NOT AT HOME.
NEVER but once did I venture upon the utterance of that little white
lie, "Not at home," and then I was well punished for my weakness and
folly. It occurred at a time when there were in my family two new
inmates: a niece from New York, and a raw Irish girl that I had
taken a few days before, on trial.
My niece, Agnes, was a young lady in her nineteenth year, the
daughter of my brother. I had not seen her before since her
school-girl days; and knew little of her character. Her mother I had
always esteemed as a right-thinking, true-hearted woman. I was much
pleased to have a visit from Agnes, and felt drawn toward her more
and more every day. There was something pure and good about her.
"Now, Aggy, dear," said I to her, one morning after breakfast, as we
took our work and retired from the dining-room to one of the
parlors, where I was occasionally in the habit of sitting,--"we must
sew for dear life until dinner time, so as to finish these two
frocks for the children to wear this evening. It isn't right, I
know, to impose on you in this way. But you sew so quick and neatly;
and then it will help me through, and leave me free to visit Girard
College with you this afternoon."
"Don't speak of it, aunt," returned Agnes.--"I'm never happier than
when employed. And, besides, it's only fair that I should sew for
you in the morning, if you are to go pleasuring with me in the
afternoon."
Lightly the hours flew by, passed in cheerful conversation. I found
that the mind of my niece had been highly cultivated; that her
tastes were refined, and her moral sense acute. To say that I was
pleased with her, would but half express what I felt.
There was to be a juvenile party at the house of one of our
acquaintances that evening, to which the children were invited; and
we were at work in preparing dresses and other matters suitable for
them to appear in.
Twelve o'clock came very quickly--too quickly for me, in fact; for I
had not accomplished near so much as I had hoped to do. It would
require the most diligent application, through every moment of time
that intervened until the dinner hour, for us to get through with
what we were doing, so as to have the afternoon to ourselves for the
intended excursion.
As the clock rung out the hour of noon, I exclaimed:
"Is it possible! I had no idea that it was so late. How slowly I do
seem to get along!"
Just at this moment the bell rung.
"Bless me! I hope we are not to have visitors this morning," said I,
as I let my hands fall in my lap. I thought hurriedly for a moment,
and then remarked, in a decided way:
"Of course we cannot see any one. We are engaged."
By this time I heard the footsteps of Mary on her way from the
kitchen, and I very naturally passed quickly to the parlor door to
intercept and give her my instructions.
"Say that I'm engaged," was on my tongue. But, somehow or other, I
had not the courage to give these words utterance. The visitor might
be a person to whom such an excuse for not appearing would seem
unkind, or be an offence. In this uncertain state, my mind fell into
confusion. Mary was before me, and awaiting the direction she saw
that I was about giving.
"Say that I'm not at home, if any one asks to see me," came in a
sudden impulse from my lips.
And then my cheeks flushed to think that I had instructed my servant
to give utterance to a falsehood.
"Yes, mim," answered the girl, glancing into my face with a knowing
leer, that produced an instant sense of humiliation; and away she
went to do my bidding.
I did not glance towards Agnes, as I returned to my seat and took up
my work. I had not the courage to do this. That I had lowered myself
in her estimation, I felt certain. I heard the street door open, and
bent, involuntarily, in a listening attitude. The voice of a lady
uttered my name.
"She's not at home, mim," came distinctly on my ears, causing the
flush on my cheeks to become still deeper.
A murmur of voices followed. Then I heard the closing of the
vestibule door, and Mary returning to the back parlor where we were
sitting.
"Who was it, Mary?" I enquired, as the girl entered.
"Mrs.--Mrs.--Now what was it? Sure, and I've forgotten their names
intirely."
But, lack of memory did not long keep me in ignorance as to who were
my visitors, for, as ill luck would have it, they had bethought
themselves of some message they wished to leave, and, re-opening the
vestibule door, left a-jar by Mary, followed her along the passage
to the room they saw her enter. As they pushed open the door of the
parlor, Mary heard them, and, turning quickly, exclaimed, in
consternation--
"Och, murther!"
A moment she stood, confronting, in no very graceful attitude, a
couple of ladies, and then escaped to the kitchen.
Here was a scene of embarrassment. Not among all my acquaintances
were there, perhaps, two persons, whom I would have least desired to
witness in me such a fault as the one of which I had been guilty.
For a little while, I knew not what to say. I sat, overcome with
mortification. At length, I arose, and said with an effort,
"Walk in, ladies! How are you this morning? I'm pleased to see you.
Take chairs. My niece, Mrs. Williams, and Mrs. Glenn. I hope you
will excuse us. We were--"
"Oh, no apologies, Mrs. Smith," returned one of the ladies, with a
quiet smile, and an air of self-possession. "Pardon this intrusion.
We understood the servant that you were not at home."
"Engaged, she meant," said I, a deeper crimson suffusing my face.
"The fact is, we are working for dear life, to get the children
ready for a party to-night, and wished to be excused from seeing any
one."
"Certainly--all right," returned Mrs. Williams, "I merely came in to
say to your domestic (I had forgotten it at the door) that my sister
expected to leave for her home in New York in a day or two, and
would call here with me, to-morrow afternoon."
"I shall be very happy to see her," said I,--"very happy. Do come in
and sit down for a little while. If I had only known it was you."
Now that last sentence, spoken in embarrassment and mental
confusion, was only making matters worse. It placed me in a false
and despicable light before my visitors; for in it was the savor of
hypocrisy, which is foreign to my nature.
"No, thank you," replied my visitors. "Good morning!"
And they retired, leaving me so overcome with shame, mortification,
confusion, and distress, that I burst into tears.
"To think that I should have done such a thing!" was my first
remark, so soon as I had a little recovered my self-possession; and
I looked up, half timidly, into the face of my niece. I shall not
soon forget the expression of surprise and pain that was in her fair
young countenance. I had uttered a falsehood in her presence, and
thus done violence to the good opinion she had formed of me. The
beautiful ideal of her aunt, which had filled her mind, was blurred
over; and her heart was sad in consequence.
"Dear Aggy!" said I, throwing my work upon the floor, and bending
earnestly towards her.--"Don't think too meanly of me for this
little circumstance. I never was guilty of that thing before--never!
And well have I been punished for my thoughtless folly I spoke from
impulse, and not reflection, when I told Mary to say that I was not
at home, and repented of what I had done almost as soon as the words
passed my lips."
Agnes looked at me for some moments, until her eyes filled with
tears. Then she said in a low, sweet, earnest voice:
"Mother always says, if she cannot see any one who calls, that she
is engaged."
"And so do I, dear," I returned. "This is my first offence against
truth, and you may be sure that it will be the last."
And it was my last.
When next I met Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Glenn, there was, in both of
them, a reserve not seen before. I felt this change keenly. I had
wronged myself in their good opinion; and could not venture upon an
explanation of my conduct; for that, I felt, might only make matters
worse.
How often, since, has my cheek burned, as a vivid recollection came
up before my mind of what occurred on that morning! I can never
forget it.