THE ART OF LYING.
THE mortification of Alice at the degradation of a man who had dared
sue for her hand did not speedily pass away. The intimacy had advanced
much farther than Aunt Clarissa ever dreamed of. The young miss
shuddered as she realized what might have been her doom if she had
yielded to his entreaties and been privately married in the neighboring
city.
For several weeks, she was more thoughtful than ever before. She could
not rid herself of the bitter reflections that were forced upon her;
and sometimes confessed to herself that truth and frankness were more
to be relied upon than deceit and art.
"I have a great mind—" she exclaimed, one day after there had been a
long pause in which neither the young lady nor her aunt felt inclined
for conversation, "I have a great mind to set up for a saint, end marry
a minister."
The old lady dropped her crocheting, and stared at her niece in
amazement.
"It makes me sick of society every time I think of Mr. Coleman,"
remarked Alice, with a faint smile at her aunt's continued gaze. "I
would follow Ellen's example and discard fibbing, or lying, as she
bluntly calls it; only truth-telling is often so inconvenient."
"I think Ellen's rule would be a profitable one for all of us,"
returned Miss Saunders with a heavy sigh. "I mean if it were not
carried to an extreme."
"Just so, aunty. Now you are at one extreme and Nelly at the other,
while I maintain the happy medium."
"Alice Saunders! What are you talking about?" cried the old lady,
growing very white about the mouth. "I insist that you explain yourself
immediately."
"Certainly, aunt."
She turned away to conceal a smile, a bitter, scornful smile, and then
began suddenly,—
"I can but just remember mother's death. The room had been dark; but
all at once nurse fastened back the heavy damask curtains, and a flood
of golden light from the setting sun poured into the room, making
everything beautiful. I remember just how it shone on mother's face,
giving it an unearthly beauty; and how eagerly she gazed through the
window at the gorgeous spectacle.
"'See there!' she said, pointing her thin finger toward the illuminated
heavens. 'Before the sun rises again, I shall be where there is no
darkness, where the Sun of righteousness shines forever and ever.'"
"I didn't know you remembered that, Alice," faltered Miss Saunders, in
a softened tone; "but I have heard your father tell of it again and
again. Your mother was a good Christian, Alice; but I don't see what
that has to do with the subject we were talking about."
"It has everything to do with it; for after mother died, you came; and
then our education commenced. I wonder whether I should have been good,
if my mother had lived." The last words were uttered softly, as if to
herself.
The old lady's face flushed; but she remained silent.
"I'm going to tell you the truth for once, aunty, and I think you'll
agree with me that lying is vastly more agreeable. You remember how I
praised you to Mr. Langworthy last Sabbath, telling him what a blessing
you had been to us motherless children? That was all a fib,—a white or
black lie, just as you please to call it, manufactured for a variety of
purposes; such as to make you appear to the best advantage, and thus
reflect credit on your niece; and to insinuate that I had been under
the very best of influences. I thought that course justifiable, and
even praiseworthy. Nov I'm going to tell you the plain, unvarnished
truth. You are a liar, Aunt Clarissa,—one of the extreme kind, who
flinch at nothing to carry out your plans. I can remember I first began
to doubt your word when you gave me a dose of rhubarb, telling me it
was nice like sugar. That was when you first came to us; and since that
hour, I have never known you tell the truth when a lie would suit your
purpose better."
"How dare you talk so, Alice?" gasped Miss Saunders, her chin quivering.
"Wait a minute, aunty; I haven't done yet; but I will do you the
justice to say that I suppose fibbing has become so confirmed a habit
with you that you yourself are scarcely aware of it; and then you
have naturally a kind heart which prompts you to make everything as
agreeable as possible. This is the reason why, when a visitor comes in,
you say flattering things, such as, 'What an exquisite color your silk
dress is!' and 'How charmingly suited to your delicate complexion!'
or 'How well your children behave, Mrs. So-and-so! I wish Mrs.
This-and-that would follow your example;' when, the moment their backs
are turned, you laugh at their easy credulity, and want of good taste
in the selection of colors."
"Stop! stop, child! I wont hear you talk so! I say it's shameful, after
all I've done for you, slaving myself so many years, when I might have
lived quietly by myself without any care!"
Alice shrugged her rounded shoulders, saying, archly,—
"Truth isn't pleasant; is it? I wonder what you'll do when Ellen comes
home. Why I've only begun to enumerate the ways in which you have
taught us to tell white and black lies. Why, there was poor little Jo,
who knew as well as I did, when you threatened him with punishment, or
promised to tell father some of his tricks, that you never intended to
keep your word. Wasn't that a good lesson for a bright, imitative boy
to learn? And didn't he learn it to perfection? Perhaps he would have
been alive now, if he had been taught to be truthful."
Miss Saunders sprang upon her feet, and caught her breath with
difficulty.
"And so you charge me with murder,—the murder of one I loved so
dearly that I would have had my hands cut off to save his life! Alice
Saunders, I'm telling the truth now if I never did before; and I say
that you'll repent of this. You shall repent of it!" Then, with a burst
of tears, she left the room.
Five minutes later, the young lady sauntered to the piano and began to
play a new and favorite opera. The scene had made little impression on
her.
The next week, however, she was delighted to receive an invitation
from a former schoolmate to visit her in the country, and gaining the
consent of her father, was soon on her way.
Ada or Adeline Morrison was a simple, unassuming girl, who had been
easily won to admiration by Alice's beauty of person and ease of
manner. She was at this time in need of a confidant, and chose one she
supposed possessed of qualities of mind and heart corresponding to her
outward appearance. We shall see whether she chose wisely.
Squire Morrison, as he was always called, lived in a handsome house in
the village of W—. He was what is sometimes styled a denominational
man; that is, he was strongly attached to his own church, and unwilling
any of his family should attend any other, or associate with members of
other societies.
Now it so happened that a young, unmarried clergyman was about to
settle over the new church, and that Ada, in visiting a poor servant
of her father's, had met this gentleman, and considered him singularly
interesting. Nay, she carried her admiration so far that she would
willingly have forsaken the associations of her childhood and youth,
for the pleasure of hearing him preach. Twice, indeed, she had enjoyed
that privilege, unknown to her parents, while visiting a young friend,
and fancied that the clergyman's eyes expressed pleasure at seeing her
there.
Alice had scarcely been in the house an hour before she was acquainted
with every thought of her friend's heart on this subject. And when
Ada with flushing cheeks exclaimed, "Now, if I can only manage to get
acquainted with him, I shall be perfectly happy!" she was ready with
the answer,—
"Nothing can be easier, my dear; I shall tell your father that I always
attend the Presbyterian Church, and of course he will not object to
your accompanying your guest. Then if your clergyman is a gentleman, he
will inquire us out and call upon us."
Ada clapped her hands and gave her friend a warm demonstration of
her affection. It never entered her heart that Alice was planning a
deliberate lie, having never entered a Presbyterian church in her life.
Squire Morrison gave his consent when his guest hinted her desire that
his daughter should escort her to church. Ada, influenced by real
feeling, would have chosen a retired seat, where, unobserved, she could
listen to the teaching of the man who occupied so large a portion of
her thoughts; but this was not agreeable to Alice, who requested the
sexton to show them to a slip near the pulpit.
During the service, the clergyman's eyes rested frequently on those
two apparently earnest hearers of the word, causing a thrill of such
delight in the heart of poor Ada that she could scarcely conceal her
emotion.
Her companion meanwhile was charmed with the intellectual countenance
of the preacher, with the elegance of his form, and the rich, mellow
tones of his voice. She no longer wondered at the infatuation of her
companion, nor hesitated one moment to violate their friendship by a
determination to win him for herself if she could.
While Ada was moved to tears by the touching appeal from the pulpit,
and forming earnest resolutions of profiting by the discourse, Alice
was making her plan for her new conquest. Henceforth the subject
of amusements, the theatre, operas, etc., etc., must be tabooed as
forbidden pleasures. Religion must be the order of the day; and the
artful girl did not hesitate one moment before assuming the sacred
guise, nor doubt she could effectually cover the deceit.
After a lingering glance at the desk, the strangers were about to leave
the slip, when Ada's friend, Miss Locke, stepped from an opposite pew
and welcomed her; then followed an introduction to Miss Saunders, a
ceremony Alice never went through in a hurry; and by that time Mr.
Barton had reached the aisle on his way out of church.
Nothing was more natural than for his parishioner to introduce him to
the strangers, nor for him to walk by their side two-thirds of the way
home, as his path was in the same direction. When they parted, Alice
was sure she had made an impression.
"Oh, how thankful I am that you came!" cried Ada, pressing her
companion's arm. "Didn't it all happen beautifully? And isn't he a
splendid preacher?"
Alice smiled complacently.
"He is a gentleman and a scholar," was her cool reply; "and perhaps, if
I had not a beau ideal of my own, I might admire him as much as you do.
Now I am free to aid you, all in my power."
Two weeks passed, and Mrs. Morrison, a sincere, trusting person,
considered her guest a young lady of earnest Christian character;
for she not only was present at the three regular services of the
Sabbath; but Tuesday and Friday, in company with Ada, wended her way
to the vestry, where the weekly lectures were attended. As they went
alone, Mr. Barton, as a matter of course, escorted them to Squire
Morrison's door, and sometimes entered the parlor for a few minutes.
On these occasions, Alice carried on the most of the conversation with
the clergyman, while Ada, whose innermost soul had been moved by his
pungent appeals, was abundantly content to listen to his instructive
remarks. She sometimes envied her friend that she so readily entered
into the feelings of the pastor, who, only by an occasional glance,
acknowledged her own presence.
Alice had never been so excited and happy as during this visit, which
was prolonged from week to week by the cordial invitation of both
mother and daughter.