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?"