SCHOOL LIES.
"FATHER," asked Alice Saunders, on the evening of her return from
school for a short vacation, "when is Ellen coming home? It seems very
odd to be without her."
"I cannot tell, my dear; probably not for a long time. Your aunt writes
a very favorable account of her improvement. Among other things she
says, 'I can trust her word most implicitly.'"
There was the slightest shade of contempt upon Alice's placid face, as
she answered, "That is high praise from Aunt Collins."
Poor Alice!—Poor in all the heart's rich treasures, though beautiful in
person, and fairy like in figure. In the fashionable boarding school
where she had passed six months, she had been taught many things; but
a strict adherence to truth was not among her accomplishments. She had
acquired a more correct pronunciation of the French language; could
dance with singular grace; could enter a room filled with company with
the ease and polish of a lady of thirty; could write an acceptance or
regret to a party with taste and elegance, and without any special
violation of the rules of rhetoric,—but, alas! In all that pertained to
the true, stern discipline of mind, or that regarded her moral culture,
she was, if possible, more ignorant than ever.
Thrown into the society of half a hundred young misses, whose only aim
seemed to be to outshine each other in dress or fashion; with teachers
whose main ambition seemed to be to give, with a smattering of many
kinds of knowledge, that superior ease and grace of manners which the
papers ascribed to the pupils of Mrs. Lerow; every sentiment of virtue,
or the stern principles of right, seemed to be blunted, while nothing
really valuable was acquired.
One thing Alice, in common with most of her companions, had learned;
and that was to sneer at, or hold in contempt, those persons who had
a higher standard of morals than her own. The Bible, too, although
her mother's favorite book, was considered old-fashioned and rigid,
containing a code of laws which were to the present generation a kind
of dead letter and of no manner of importance.
The Sabbath and the sanctuary she had learned to regard as golden
opportunities to display the rich, fashionably made dress with which,
at the suggestion of Mrs. Lerow, her father so abundantly supplied her.
On the evening of her arrival at home, her father gazed at her with
pride, and expressed his satisfaction at her evident improvement in the
warmest terms; which opinion Alice took calmly, as praise to which she
was justly entitled.
The next day, however, when he took advantage of her return to invite a
few acquaintances to dine, he was pained and humiliated by her pertness
and affectation. There was such an effort to show off before the young
gentlemen of the party the knowledge she had so recently acquired,—such
art, in even the tossing of her head, or the languishing expression
of her eyes, that, fearing she would disgust his friends as she had
disgusted him, he suddenly gave Aunt Clarissa a hint to move from the
dining hall to the parlors.
But when a young man invited her to sing, he was more displeased than
ever; she had been, she said, so much occupied in her studies; she had
practised so little; her music was not yet unpacked; and her voice was
affected by a cold.
Her manner of saying all this made it too evident that she wished to be
urged; but her father, who, though talking with one of the guests, was
attentive to all that was passing, abruptly interfered, saying,—
"Well, my daughter, it is of very little consequence whether you sing
now; Madame—, the celebrated singer, is in town, and we shall, no
doubt, all have a chance to hear some really fine music."
On returning to his house the next day for dinner, he heard Alice
talking over the stairs to a servant.
"What did she say?"
"She left her card, miss, and was sorry you were not in."
The peculiar smile on the servant's countenance arrested Mr. Saunders's
attention.
"What is it?" he asked his daughter, in a grave tone.
"Miss Huntington called; and as I was not dressed for company, I sent
word 'not at home.'"
"Margaret," said the gentleman, turning to the servant, "the next time
you obey an order which obliges you to tell a falsehood, I wish you
to come to me for your wages. I will have no one in my house who will
carry a message like that."
"Thank you, sir, and my mother will thank you, too," answered Margaret,
blushing with pleasure.
"Alice," sternly remarked Mr. Saunders when he had followed her to a
parlor upstairs. "Where have you learned to deceive, and to teach your
servants to deceive?"
She blushed a little, but said, directly,—
"Oh, papa! It is the most common thing in the world—I mean in genteel
society—to send word you are not at home; it is understood to mean that
you are engaged."
"Then why not say so? Why put lies into your servants' mouths? Don't
you see that if you teach them to lie for you, they will soon learn to
lie to you?"
"You use such dreadful words, papa, you quite frighten me; I'm sure I
never thought I was doing the least harm."
"I use the right words, Alice. I am cut to the heart to see that, after
all the money I have paid for your education, you should be so devoid
of the first principles of honor."
He sighed deeply, as he walked to the window, revolving in his mind
a plan to send her also, to her Aunt Collins; but, recalled to the
present by the dinner-bell, he added,—
"I wish you to understand, Alice, that I will not allow such a system
of deception in my house. Margaret has already been notified that one
more occasion like that I witnessed, and she leaves her place."
This was plain talk in plain words; and Alice put up her lip with an
ugly pout. She did not appear at dinner until her father and aunt
were nearly through the first course, and then rendered herself so
disagreeable that Joseph called out,—
"Pa, I wish you'd have company every day; Alice acts better when
gentlemen are here to see her do so." And he rolled his eyes so exactly
in imitation of her action the previous day, that Aunt Clarissa and
even her father laughed aloud.
During the weeks which followed, there was scarcely a day passed
without proving to Mr. Saunders the entire recklessness of his
daughter in regard to the truth. One day he came home and entered
the back parlor while she was entertaining a friend in the front one
with reminiscences of school life. They were so much engaged they did
not notice his entrance, but amid shouts of mirth went on with their
conversation.
"But did not Mrs. Lerow require you to study very hard?" asked the
visitor.
"Oh, no, indeed!" was the laughing reply. "We had our exercises, of
course; but we generally contrived to copy them from one another. Why,
half the last term I had my answers written on a paper I held inside
my handkerchief; at last the class-teacher mistrusted something from
my always being so correct, and asked me up and down whether I had
committed the lesson. I told her, of course, I had. It was only a white
lie, you know, and everybody tells white lies."
"You remind me of an old lady who visited us last week," rejoined
the young girl. "She heard me telling a story at the table, and then
repeating it to some callers in the evening. I suppose I did not
remember to use exactly the same words, and—do you think she had the
impertinence to tell me I had been guilty of falsehood! I excused
myself, saying, as you did, 'Everybody tells little lies, or white
lies, in these days.'
"'No, my dear,' she said, 'not everybody; I could name several, and
among them, some you would call the most polished ladies in the city,
who would not, for their right hand, tell a lie, white or black.
Truth—simple, unvarnished truth—is their motto, and a beautiful motto
it is, such as I wish every young and every old lady would abide by.'
"'But you must own,' I said, 'that almost all fashionable people tell
what is called white lies?'
"'I acknowledge that it is far too common,' she went on. 'We are
becoming corrupt and unprincipled as a nation; but I will give you one
instance where a white lie, and a very innocent one, as the young lady
called it, was the means of breaking off a match between two persons
who before that had been sincerely attached to each other.'
"The story is an affecting one; and if you like, I'll repeat it to you."
"Do," returned Alice; "I have a curiosity to hear it."
"'You remember,' she went on, 'that pale, intellectual lady you saw
riding with me last week?'
"I had noticed her particularly, for she was very beautiful, though so
sickly; and I told her so.
"'She was a gay belle ten years ago; no party was thought perfect
without her presence. She was amiable, too, and very accomplished; that
is, she sang well, danced divinely, as her admirers used to tell her,
talked French as fluently as her native tongue; but she had a habit of
telling white lies, which threw a blight over her fair prospects, and
in the end destroyed her peace.
"'Mr. Stanton, the gentleman who had won her from a score of admirers,
really believed her to be an angel. The possibility of her violating or
falsifying her word had probably never occurred to him; for he had that
high sense of honor which would have led him to forfeit his life rather
than be guilty of an act of deception.
"'A French singer of rather questionable reputation just about that
time came to the city, and attracted great crowds to her concerts.
Miss Hill had a great desire to hear her; but, after listening to her
friend's arguments against encouraging a person of such character, she
declared nothing would tempt her to go. This was her first lie, for she
meant to join a party the next evening; but how to deceive her lover
was the question.
"'The next morning, with the help of a friend, the plan was made. She
was to go early before the hour when he usually made his appearance,
call for her chaperone in a carriage, leaving word with the servant
that she had gone to pass the evening with a sick friend, and would not
be at home till late. In order to make this excuse more plausible, Miss
Hill wrote her lover an affectionate letter, regretting the necessity
that deprived her of the pleasure of his company for the evening,
adding, "I know that you would say duty is paramount in this case."
"'The carriage was at the door at the moment, and, giving extra charges
to the girl to say nothing that could betray her, she hastened away to
the brilliant scene.
"'Soon after, Mr. Stanton made his appearance with a carriage to take
her to the E—House, where some valued friends had just arrived. He
was exceedingly disappointed, as he had promised them, he would call
with her. He read her note, and asked the girl in what street the sick
friend lived.
"'"I don't know, exactly," she stammered at this unexpected question;
"but it was somewhere out of town, for now I remember she took night
clothes, and said if the lady was not better, she should be away a day
or two."
"'"It is very unfortunate for me," he said, speaking to himself; "I
would go anywhere for her, if you could learn where she is."
"'"Oh, sir!" exclaimed the girl. "Her father has gone, too, and nobody
else in the house knows anything about it."
"'"This is strange!" he said, stepping into the carriage and giving
orders to be driven back to the hotel. "I wonder she did not mention
the name of the sick lady. Probably it is some near relative, as her
father has accompanied her."
"'The evening was passed with his friends, and at a late hour, he was
about to take his leave when a mutual friend entered.
"'He laughed heartily as he shook hands with Mr. Stanton, saying,—
"'"I have been playing the agreeable all the evening to Miss Hill, and
merit your warmest thanks."
"'"Where, where did you see her?" was the eager inquiry.
"'"At Madame R—'s concert, of course. All the world was there to-night.
To tell the truth, I was somewhat surprised to see Miss Hill, knowing,
as I did, your opinion of her concerts; but she appeared to have no
scruples."
"'Mr. Stanton turned very pale at this reply, but in a moment
controlled himself, and said, "Are you sure Miss Emily Hill was at
Madame R—'s concert?"
"'"As sure as I am that I stand here," seriously replied the gentleman,
perceiving this was no time for a joke. "I was in the same slip with
her and Mrs. Jones who was her chaperone, and after the concert, waited
upon her to their carriage. She excused your absence by saying you had
a previous engagement which prevented your accompanying her."
"'"Enough," faltered Mr. Stanton; and rising soon after, he took a
hasty leave of his friends.'"