THE LIAR ABANDONED.
"'THE night which followed was spent by Mr. Stanton in pacing the floor
of his chamber; and the first dawn of the morning found him resolved
upon an immediate termination of his connection with Miss Hill. He
could not take to his heart one in whom he had no longer the least
confidence. But the rupturing of this bond, which he had heretofore
considered almost as sacred as marriage, made his noble heart sink
within him.
"'At an early hour he called at Mr. Hill's. The servant was all smiles,
and informed him that her mistress found her friend better, and
returned late the previous evening. Stifling a groan at this new proof
of duplicity, he asked her to inform Miss Hill that he wished to see
her. She presently made her appearance, and, though rather startled at
his pallor, exclaimed, gayly,—
"'"Wasn't I fortunate in being relieved so soon? I was able to return
last evening."
"'"Emily," he said, in a tone which cut her to the heart, "I know
all. It is unnecessary for you to burden your conscience with another
falsehood. I know the story of a sick friend, of duty to her, is all a
falsification. You passed the evening at Mrs. R—'s concert."
"'She sank back in a chair, blushing violently, while he, with great
effort controlling himself, went on,—
"'"I loved you, Emily; but that love was based on a false estimate of
your character. I believed you as pure in morals as you are beautiful
in person. Yesterday, only yesterday, I would have taken your word
against all the world; but now the illusion has passed away. We must
part, Emily. You have ruined my happiness. If it were not for the
recollection of my mother, you would have ruined my faith in your sex."
"'Miss Hill gasped for breath.
"'"I must be dreaming!" she exclaimed. "Surely, this cannot be true!
You do not, cannot, mean to give me up just for one little white lie?"
"'"One white lie," he repeated, "has been enough to ruin my hopes of
happiness forever: but you have done far more than that. You have
proved yourself to be wholly lost to that rectitude which must be a
ruling principle with my wife; you have not only told me, who trusted
you so implicitly, many deliberate falsehoods, but you have taught your
servant, also, to deceive me; even now you met me with a lie—call it
white or black, as you please—on your lips."
"'He paused, overwhelmed with emotion.
"'"Try me! Try me!" she repeated, in agony. "I will never be guilty of
even the smallest variation from the truth."
"'"It is too late—too late, now!" he murmured, hoarsely, pressing her
cold hand. "But oh, Emily, remember hereafter how I have loved you; and
when your lips would utter that which is false, call to mind a lonely
wanderer, whom your crime has exiled from his country and home!"
"'They parted, and have never met since. Remember,' added the lady,
'all his suffering, all her years of sorrow, since that eventful
morning, came from what she then considered an innocent deception.'"
"And what is she now?" I asked, when I had wiped away my tears.
"'She is a penitent Christian woman,' she answered. 'From that time,
I do not believe she has ever deviated from the truth; but oh, what a
fearful lesson is hers! I have seen her shudder when gay, thoughtless
young ladies utter words which are totally false. I have told you this
story, hoping you may profit by her experience.'"
The young girls were both startled when Mr. Saunders advanced slowly
from the back parlor.
"I have heard your story," he said to the visitor. "I knew both Mr.
Stanton and Miss Hill. The breaking off of their engagement occasioned
much talk at the time. I never understood the cause till now, when I
think him perfectly justified in the course he pursued. I hope, Alice,
Miss Hill's experience will prove a most useful lesson to you. Lies
show a mind and heart so degraded and mean that no beauty of person or
polish of manner can, for any length of time, hide the deformity."
As I have before said, Mr. Saunders was most liberal in gratifying the
wants of his children. He liked to see his house handsomely furnished,
his table set with abundance and elegance, and his children dressed
tastefully, even richly. When Alice came from school, he gave Aunt
Clarissa a handsome sum of money, and requested her to replenish his
daughter's wardrobe.
Wishing to outshine her companions in dress, the young miss begged for
one or two articles which even Aunt Clarissa considered extravagant.
Alice, however, was vain, and having been told how becoming they were
to her particular style of beauty, determined in some way to obtain
them. One was a richly embroidered velvet mantilla, not at all suitable
for a girl in her teens, the other a love of a Paris bonnet, as she
termed it, made of blue velvet and lace, with an exquisite white
feather tipped with blue. The bonnet the milliner pronounced low at
fifteen dollars, while the price of the mantilla was forty.
"I will have them charged," she said to herself, "and then save all my
pocket-money until they're paid for."
The next Sabbath, the young girl, arrayed in a new lustrous silk,
together with her bonnet and mantilla, appeared before her father to
accompany him to church.
"Why, Alice! I scarcely recognized you," he said, starting back,
actually dazzled by the beauty of her appearance. "Well," he added,
after a moment, during which he surveyed her from head to foot with a
most comical expression, "you certainly are decked out. I never saw
your mother dressed so extravagantly in my life. Where did you get
this, and this?" Touching with his finger the bonnet and mantilla.
"At Miles's, papa. They look rich; but they were very cheap."
"Well, I hope they are paid for. You know I don't allow a bill
anywhere."
He spoke decidedly, aroused by a sudden suspicion.
"Oh, yes, sir. They are all paid for. Aunt Clarissa had the money, you
know."
She looked full in his face as she made this reply; and he, quite
satisfied, said he was ready, and it was time to go to church.
Alice heaved a sigh of relief. She had got over the interview much
better than she expected; and so wholly was her conscience seared by a
long course of deceit that she felt scarcely a pang when she thought of
the ready falsehood by which she had obtained the coveted articles.
But the end was not yet. Day after day of the vacation glided away.
The evening before she was to leave for school, her father returned
home rather earlier than was his wont, and sending a servant to his
daughter's room, desired her to join him in the parlor. He did this in
order that he might be alone with her; for on several occasions his
aunt had been present when he reproved his child, and had always taken
her part, or suggested such ready excuses for her conduct, that his
advice was entirely counteracted.
Alice came running down the stairs, humming a refrain from a favorite
song. Her cheeks were tinged with the softest rose color, and the
silken tresses lay lovingly upon them, while a pretty smile dimpled her
small mouth.
As she entered the room, fully expecting to see a caller, her father
stood and gazed at her; but no pleasure kindled his eye or heightened
the color on his cheek. He was thinking how much to be preferred were
the plainest features accompanied by true nobleness of heart! How mean,
how degraded she appeared to him then, as he recalled his business with
her!
"Papa," she said, softly, "did you send for me?"
"Yes, I did," was the brief reply.
They stood for a moment gazing at each other, and then, with a burst of
feeling, he exclaimed,—
"Oh, my child! Will you never learn to trust your father?"
"I don't know what you mean," she answered, her cheek crimsoning.
He unfolded his pocket-book and took out a bill, which he held before
her.
She started, and turned pale. "I did not mean you should ever see it,"
she said, quickly. "Indeed, papa, I meant to save all my spending money
until I had paid it myself."
"Did your aunt know of this deception?" he asked, looking keenly in her
face. "If you have not lost the power of speaking the truth, tell me,
did Aunt Clarissa encourage this deceit? Remember, I am not in a mood
to be trifled with!"
"No, sir!" was the faltering reply.
"How, then, did she suppose you obtained these expensive articles,
entirely unsuited to your years?"
She was silent.
"Speak and speak the truth!" he said, in a loud, excited tone.
"I told her you gave them to me."
The words were almost inarticulate; but they reached his ears.
"Lie upon lie," he repeated, bitterly. "Oh, Alice, that I should ever
live to bless the day your mother died! But this conduct would have
killed her!"
He covered his face with his hands, while a few tears trickled down her
cheeks. They were, however, tears of regret that her falsehood had been
detected, and not tears of penitence for her sin.
"Bring the bonnet and mantilla to me," he said, presently. "Pack them
in the boxes in which they came."
Astonished at such a command from her usually indulgent parent, Alice
reluctantly obeyed.
"To-morrow morning these will be returned," he said, in a firm tone,
after having satisfied himself that they were in no way injured.
"But they have been worn, papa," she began, the tears now flowing
copiously.
He made no answer, and presently waved his hand for her to leave
the room, but suddenly called her back to say, "You can unpack your
trunks. I am satisfied Mrs. Lerow's influence over you has not been
what I wished. I shall look out for a school of an entirely different
character, where such finery would be out of place."