment. "What will people think?" she asked in her own soft voice.
"I'm a school-girl, yet, you know," said Ellen, slightly blushing. "Father says I'm to attend Mr. Adams's classes in the city; but that is not all," she added, conquering a momentary hesitation. "I don't think I should enjoy myself in parties of that kind. I had rather go where I should meet with society that would do me good."
A scornful smile curled Alice's lip; but she said nothing.
"Let me thread your needle, Aunt Clarissa," cried Ellen, running to the window near which her aunt was trying in vain to do so. "I shall always love to do it for you."
"La, dear child! I can generally see very well; but this morning is so dark." Nevertheless, she smiled and looked pleased at the attention.
At this moment a servant knocked at the door.
"Miss Alice," she said, "Mr. Mansfield has called and asked for you."
"Tiresome creature!" exclaimed the beauty. "What possessed him to come here so early? I have a great mind to say I'm too ill to see him."
Ellen started. "Oh!" she began, and then checked herself.
"Come, Ellen, I wont go and entertain him alone. Besides, he's just one of your kind."
Alice, half-pouting, brushed her hair until it shone, and accompanied by her sister, left for the parlor.
Mr. Mansfield was a gentleman whom she had met at a concert, and who, though a wise man, and near thirty years of age, experienced some quickening of the pulse, as he gazed upon her lovely countenance.
"If the mind and features correspond," he said to himself, "I will win her, if I can."
Ellen was astonished at the warm reception her sister gave one whom she had appeared so reluctant to meet. Alas, she soon learned that all with Alice was appearance! There was no reality, no sincerity, even in the most simple words or actions. They sat and talked upon a variety of subjects until the young girl felt quite proud of her sister, who seemed a prodigy of learning.
Before he rose from his somewhat lengthened call, Mr. Mansfield congratulated the sisters upon meeting after so long a separation; and then looking at them he said, smiling,—
"One would be puzzled to know which is the elder."
"I am two years older than Ellen," quickly responded Alice.
"You forget," exclaimed the other, laughing; "I am three years younger than you."
The beauty cast a glance of displeasure at her sister, which was not unperceived by their visitor, and which gave him a keen pang. He bowed rather gravely, and wishing them good-morning, took his leave.
"Now, Ellen," said Alice, when he had scarcely shut the door, "we may as well understand each other. Once for all, I wont have you correcting me in company! It's bad enough to have father watching me, without your breaking in with, 'You're mistaken, sister. It's so;' or 'it's so.'"
"But," interrupted Ellen, "I didn't suppose,—I never thought you wished to deceive him."
"I can't help what you thought; I wont submit to it!"
"But if I said nothing, I, too, should be guilty of falsehood; and I wouldn't tell what is not true. I had rather cut off my right hand."
She spoke warmly, as if she meant what she said.
"Nonsense!" cried Alice, now really provoked. "What do you suppose I care for your Puritan notions. You'll find you can't carry them out in fashionable society."
"Then I'll renounce it forever; nor will it cost me one pang to do so. I am only grieved because—"
She stopped suddenly; there was a noise of something falling near the door. Springing forward, she found herself face to face with Mr. Mansfield; his cane had dropped from his hand.
Alice, after one glance into his face, made her escape through a back door.
Ellen, her cheeks burning with excitement, and her kindling eyes bearing marks of the indignation her sister's unkind words had called forth, frankly expressed her astonishment at finding him there.
"I was drawing on my gloves in the entry," he began, gravely, "when it occurred to me that it might be pleasant for you both to attend Mr. E—'s lecture this evening. I stepped back toward the door when I heard your remark, 'But if I said nothing, I, too, should be guilty of falsehood.' Then followed your sister's retort, when— In fact, I don't think after that I knew exactly what I was about."
She did not answer.
"I may never see you again, Miss Ellen," he added, with an expression of pain; "but I do not like to go until you say you will excuse me for what I involuntarily heard."
She blushed painfully, but after an effort, said,—
"Mr. Mansfield, you are a great deal older than I am, and perhaps will not understand my frankness. As far as I am concerned, I excuse you; but don't you think it would have been better for you to walk right away?"
"Yes, if I had been responsible for my own actions; but to tell the truth, I was stunned with what I heard. And then it may affect the happiness of my whole life. But I feel that I have gained a friend, if I have lost one. I thank you for your candor, and the more as I know what an effort it cost you. As you value your own peace and that of your friends, retain your truthfulness at whatever cost. Truth is a priceless jewel, and I am delighted to see that you, at least, possess it."
As our story has already exceeded its limits, I can only add that Alice, though acknowledged to have more beauty of features and more ease of manner, was neither loved nor respected like her sister. She married at the age of twenty-six a man whom she had deceived into believing her to be four years younger, and for whose position in society she had made one dreadfully false oath at the altar, when she promised to love and cherish him till death.
Ellen remained with her father in B— until her school education was completed; and then, as Alice was in Philadelphia visiting one of her fashionable friends, accompanied him to Europe, where they remained two years. At the end of that time, they returned, and were soon welcomed by Dr. Frank Collins, who had gone into partnership with his father in P—.
"Ellen," he said, on the evening of her arrival, "I have one question to ask you; and as I know you to be truthful, I expect a candid reply. Will you be my wife?"
"Yes, sir, I will."
"Ah, Ellen, then you are not sorry I am not your brother?"
"No, sir, not at all sorry now."
After the marriage of Alice, Mr. Saunders sold his property in the city, and went to P— to live with his daughter, Ellen Collins, in a beautiful house he had built for them. Where every year that he witnessed her truthful, conscientious life, he became more convinced that, in the words of the poet, though:
"The grave's dark portalSoon shuts this world of shadows from the viewThen shall we grasp realities immortal,if to the truth within us, we are true."