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.