"Honest-true, mamma!" he plucked up courage to say.
"Put on your hat, my son, and go with me to the store where you bought
the lemons. There is something wrong when my boy cannot look me in the
eyes!"
Thus came about the tragedy that darkened the June day for the whole
Wilcox household. It was at nine o'clock on Saturday morning that the
falsehood was detected. At two P.M. Mrs. Wilcox brought up the
prisoner's dinner. Only bread and water! He had smelled the savory
soup and roast lamb, and the cook had hinted at strawberry short-cake
when he passed, whistling, through the kitchen, turning the silver
quarter over in his pocket. That was almost five hours ago, and he was
to lie here until supper-time, _alone_! When he had eaten the bread of
affliction, seasoned with tears of self-pity and remorse, mamma
re-appeared with papa.
"My son!" said the latter, "I would rather have you die in your
innocent boyhood than grow up a _liar_! Tell the straight, simple
truth always and everywhere. No brave man will lie. Papa does not want
his boy to be a coward. No honest man will deceive or tell a
falsehood. Papa does not want his boy to be a cheat!"
Mrs. Wilcox sat down on the bed when her husband had gone. All the
mother-heart in her was crying out and tearing itself with longing and
pity ineffable. Arms and heart ached to enfold the precious little
sinner so grievously worsted in the battle with temptation. "Mamma is
very sorry that her darling has been so naughty!" she said, bowing her
head upon the pillow beside the mat of curls dampened by the rain from
the culprit's eyes.
"Mamma! Indeed, I will _never_ tell another lie--not the leastest
fib!" he sobbed.
"God help you to keep your word, my son. Every falsehood is like a
drop of ink upon snow to your soul!"
She stroked back his hair and comforted herself by giving him, one
after another, the passionate kisses withheld through all these
miserable hours. Holding the chubby fingers in hers, she talked to him
a few minutes longer of his sin, and to whom he should look for
forgiveness; then bending over him, she prayed in simple words and few
for the little one who had stumbled to his own hurt. "Lie still and
think it all over, dear!" was her parting injunction.
At the tea-table, Robby was not disposed to talk. He noted and
understood the grave gentleness of his father's countenance and
demeanor; the chastened loveliness of his mother's look; the quiet
tone caught by the other children from the grown-up sister who sat
next to him. His transgression had affected the spirits of the whole
party. The very avoidance of all direct reference to it was
significant and impressive. It was something too disgraceful for
table-talk. A blackened soul! soiled lips! These were the figures most
distinct to his imagination as he crept after supper into the library,
and sat down at the alcoved window looking upon a side street. The
boys were playing noisily in the warm twilight. Robby watched them,
curled up on the window bench, one foot tucked under him, his face
more sober each minute. He was sure his mother would shake her head
sadly were he to request permission to join the joyous group of his
fellows. Nor did he care--very much--to go out. The recollection of
sin and consequent suffering was too fresh.
Nettie, the grown-up sister, had a visitor, and mamma had joined the
girls, and was chatting cheerfully with them--not at all as she
looked at the cowering little liar under the counterpane up-stairs.
"Mamma," suddenly exclaimed the daughter, "there are old Mr. and Mrs.
Bartol! I do believe you are to be honored by a call from them."
"I sincerely hope not," was the answer. "Papa and I had planned a walk
on this lovely evening, and our friends the Bartols are given to long
sittings."
"Besides being insufferably prosy," interpolated plain-spoken Nettie.
"They _are_ coming in. Milly, you and I can run away!" and they
fluttered through the back-parlor door.
Mamma's face was overcast with genuine vexation. Her sigh, "How
provoking!" reached the alcoved auditor. Then she advanced to meet a
fat old lady, and a fatter, bald old gentleman.
"Is this really you, Mr. Bartol? It is an age since I have met you. I
am happy to see you both. Pray be seated."
"Oh, _good_ gracious!" said Robby, under his breath, sinking back into
his corner, actually sick and trembling.
When he could listen and think again, papa had been sent for, and Mr.
Bartol was apologizing for mingling business with a friendly visit. He
wanted to buy a house owned by Mr. Wilcox, situated near his--Mr.
Bartol's--home. The play of negotiation, of parry and thrust, was
courteous, as befitted actors and scene, but Mr. Bartol's intention to
buy cheap, and his host's desire to sell dear, were palpable to the
unworldly eavesdropper.
"I am sorry you hold the property at so high a figure!" finally
remarked Mr. Bartol, rising to take leave. "I must consult the friend
who commissioned me to make inquiries, before I can say anything
definite."
Mr. Wilcox was the impersonation of smiling indifference. "The truth
is, my dear sir, I do not care to sell at all. The property is rising
in value, and I may remove to that part of the city myself next year.
I should lose on it were I to take less than the price I have named."
When the guests had gone, Mr. Wilcox turned laughingly to his wife:
"Well, my love, you have lost your walk, but your husband has made
four thousand dollars--clear!"
"You think he will buy the place, then?"
"I know he will! He wants to settle his daughter there. She is to be
married next month. I had a hint to that effect some days since. I had
the game in my hands from the first. I bought the property, three
years ago, at a low figure. The rent has covered interest, taxes, etc.
I shall never live there myself. It would not be convenient for my
business. I have been anxious this great while to sell. I am already
carrying more real estate than I ought to hold."
"I am afraid Robby is less impressed by the lesson of to-day than we
could desire," observed Mrs. Wilcox sorrowfully to her husband at
bedtime. "He strode off to bed without saying 'Good night' to any one,
and pretended to be asleep when I looked into his room just now,
answering gruffly after I told him I knew he was awake. What shall I
do if my child becomes an habitual deceiver?"
"We must watch his associations narrowly," replied the judicious
father. "Everything depends upon the examples and impressions of early
life."