Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
WHITE AND BLACK LIES:
OR,
Truth Better than Falsehood.
BY
MRS. MADELINE LESLIE
AUTHOR OF "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," AND
OTHER SABBATH-SCHOOL BOOKS.
"Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord; but they that deal truly
are his delight."
BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY IRA BRADLEY & CO.
162 WASHINGTON STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
HENRY HOYT,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of
Massachusetts.
PREFACE.
THE Bible ranks truthfulness among the cardinal virtues. Perfect veracity is a prominent element of a good character, lying at the foundation of permanent success and of enviable fame. Yet, from the prevalence of a passion for the marvellous, the temptations are numerous in our age and country to the practice of the arts of deception.
The thought of these exposures of the young has recently revived my early recollection of the excellent treatise on lying, by Mrs. Opie, a book which I read in childhood with the liveliest interest, and which has deepened my conviction of the desirableness of a work expressing similar sentiments, but more fully illustrated and enforced by the teachings of the Bible.
CONTENTS.
[CHAPTER I. FIRST LESSONS IN LYING]
[CHAPTER II. GRIEF OVER YOUNG LIARS]
[CHAPTER III. ONE LIE LEADS TO ANOTHER]
[CHAPTER IV. TROUBLE FROM LYING]
[CHAPTER V. THE LIAR DETECTED]
[CHAPTER VI. FASHIONABLE LIES]
[CHAPTER VIII. THE LIAR ABANDONED]
[CHAPTER IX. THE FATHER OF LIES]
[CHAPTER XII. LIES OF MALIGNITY]
[CHAPTER XIII. LIES OF POLITENESS]
[CHAPTER XV. LIES OF CONVENIENCE]
[CHAPTER XVI. LIES OF AUTHORSHIP]
[CHAPTER XVII. LYING CONTAGIOUS]
[CHAPTER XIX. THE ART OF LYING]
[CHAPTER XX. LIES ABOUT RELIGION]
[CHAPTER XXII. REWARD OF TRUTHFULNESS]
[CHAPTER XXIII. END OF TRUTH AND OF LYING]
WHITE AND BLACK LIES.
[CHAPTER I.]
FIRST LESSONS IN LYING.
"JOSEPH SAUNDERS, take those glasses off this very minute! How many times have I told you never to touch my things!" Nevertheless, Aunt Clarissa laughed heartily.
"They aren't yours," answered the boy, saucily. "They're father's, and he says I may take them just as much as I have a mind to."
"Take care, Joseph; when your conscience gives a twinge like that, you had better recall your resolutions about lying."
Joseph Saunders was a motherless boy. His father was a master mason; that is, he did not work himself; but kept a number of men, who did the jobs, while he superintended them, to be sure the work was right. This is a very profitable business, and by it Mr. Saunders had become quite a rich man. He lived in a handsome house, in a street overlooking a pleasant park which in summer was filled with beautiful flowers. He had three children,—two daughters and one son.
Alice, the elder, was fifteen, and was away from home at a boarding school. Ellen was three years younger, and still remained with her father. Joseph, the baby, as his sisters teasingly called him, was but six, though he insisted he was old enough to wear suspenders, and have a watch-pocket.
Mrs. Saunders died when Joseph was little more than a year old, so that he could not remember her. But he had so often heard his father describe her sweet smile, her dark loving eyes, her broad polished forehead, over which her shining hair was so smoothly parted, that it seemed to him, he could remember her, and that when he went to heaven, he should know her at once. Then her voice, which his father told him was low and musical, like the chiming of silver bells, he often heard in his dreams. Sometimes he awoke, calling her, and it was difficult to convince him that she had not stood by his side, and that it was only a dream.
Soon after his mother died, Aunt Clarissa came to take care of the children, and to direct the servants in her nephew's family. Though aunt to Mr. Saunders, Miss Clarissa was only ten years older than he was, and would have felt quite insulted, had she even suspected that she was not considered a young lady. She was a very good housekeeper. The upper shelves in the china closet were always filled with jars of jelly and sweetmeats, neatly covered with white paper, and tied with pink cord. Her sponge cake, custards, and Washington pies, always came out of the oven done to a turn, and exactly the right shade of brown; and as to her waffles, why, nobody who had eaten Miss Clarissa's waffles ever expected to make any equal to them! So light, so rich, and covered with just the right quantity of butter and sugar.
Mr. Saunders was fond of inviting his friends to dinner, and this at first annoyed his aunt, who disliked hurry or confusion, such as the sudden appearance of a guest was likely to occasion; but she gradually became accustomed to this, and to all her duties, and even grew quite fond of being seated at the head of a luxuriously spread table, richly ornamented with its display of silver, china, and cut glass.
In the laundry, too, Miss Clarissa was quite as successful as in the china closet. The making up, as she called it, of her nephew's shirts was both her pride and delight; while her own laces—I do not say caps; she would consider me very presuming to hint that she wore caps—and her niece's muslins were the envy of all who saw them. Then this good lady was skilled in all kinds of preparations for the sick. Few, even of well persons, could refuse her chicken-broth or beef-tea; and those who came on to the sick list were willing to try her senna, her jalap, or her thoroughwort, for the sake of the delicacies which accompanied them.
If any one person in the world was neater than every other, that person was Aunt Clarissa. The least particle of dust on the furniture, or on the heavy mouldings; the slightest variation in the width of the snow-white sheet when it was turned down over the smoothly-spread counterpane; the tiniest speck upon the shining silver, or on the large panes of glass in the windows, was sure to attract her attention; and woe be to the servant who had so shamefully neglected her duty.
So far then as her housekeeping was concerned, Miss Saunders was every way calculated to render her nephew's family exceedingly comfortable; but I am very sorry to say, she was in no ways adapted to educate his children. In the first place, she had no fixed principles for the regulation of her own conduct. To be sure she did occasionally, on a stormy Sabbath, read her Bible; and she had heard of the inspired rule, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it;" but she had little idea of the literal meaning of the old-fashioned precept. So far as she had any rule, it was this: "Train up a child to have his own way, and when he is old he will be a model of perfection."
The first part of this adage she certainly carried out. Alice, Ellen, and particularly Joseph, were trained to have their own way in every particular. If the little dears chose to obey her, and overload their stomachs with her rich dainties, well and good. If they disobeyed her commands, quarrelled, went on the damp ground with thin shoes, talked impudently to the servants, or told what was not true,—why, such follies must be expected from children. Does not even the Bible say, children go astray as soon as they are born?
Whether Miss Clarissa's training was such as to make her nieces and nephews honor their father, and her who took the place of a mother; whether it would render them "kindly affectionate one to another;" whether it would make them lovers of truth; whether it would cause them to become ornaments of society, loving their Creator, and endeavoring to serve him,—we shall see as we proceed with their history.
Alice was called a handsome child. She had small regular features, a pink and white complexion, and an abundance of soft, light hair, which waved over her cheeks and neck. Her eyes were blue, but of so light a shade, that they had the appearance of being faded. In disposition, she was naturally amiable; and under judicious training, such as her mother, had she lived, might have exercised, was capable of making a useful, agreeable, but never a strong, character.
Ellen was the exact opposite of her sister, both in person and disposition. She was a brunette, with dark flashing eyes, a low forehead, and somewhat wide but laughing mouth. She was warm and enthusiastic in her temperament, to a degree which astonished every member of the family; strong and unyielding in her prejudices, keenly alive to all the weaknesses of Aunt Clarissa's character, and ready to take advantage of them for her own benefit. Being a very positive character, she soon exercised a most decided influence over her more yielding sister, and though three years younger, until Alice left for school, was almost always appealed to in cases of doubt.
"Would you go to church? Would you wear that? Do you think this hat looks well?"
If Alice was invited to go to a party, it took her a long time to decide whether she would send a note of acceptance or regret; whether she cared enough about it, to take the trouble to dress. In the midst of her queries and uncertainties, Ellen would come in, and with her decided, "I shall go," or "I shall not go," put an end at once to the controversy.
Alice, without proper training, would become a negative, indolent young lady; Ellen, an obstinate, self-willed, and passionate one.
From the many years of difference between Ellen and Joseph, an infant brother having died between their ages, the boy was always petted and indulged by all. He was what would be called a smart child, and his sayings and doings were repeated and laughed at, until it was not strange, he considered himself a wonderful personage.
It was Joseph's great ambition to be old; and if money could have purchased him a dozen years, he would have given those around him no peace until he had added them to his life; but as even Aunt Clarissa, with all her desire that he should be gratified, could neither increase his stature, nor present him the moon for a toy—he was obliged to content himself with aping the dress and manners of a man. With this intent, he would often steal into his father's bedroom, and, arraying himself in stock and collar, would then mount his father's glasses on his nose, seize his cane, and with a rude, swaggering air saunter into the parlors.
"Joseph Saunders! I do believe there never was such a mischievous child!" Aunt Clarissa would exclaim. "How dare you take a clean collar, sir!" But at the same time, she would join most heartily in the shout of mirth with which his appearance was greeted by the others.
[CHAPTER II.]
GRIEF OVER YOUNG LIARS.
MR. SAUNDERS was a moral man, strictly honorable in his dealings with his fellow-men. He would have scorned the idea of cheating his patrons, or any one with whom he had to do; because such conduct was, in his opinion, mean and low. For a liar, he had the greatest contempt. Imagine, then, his horror when he found that neither of his daughters had the slightest regard for truth.
On one occasion he brought home a valuable book of engravings, lent him by a friend. For a few days, he was so much occupied, he had no time to examine it; but when he did, he found almost every page marred by marks of dirty fingers. Mortified and chagrined, he called, first, Alice and then Ellen, and holding up the volume, demanded an explanation. They both denied having touched the book, or even having seen it, and looked in his face, as they repeated the assertion, with such unblushing effrontery, he could not believe them to be the guilty ones.
A few days later, he met a young man at the bookstore who was on intimate terms in his family. Mr. Saunders was about purchasing a duplicate of the volume which had been so mysteriously injured, when the other remarked,—
"I told Ellen it was dangerous to handle a valuable book while eating fruit."
"What do you mean?" inquired the gentleman, a bright flush spreading all over his face. "Did you see Ellen with a book like this?"
The young man laughed.
"I had no idea I was telling tales," he said; "but I happened in one day when you were not at home. The girls were earnest in their admiration of the engravings, and in her zeal, Ellen pulled it from her sister, though her hands were half full of fruit. Ask them; they will tell you about it."
The father opened his pocket-book, laid down the price of the volume, and walked out of the store without another word. Perhaps in all the years since his wife died, he had never so forcibly realized the responsibility which rested upon him as he did during that short walk. What adepts in lying his daughters must have become, when they could so entirely deceive him! His boy, too,—there was no knowing how soon he would follow their example. Before he reached his own steps, his eyes seemed for the first time open to the fact that Aunt Clarissa, however excellent a housekeeper, was not equal to the moral training of his children.
On entering the house, he sent for his daughters, and was deeply pained to see how readily they reiterated the falsehood, and, even when he convinced them he was aware of the fact that they had deceived him, how little shame they exhibited at the detection. Indeed, they did not feel that they had committed a grave offence, nor realize that not only had they deceived a kind, indulgent parent, but had violated one of God's holy commands, "Lie not one to another."
A sharp pang shot through the heart of Mr. Saunders, as he remembered how entirely he had neglected to teach his children their accountability to God. After a few words to them, expressing his horror of their crime, he dismissed them abruptly, and passed the next hour in forming resolutions for the future. He realized, for the first time,—because circumstances had not heretofore brought the subject before him,—that if they went on as they were now going, with no counter-influences to check their impulses, they would be ruined. Something must be done, and that at once, to change their whole course of conduct.
If Mr. Saunders had been a Christian father, he would have reasoned differently. He would have said, "My children are by nature sinful; the seeds of corruption have begun to take root, and must be exterminated. The grace of God and the constant instructions of his holy word alone can do this. I will give them line upon line, and precept upon precept, and pray for God's blessing upon the result."
But, as it was, he saw the evil, yet was puzzled as to the cure. That night but little sleep came to his pillow, and the morning dawned with only one advance upon the doubts of the preceding day, and that was a resolve to consult a friend, who had several daughters of her own, as to the course he had better pursue.
Mrs. Peters was a woman of the world. It was her ambition that her children should excel and shine in society. She therefore was unwearied in her devotion to what she considered their best interests. She would have thought it a sin to omit one of their studies, or to remit an hour of their daily penance of sitting with their feet in the stocks, with their arms tightly braced back to give grace and vigor to their frames. They were to be outwardly polished and beautiful; but she had not given a thought to the fashioning of their souls in the image of their Saviour. She condoled with Mr. Saunders, as to the state of perplexity in which he found himself, and advised him at once to send Alice to a fashionable boarding school, where she would be taught every accomplishment, and where, of course, she would soon learn that lying and all those things were very low and unladylike.
Though not entirely convinced by her reasoning, Mr. Saunders determined to follow her advice, and in less than a month, Alice became a member of Mrs. Lerow's celebrated school for young ladies, where for the present we shall leave her.
Now that his attention had once been directed to the subject, the gentleman watched closely his other daughter, and was pained to perceive that, with many fine traits, she was growing up not only a liar, but passionate and self-willed. It was evident she needed a firm, careful hand to direct her physical and moral training for a few years.
Mrs. Saunders's sister was married and lived fifty miles in the country. It had been her habit; ever since her sister's death, to visit her brother-in-law once in a few years; and just at this time, she wrote announcing her intention of spending a week in the city. The gentleman was intensely relieved.
"She is just the person," he said to himself, "to have the charge of Ellen. I wonder it did not occur to me before. It will be the saving of the child, if her aunt will consent to take her."
Mrs. Collins had not been in the house many days, before she agreed with her brother that his children needed a mother's careful, judicious management. Ellen, ardent, impulsive as she was, had always been her favorite; but she was deeply grieved to see how entirely the child was wanting in moral and religious principle.
When Mr. Saunders first mentioned his wish of sending his daughter home with her to remain for an indefinite period, she shrank from so great a responsibility; but after making it a subject of prayer and direction from her Father in heaven, she thought here was an opportunity to do good which ought not to be neglected, even though it involved great personal sacrifices.
There were some conditions, however, which she insisted upon as essential to the well-being of Ellen. She should be entirely under her aunt's influence, not even visiting home until her present habits of deceit were so far eradicated that she would not be likely to return to them; and that Mr. Saunders would co-operate with her in everything she considered essential for the good of the child.
Ellen, herself, was in raptures at the proposed change. Mrs. Collins prolonged her visit another week, in order that the necessary preparations might be completed, and as, in the mean time, she accompanied the lady on her shopping expeditions, and in many instances had her own taste consulted in the choice of her dress, she expressed herself as more happy than she had ever been in her life.
[CHAPTER III.]
ONE LIE LEADS TO ANOTHER.
BEFORE she left the city, Mrs. Collins remonstrated with her brother upon the course of indulgence he was pursuing with Joseph, assuring him that, if he persevered in it, the result might be more fatal even than in the case of his daughters.
With all due respect to the excellencies of Aunt Clarissa, she explained to him that her influence over the child was very injurious indeed; that the lady was completely governed by him, and, except by her words, never enforced, did not oppose him in anything. He paid no more attention to her constant reminder:
"Joseph, don't let me know you to do so again!
"Joseph Saunders, I forbid you to go to my drawers!"
Than he did to the sighing and moaning of the autumnal wind. She recommended that he be placed in a good school, where, for six hours every day, he be under a proper influence and restraint, or that a private governess be taken into the house.
How many times, in after years, did Mr. Saunders regret he had not acted upon this last piece of advice!
Mrs. Collins resided in a quiet country town. Her husband was a physician, and kept a small shop of medicines more for the convenience of his neighbors than from any advantage which accrued to himself. They had one son, who was at an academy pursuing studies preparatory to entering college, and a daughter one year older than Alice.
There was but one church and society in the whole village, over which the Reverend Mr. Allen had been settled for a score of years.
The district schoolhouse, where Mr. Collins's children had been thoroughly taught the rudiments of knowledge, was but a short distance from their home and to this the lady determined to send her niece.
For the winter term, a gentleman of high attainments had been engaged, and Mary Collins, also, expected to become a pupil.
Though scarcely a day passed, without some trials with the impulsive, untutored girl; yet her aunt hoped much from the silent influences which surrounded her. From Mary, too, she expected great assistance by inspiring in the mind of her cousin a love for virtue. This young girl was an earnest, sincere Christian, and, though modest and unobtrusive in her manners, extremely decided where principle was involved.
In the centre of the village, there was one large variety store, sufficient to satisfy most of the wants of the residents. As Mr. Saunders, without his sister's knowledge, had liberally supplied his daughter with pocket-money, she used to invent a variety of excuses for visiting the store, where she had seen one small shelf devoted to jars of confectionery.
Mrs. Collins often wondered that her niece, when called to meals, felt so little appetite for her food, not even suspecting that she had been overloading her stomach with poisoned sweets obtained at the store.
After a few weeks, Ellen's money was gone, but not her sickly craving for sweets. She felt convinced that her aunt would disapprove, if not wholly forbid, her eating so much candy, and determined not to apply to her. She now wished more than ever that she could write and direct a letter by herself; for if so, she would beg her father or Aunt Clarissa for means to gratify her appetite; but as she could not, she concluded to run up a bill at the store, which she would be careful to pay with the first remittance from her indulgent parent.
"I want six gibraltars, and six sticks of peppermint candy," she said, one morning, to the young clerk, who stood smiling behind the counter.
He selected them as directed, folded them neatly in a small parcel, and then held out his hand for the pay.
"Aunt Collins wants you to put what I buy on a bill, and my father will pay it," she answered, with a somewhat heightened color.
"Stop a minute," he said, walking quickly to his master, who was at the other end of the counter. "Well," he added coming back, "you must tell me, though, what your father's name is. I suppose there is no doubt your aunt said so," looking keenly in her face.
"No, indeed! She said you would trust me."
"Do you eat all this candy yourself?" inquired the clerk, gayly.
"Yes—no; I gave my cousin some; but she is not very fond of it."
This was lie the second, and Ellen, somewhat provoked, turned quickly from the counter, lest she should be obliged to tell lie the third.
She broke open the parcel, took out one gibraltar, which did not taste as sweet as usual, and crowded the rest into her pocket. Though she had equivocated many times since she came to P—, she had not before told a downright falsehood; and somehow, the thought of it troubled her. At home it seemed natural to deceive; and then nobody had told her how wicked it was.
"What an impudent fellow that is, to ask so many questions!" she soliloquized. "I am almost sorry I did not leave the candy with him after all. He may keep it if he is so afraid of losing his money. I wish father would send me some; and I would pay his bill, and never buy anything at his store again."
But all this did not satisfy her conscience, which was beginning to be more enlightened. She had not listened, morning and evening, to her uncle's prayer for strength to resist the temptations of our own hearts to do evil, without some feeble desire for help to do likewise. She had not been witness to the lovely, consistent conduct of her cousin, without hoping at some future time to be like her. She had begun to love her aunt and, indeed, the whole family; but she found herself during the day returning short answer to their affectionate questions, not daring to look them frankly in the face.
She had promised Mary that she would try to be good, and would ask her heavenly Father to help her; but in the evening when she retired to her room, and began to repeat the form of prayer she had learned, her heart seemed to rise up in her throat and choke her. Covering her face with her hands, she gave way to a passionate burst of grief and thus her cousin found her.
"Why, Ellen!" she cried. "What has happened? Do let me comfort you."
But for some time the sobbing girl could not speak. Indeed, there was a severe struggle going on within her. Conscience, awakened at last, urged her to confess her fault, ask God, and then her aunt, to forgive her. Next pride would plead, "What a fuss you are making for just a little lie which can do no harm to any one. You bought the candy, and mean to pay for it. You have told bigger lies a great many times, and never cared about it."
Oh, how little Ellen then realized that the gracious Spirit of God was hovering over her; that his influence was operating on her heart; that if she resisted him, she might be left to work out her own ruin!
Mary kneeled by her side, affectionately pressing her cheek to her cousin's wet one.
"Can't you tell me what it is?" she softly murmured.
"I—I don't feel well; I am not happy,—I can't say my prayers to-night."
"But why, dear cousin? You were singing merrily half an hour ago. Has anything happened since? It is a sad thing when we cannot tell our heavenly Father our troubles. You know praying is only talking with God,—telling him our desires. If we have sinned, we confess it to him as we would to an earthly parent, only we do it more readily, as we know he is more ready to forgive. He says, 'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.' You feel sure your father loves you. Mother has often told me how tender and indulgent he is. But your heavenly Father is infinitely more so. He sees you all the time, and knows just what your temptations have been; and the moment he sees you are sorry, he is ready to forgive."
Ellen started up and looked eagerly in her cousin's face. "How has she found out that I have been tempted?" was the question which alarmed her.
But Mary returned the glance so kindly, she was relieved, and saying to herself, "After all, what's the use of feeling so. I never mean to tell another lie," she laughed hysterically, as she sprang to her feet.
"Come, Ellen, sit by me while I read my evening chapter."
Mary went on, not at all deceived by her appearance, and opening her Testament, she read the thrilling account of the prodigal son returning to his father.
"Is it true?" asked Ellen, sighing deeply.
"Christ told his disciples this parable," answered Mary, "to show poor sinners how willing God is to forgive them. It is true that many, many poor prodigals have gone astray from their Father's house, have offended against his holy laws, and have found that where they expected pleasure, they only met with pain, sorrow, and weariness of heart. When oppressed with poverty and want,—at last they remembered that in the home they had left there was plenty; and with penitence for their sin, in so foolishly throwing away their blessings, they arise at last and say, 'I will go to my Father, confess my fault, and be happy once more.'"
Ellen began to pick the trimming on her apron, her countenance looking very thoughtful.
Mary slowly closed the book, and putting her arm around her cousin, said, softly,—
"You and I, dear girl, and all mankind, are sinners before God. Our sinful hearts have led us far away from home; but we shall never know peace until we return to him with the prayer of the prodigal on our lips:
"'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants, even the lowest place in thy kingdom is far more than I deserve.'"
For a few moments they sat in profound silence, then Ellen, without a word, undressed herself and retired to her couch, while her cousin, checking a sigh of disappointment, went quietly from the room.
[CHAPTER IV.]
TROUBLE FROM LYING.
NOTWITHSTANDING, Ellen's sorrow at the commission of so grave a fault, which she vainly tried to convince herself was a very trifling one, the temptation a few days after proved too much for her, and she added to her bill at the store by the purchase of twenty-five cents' worth of candy and lozenges. This way of gratifying her sickly appetite for sweets proved so easy, that she resorted to it again and again, until the clerk informed her she owed nearly five dollars.
"Five dollars!" was the poor child's frightened exclamation. "The story of five dollars,—it can't be true! You have not counted it right."
The clerk laughed, though he blushed too.
"See," he said, "how often you have had twenty-five cents' worth, and it only takes four times that to make one dollar. If you don't like large bills, you had better pay this before it comes to be larger. Mrs. Collins never allows anything for herself to be charged."
"I will write a letter to my father to-day," exclaimed the distressed girl. "He gives me as much spending money as I want."
"Very well," answered the young man, "I dare say it will be all right; you don't look like a young miss who would run up a bill without the means of paying it."
Vexed with the clerk for the insinuating smile which accompanied his words, and more angry with herself for having given him the opportunity to speak so familiarly, she hastily returned home.
With a weight on her heart, she walked slowly along, ever and anon saying to herself, "What shall I do? I think it's real mean in Aunt Collins not to give me money, and then I should not have to run up a bill." Upon each member of the family in turn did she try to affix the blame which conscience told her belonged only to herself.
Hurrying up to her own chamber, she stealthily drew a sheet of paper from her cousin's desk. Under other circumstances, she would have begged her aunt for what she needed; but the fear that she would be asked what she wanted of paper led her to the commission of another crime; so true it is that one sin leads to many others.
With a lead pencil, which she was obliged to wet continually, the point was so blunt, Ellen rapidly wrote, or rather scrawled, a few lines to Aunt Clarissa,—for to her she had concluded the application must be made,—in which, in words badly spelled, she expressed her desire for some money; she did not care how much, only it must be more than five dollars.
She now considered it fortunate that the post office was kept at the store; for she had concluded to ask the clerk to direct and post it for her. This was another humiliation to which her falsehood had subjected her; and her cheeks burned as she made the request.
"Ah!" said he, with a coarse laugh. "Aunt Collins is not to know all we do."
Ellen was too angry to reply, and turned away with a toss of her head; but presently remembering she was still in his power, went back to say, "When my letter comes, I will pay your money at once;—and never have anything more to do with you," she muttered to herself, as she went abruptly out of the store.
"Oh, how very unhappy I am!" she soliloquized, as with slow and faltering steps she made her way home. "I mean to tell aunt I am homesick, and had rather live with father."
She sighed heavily, and forcibly restrained her tears, as conscience reminded her of a passage occurring in her last Sunday's lesson: "The way of transgressors is hard."
"But I used to be a great deal worse than I am now," she went on, "and I thought nothing about it. I used to tell lies all the time; and take Aunt Clarissa's cake and jellies, which Mary considers as bad as stealing."
"The prodigal son revelled in sin," again suggested the inward monitor, "and thought not of his folly; but by and by he began to mourn over it, and then he desired to return to duty."
"Well, I've suffered so much, that if I ever get out of this, I shall know better than to get myself into trouble again. At any rate, I can't help it now."
Then a voice whispered, "Why not confess to your aunt; ask her to settle with the storekeeper, and restore your self-respect?"
"Oh, no, that would be too mortifying! I could not bear my uncle or Mary to know how foolish I have been."
Now it so happened that the continued want of appetite for wholesome food had begun to excite the serious anxiety of Mrs. Collins. She consulted her husband, who suspected at once she was or had been in the habit of eating confectionery.
"But isn't it strange the effect should continue?" inquired the lady. "I am sure she has eaten none since she came to P—."
"I think you may be mistaken, mother," suggested Mary, who was present. "I have often seen her with candy; and she has occasionally offered me some. One day I joked her about her excessive fondness for it; and she seemed very much confused, but said that her Aunt Clarissa always gave her as much as she wished."
"Where can she obtain it?" asked the lady, in great surprise. "She has no money. At least, none that I am aware of. Her father gave me a generous sum for the supply of every want; but as I thought her too young and untaught to use it properly herself, I requested him not to allow her spending money. Perhaps her companions have given her some."
Mary smiled, as she answered, "I cannot say; and unless I had heard you express a fear lest she was injuring her health, I should not have mentioned having seen her eat candy."
"I have noticed of late that she was more petulant," added Mrs. Collins, after a brief pause, in which a painful suspicion shot through her mind; "it may be that something troubles her conscience."
Mary was silent. Not even to her mother had she felt at liberty to relate the incident which had occurred many weeks before, when Ellen wept so bitterly. She was just debating the question, whether she ought to do so, when the young girl entered. They both noticed that she was excited; her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were crimson.
"Come here, my dear!" exclaimed the lady, a sudden gush of tenderness toward the motherless child for a moment overpowering her. "We were just talking of you, and we think you are neither as well in health, nor as happy, as when you first came to us. We love you, dear Ellen, and thought we could make you happy; but if we cannot, perhaps we ought to send you back to your father."
Ellen eagerly caught her aunt's hand, and pressed it to her lips. Oh, how she longed to throw herself into her kind arms, and confess all!
"If I only had Aunt Clarissa's letter, with money enough to pay the bill, I would do so," she thought; "but I fear she would despise me."
Don't blame this child too much, reader. You perhaps have always been watched by a tender Christian mother, who has kindly pointed out your faults, and taught you that the first step toward curing was to confess them. Aunt Clarissa had taken the best care of which she was capable of her body; had seen her well, even fashionably, clothed, but had never inquired into the state of her heart; while her father, busied in acquiring wealth for his children, had wholly neglected their moral culture until, frightened at the result, he shrank from the responsibility he had incurred.
Mrs. Collins waited patiently for her niece to speak: but though Ellen kept repeating the words, "It is not your fault that I am not well. I do love you dearly!" Yet she gave no reason for her too evident unhappiness.
"I must inquire more particularly into this. There is something I do not understand," the lady said to her daughter as, with a sudden start, Ellen left the room.
In the evening, as the family, including Frank, who had just returned from school, were seated around the table, Mary entered, portfolio in hand. "Ellen," she said, with an anxious flush, "have you taken a piece of paper from my drawer?"
The young girl started, gave one searching glance into her cousin's face, and then faltered, "No, I haven't."
"You are welcome to as much paper as you wish," she added, misunderstanding the expression of distress; "but I have lost one sheet on which I had made a memorandum of books my teacher gave me. I have searched every place I can think of, but I cannot find it; and I was so sure I put it in my portfolio."
It was with the greatest difficulty the poor girl could refrain from screaming aloud. She bent over her book to hide her tears, while Mrs. Collins gazed in astonishment.
"Come to the side table, Nelly," at length exclaimed Frank, breaking the awkward pause which ensued. "Let's play a game of checkers. I know just how you feel," he added, in a low voice, when they had arranged the board.
She started, and blushed violently.
"I mean when Mary asked you if you had taken her paper. Our master at school missed his gold pencil from his desk, and a pretty piece of work he made of it. When the school were all seated for prayers, he spoke out in a solemn tone and told us what he had lost, and asked whether any of the scholars had seen it. He began at the back row, and cast his eyes along through every desk. When he came to me, I couldn't help it to save my life, but I turned as red as fire, just as you did when Mary asked you. I was vexed that I had made such a fool of myself; but when the scholars saw how long the master's eye rested on me, they all looked at me until, like a great booby, the tears came right into my eyes. I choked and choked, but it was no go. Master said no more. He thought he'd found the thief. After school, he called me, and asked,—
"'Collins, have you anything to confess?'
"'No, sir,' I answered; and I could feel my cheeks burn again.
"'Not about my pencil?'
"'No, sir; I never have seen it, that I know of.'
"'You may go,' he said, in an awful, stern voice."
"But hadn't you really seen it?" asked Ellen, eagerly.
"Seen it? No, indeed! Do you suppose I'd steal and lie too?"
This was said with such a tone of honest indignation, that the young girl's heart beat furiously; but she presently comforted herself that he supposed her innocent.
"Two days after," Frank went on, "master found his pencil in an old vest pocket, and he made an apology to the school."
"I am vexed with myself," Ellen heard Mary say, "that I did not take better care of my memorandum! I am ashamed to ask my teacher again; it seems so careless!"
"I don't believe you like to play checkers," said Frank. "You have made a false move twice, and I've had to take your king."
"I don't feel like playing to-night," she said, softly; "my head aches so hard." And to his surprise, she rose suddenly and left the room.
"That's polite!" exclaimed the youth, trying to conceal his vexation, as he deliberately restored the checkers to the box.
Ellen ran to her own room, and throwing herself on the bed, wept as if her heart would break.
"Oh, what a dreadful day this has been!" she kept repeating. "How little I thought when I bought that first candy that it would ever make me do so many wicked things! Mary and Frank will hate me when they find out I have deceived them; and I fear God will hate me too," she added, with a fresh burst of tears. "Oh! Will he ever forgive me?"
[CHAPTER V.]
THE LIAR DETECTED.
"I DIDN'T tell you the whole of my story last night," said Frank, as the next morning, Ellen, pale and sad, seated herself in the window to study her lesson. "Mr. Taylor is a real good teacher, though he is awfully strict. As soon as he found his pencil just where he had left it, he thought, I suppose, that he had suspected me without cause, or rather because I was silly enough to blush upon being asked a simple question.
"He took occasion to give the whole school a lecture on circumstantial evidence, and proved, by some good anecdotes, how unsafe a mode of judging it was. Why, some men have been hanged, being judged by circumstantial evidence; and afterwards they were found to be innocent. When he had done, he alluded to the pencil again, and said he had known some persons with such a tender conscience that the simple fact of their being questioned would cause them to show all the signs of guilt. I guess I blushed some then; for all the scholars smiled as they looked at me, and Mr. Taylor looked in my face and smiled too. So you see, I knew just how to pity you last night. But, of course, Mary is glad to give you paper and pens, too, whenever you want them."
"Oh, how I wish he would never speak another word about it!" thought Ellen, almost ready to cry again.
"Mary is a dear, good sister!" cried Frank, gayly, determined, if possible, to win a smile from his cousin before he left her.
"So she is!" was the earnest response. "She is just as kind to me as if she were my sister, too. But I must study my lesson now."
It took but one day for a letter from P— to reach the city, and one day for an answer to be returned; so that, when at the close of the third day, Ellen had received neither answer nor money, her anxiety and restlessness were almost more than she could endure. Her feverish appearance attracted the attention of her uncle. He called her to him to feel her pulse, ordered her to take a cup of weak tea and go to bed.
The next morning, however, all was explained. On his way to visit his first patient, he called at the post office and took out a letter to his wife from her brother-in-law, Mr. Saunders. There was something peculiar in the appearance of the envelope, and he hastily tore it open, hoping it enclosed a note for Ellen, which would bring back her old gayety: for the doctor was almost as much vexed as his wife at the sad change in their young guest.
The clerk who had noticed the postmark, and was interested in the result, saw the doctor change color and, after a brief glance at an enclosed paper, shut his lips firmly together, and leave the store.
When he was in his sulky, the doctor unfolded the letter again, when his eye fell upon a pencilled memorandum, "Abercrombie's Mental Philosophy, page 50, etc., etc."
"The girl is a liar, too," he muttered. "Here is the sheet Mary lost. Whew! Gibraltars, sticks of candy, lozenges, to the amount of five dollars. No wonder the child looks pale and has the headache. Well, what does her father say to such a bill?" He slackened his pace and read:
"MY DEAR SISTER,—The enclosed note came to hand yesterday morning. It was directed, as you see, to Aunt Clarissa, who would gladly have sent the money, and kept the knowledge of the letter from me. But I insisted on seeing it. I presume Ellen is not quite cured of her old habit of deceit, and has run up this bill without your knowledge. I enclose the amount, but wish you to do just as you think proper about paying it. The sight of the miserable, poorly spelled scrawl makes me blush for my daughter's ignorance.
"We all are well, though Joseph grows every day more wilful. What shall I do with the boy? It seems hard that I must deprive myself of the society of all my children, or see them growing up to be a curse to themselves, and to everybody who belongs to them.
"Your affectionate brother,
"JOSEPH SAUNDERS."
"There is a document which will help you to solve a mystery," remarked Dr. Collins to his wife, about the middle of the forenoon.
"Poor child! I feared something of this," was the tearful reply, after the lady had slowly perused both the enclosed letters. "Oh, how my sister would have grieved over her! The lost memorandum too! Oh, Ellen! Cannot you learn to be frank and truthful?"
"From Mr. Saunders's note, I fear one lesson will not suffice for him. Did you notice what he said about his boy?"
"Yes," she answered, sighing. "His father's neglect and Aunt Clarissa's indulgence will prove his ruin."
"Well, about Ellen, I would make a serious matter of this want of confidence. The child has been unhappy no doubt, as she deserved to be; but I would not pay the money too readily."
"If there was any way in which she could earn it, the lesson would be more lasting," exclaimed Mrs. Collins, eagerly.
After her husband left, the lady retired to her chamber, where, upon her knees, she sought counsel of her heavenly Father in regard to this case of discipline. By this exercise, her own feelings were softened, so that when Ellen returned from school, she was able to receive her with affection, a mode of treatment which cut the penitent child to the heart.
Mrs. Collins still hoped that the young girl would confess her fault. Little did she suspect the dreadful struggle between conscience and pride which was going on in the breast of her niece; but after waiting until evening, she followed the child to her chamber, where she found her with her head resting on her arm, the tears trickling down her cheeks. Stooping tenderly forward, the lady said,—
"Ellen, as the child of my dear sister, I love you. It grieves me to see you so unhappy. Cannot you tell me frankly what has caused this sad change?"
"Don't speak so, aunt; it makes me cry more. If you would only be cross with me, I could bear it a great deal better; but I have been very wicked! I—I don't deserve to have you love me!"
"I know all about it, my poor child,—your letter to Aunt Clarissa, and all; but I would have you confess your fault."
Ellen sprang to her foot. "Has she sent me the money?" she almost screamed. "Oh, if she has, and I can but pay that hateful bill, I am sure I never shall be so wicked again."
"No, Ellen; she has not answered your letter; your father enclosed it in one to me."
The child's countenance fell again.
"I will advance you the money," rejoined her aunt, "and will accompany you to the store to pay your bill, on one condition,—that you promise me never to repeat this offence. Afterwards you can earn it and repay me."
"I have been too miserable ever to do so again," faltered the poor girl; "and Mary's paper too; did you know about that?"
"Yes, here it is. Now what shall I do? Cut off this pencilled slip at the top, and lay it in Mary's portfolio, where she will no doubt find it; or will you tell her frankly that you took it, and was betrayed into deceiving her?"
Ellen hesitated, cast down her eyes, blushing crimson, but presently exclaimed, "I will tell her; I feel so much happier already, now that you know it! Oh, aunt," throwing her arms about the lady's neck. "I do mean to try to be good! If I thought I could ever be like Mary!—It seems so easy for her to do right."
She drew a low stool to her aunt's feet, and there in her own impulsive manner gave an account of her temptation and of her sin,—how one lie led to many others until she found herself entangled in difficulties from which she saw no way of escape. Many tears showed how bitterly she had suffered; but the bright flush of pleasure with which, when she had ended, she said, "Now I have told you all, I am so happy!" encouraged Mrs. Collins to believe that having once learned the delight resulting from a frank confession of her fault, she would never be guilty of the like deception again.
"Does uncle know about it?" she asked, as her aunt tenderly parted her hair on her forehead.
"Yes; he brought me the letter. He will rejoice as sincerely as I do that we have found our own light-hearted Ellen, again."
"And Frank, has he heard it too?"
"Not a syllable. You shall do as you please about telling him."
She covered her face with her hands; there was a quick gasp, and then she said, firmly:
"Will you come with me now while I have courage?"
Frank's look of astonishment as Ellen, with burning cheeks, repeated her sad story was, perhaps, the severest punishment she had borne. From his cradle, he had been taught to despise a liar as too mean and cowardly to be endured; but when, with a burst of feeling, she ended with the words, "You know I had never been taught how wicked it was, till I came here," there was an instant revulsion of feeling, and with boyish enthusiasm, he exclaimed,—
"I'm real sorry for you, Nelly, but I think you're a trump after all to confess it now. I'm going to forget all about it right off; and we'll all help you to be a first-rate truthful girl. Wont we, Mary?"
"Yes, indeed!" said his sister, her lips quivering. "I love you, dear Ellen, better than ever; for I believe you are really penitent."
"Just as the good father did his prodigal son," said the humbled girl, smiling through her tears; "but do you know I took your paper too. You never can imagine how it pained me to tell you that lie. As soon as you spoke, I remembered seeing something written on the sheet; but I dared not say so; I was afraid. You see I didn't know then how much easier it would be to tell the truth right out."
"But you'll know after this," interrupted Frank. "The only way is if you've done wrong to get it off your mind at once."
Ellen laughed. "I haven't felt so well for a month," she said.
"You'll be lucky though, if father doesn't give you a dose of jalap, or castor oil to cure you of too much candy," added the boy, merrily.
"That wouldn't be half so bad as bearing this pain all alone;" and Ellen put her hand to her heart.
"Come with me, child," said her aunt, leading the way to her own chamber.
[CHAPTER VI.]
FASHIONABLE LIES.
"IT is not very late," said Mrs. Collins, "and I want to talk with you a little more before you go to bed."
Ellen took her aunt's hand and pressed it against her own cheek.
"It is right for us to confess to each other," she added, solemnly; "but there is a duty still higher than that. The sin against me or your cousin is nothing compared with the sin against your heavenly Father. He has given us a terrible instance of his displeasure against liars, in the punishment of Ananias and Sapphira. You know they owned property which they sold, and pretended to give all the proceeds to the disciples. As Peter told them, they need not have sold the property. If they chose, they had a perfect right to keep it; and after they had sold it, they would have been justified in retaining the money for their own use; their sin was in pretending that they gave all they obtained from the sale for charitable purposes, while in fact they only gave part and kept back the rest. When the apostle asked whether they had sold the land for so much, they said, 'Yes, for so much,' lying not only to him, but to God. Their instant death is an awful warning to those who depart from the truth, or speak lies, as the Bible terms it."
Ellen shuddered. "I have always told lies," she said, softly; "Alice does, and Joseph and Aunt Clarissa too."
"That is a grave charge, my dear."
"Well, she does. She often tells Joseph, 'I'll certainly let your father know if you behave so, tumbling up all his clean clothes, or meddling with my baskets!' But she never does tell him; and we all know she never means too. Isn't that lying? Then she tells the chamber-girl if she doesn't sweep cleaner, she'll dismiss her right off; but the girl only laughs. She's heard it so many times, she don't believe a word of it. So that is lying.
"And one day," she went on, eagerly, "a lady called, and asked aunt to visit her; and Aunt Clarissa told her that every day, for a week, she had been meaning to call. After the lady had gone, Alice said,—
"'I don't see why you like that lady so.'
"'I don't like her at all,' aunt replied. 'She runs round all the time and neglects her family.'
"'Well,' cried Alice, 'you told her you meant to go and see her all last week.'
"'Oh, dear!' said Aunt Clarissa. 'I only told her that, not to offend her.'
"Alice laughed, as she said, 'I suppose that's what you call a fashionable lie.'"
"I am both sorry and grieved," sadly remarked Mrs. Collins, "that the children of my dear Sarah should have been exposed to such influences. Fashionable lies, white lies, lies of convenience; or by whatever other name they are called, are in God's word all classed under one head, against which this fearful penalty is pronounced: 'All liars shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone; which is the second death.' Among the seven crimes which God specifies as things which he hates, he classes the lying tongue and repeatedly avers, 'he that speaketh lies shall not escape.'
"You will see, at once, that a child or man who is known to speak falsely is never believed. They soon become despised of their fellows; even when they do speak the truth, no one is willing to take their word; and thus they not only merit the displeasure of their Maker, and expose themselves to his dreadful curse, but their object in telling lies is destroyed, since their very oath is disregarded."
"Dear aunt," softly murmured Ellen, "do you think God will forgive me? I never knew before what a dreadful sin lying is."
"We will ask him, my dear. We know—and how blessed is that assurance—that his word never fails."
Together they knelt, while Mrs. Collins implored the blessing and favor of God upon her penitent niece, poor Ellen's sobs bearing witness to the depth of her sorrow for sin. She prayed, too, that grace from above might be given the young girl, to assist her in keeping the resolutions she had formed; and that at last she might become perfect through the blood of her crucified Saviour.
The next morning Ellen arose early, and after begging a sheet of note-paper of her cousin, sat down to write a letter of confession to her father.
Mary was greatly pleased that the proposal came from herself; but suggested that she should make a first copy on the slate, where it could be corrected, and then written neatly on the paper.
For the next hour, the young girl bent all her energies to this task, and when, at the breakfast-table, she exhibited her epistle to her aunt, the lady gave it her decided and smiling approval.
The young girl felt that there was an especial meaning in the doctor's prayer that morning, and also in the tenderness with which he afterward patted her head, as he said,—
"God bless you, my dear girl, and help you to be a blessing to others."
With her heart swelling with gratitude for this unexpected kindness, Ellen took her books from her satchel and began to study her lesson.
Frank presently approached and said, gayly, "How bright and happy you look to-day! I began to be afraid, yesterday, that I shouldn't like you. I thought you were dumpish and moping; but now I think I shall like you first-rate, almost as much as I do Mary."
"Please remember, my son," remarked his mother, with a smile, "that you are not now under oath to tell all the truth."
The boy laughed aloud; but Ellen looked puzzled.
"I don't know what you mean," she said.
"Well, Frank knows, which is enough for this morning. Some other time I will explain my meaning to you. You have but little more than an hour for your lessons."
"I hate sums!" she exclaimed, presently. "And I don't see how four-sixteenths and two-eights, and ever so many more fractions, are to be reduced to a common denominator."
"Let me help you!" cried Frank. "I'll make it as clear as noon-day, as our master says."
"Oh, I do see! I understand now," she cried, gayly clapping her hands, after his patient and repeated explanation. "I see how they're done. They're just as easy—"
"As 'tis for puss to lick her tail, when you once know how," said Frank, with mock gravity. "Now you can do them on the run."
"You had better run, then," suggested his mother, "and leave her to herself."
"I'll go and post Ellen's letter."
"Ellen Saunders, perfect recitation," repeated the teacher as the class were leaving their seats.
The young girl smiled and looked so pleased that the lady, who had heretofore considered her a dull scholar, detained her a moment for a few questions.
"Did you do the answers by yourself?"
"Yes, ma'am," was the unhesitating, self-complacent reply. "They were very easy at last."
She was turning away, when with a sudden start she said, eagerly, "My Cousin Frank helped me do the first one and explained the rule, else I don't think I could have done them at all."
The lady smiled approvingly, and Ellen, turning to go too her seat, met the kind glance of Mary, and felt a thrill of pleasure such as she had not experienced for many a day.
In the evening they were scarcely seated around the cheerful fire, before Ellen began,—
"What did you mean, Aunt Collins, about it not being right to tell all the truth?"
"That's a strange doctrine for you to advance, my dear," said the doctor, glancing archly at his wife.
"I think I did not say exactly that, Ellen," answered the lady. "Though we ought always to speak the truth, if we speak at all; yet we are not bound to tell all we know, upon any subject. For instance; if a lady should call here whom you thought extremely disagreeable, and very homely; and Frank should ask you what you thought of her, it would be enough for you to say, you did not admire her. That would be the truth, but not all the truth."
"Oh, I see!" exclaimed Ellen, her eyes flashing with merriment. "I need not say, as Aunt Clarissa sometimes does, 'What a sallow complexion!' or, 'What a very homely nose!' or 'How wretchedly her dress fitted!' Though I might think it all the time."
"Or, I need not say," cried Frank, with mock gravity, "'Ellen, how red your lips are!' or, 'How your eyes sparkle!' or, 'What a pretty white hand you have!' Though I might think it all the time; but if I said so, it might make you vain, you know."
"In a court of justice," said Dr. Collins, "a person is put upon oath, that is, he promises before God, in whose presence he stands, to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. In that case, if Frank were asked what he thought of the personal appearance of his cousin, he might be obliged to repeat what he has just said, however painful such testimony would be."
The doctor glanced so comically at his niece when he said this, that, notwithstanding her blushes, she burst into a hearty laugh.
"Did you know, Ellen," inquired Mary, after a pause, "that a person can tell a lie, and yet not speak a word?"
"Oh, no, indeed! I thought a person must speak in order to lie. I'm sure I—"
She hesitated, colored, and stopped, while Mary, to relieve her, went on quickly,—
"Yes; mother explained that to me a long time ago."
"First tell me, Ellen," said her aunt, "what is a lie?"
The young girl shook her head, while Frank, in rather a condescending tone, explained,—
"That which is not true, of course."
"I beg pardon, my son," suggested the doctor, smiling. "Suppose, for instance, Mrs. Holmes, whom I left very ill, should die suddenly, without my knowledge. Your mother asks, 'Is Mrs. Holmes living?' I say, 'Yes;' and I say it honestly, believing it to be true; and yet it may not be true after all. Still I do not tell a lie."
"What is a lie, then, sir?"
"A lie is an intention to deceive. The words are spoken, or the motions made, for the purpose of deceiving. If, as Mary says, not a word is spoken, by a nod of assent, or a shake of the head, you may give and intend to give a false impression, and thus be guilty of lying."
"Do you remember, father," asked Mary, "how dreadfully Abby Jones's brother was whipped at school, because she nodded her head to assure the teacher that he took her dinner out of the pail?"
"Yes; they had quarrelled, and she had threatened to be revenged on him. So when the teacher, who had forbidden such thefts, repeatedly questioned her as to her brother's fault, and whether he did it, she, by a nod, gave her testimony against him."
"Oh, what an ugly girl!" exclaimed Ellen, warmly.
"But you are not under oath, and therefore, not obliged to say all you think of her conduct," whispered Frank, with a laugh.