LIES ABOUT RELIGION.
ONE evening, when Alice had been in W— nearly a month, Ada was so
unwell that Mrs. Morrison would not consent to her leaving the house.
This was a severe disappointment; for, aside from her interest in the
preacher, the young girl was deeply affected by the preaching. Indeed,
sometimes she thought the desire to live a new life a life of holiness
and happiness such as he described that of a Christian to be—was
paramount to her wish to gain his friendship. She plead earnestly with
her mother; but Ada was an only daughter,—a tender, well-beloved plant,
needing constant culture,—and the lady was firm in her refusal.
"I will tell you about the lecture," said Alice, secretly rejoicing in
this opportunity to be alone with the pastor, "and perhaps he will call
as we return."
There was a peculiar expression on her countenance as she said this,
which awoke the first suspicion in Ada that her friend was not sincere;
and when left alone, she recalled many circumstances leading to the
conviction that Alice was more interested in the clergyman than she
would acknowledge.
True, the latter had freely described Mr. Mortimer, a gentleman to
whom she declared herself engaged to be married; but the distrust once
awakened could not be removed; and the startled girl speedily arrived
at the very unpleasant conclusion that her friend had proved unworthy
of her confidence.
It was nearly an hour later than usual when the visitor returned; and
by this time Mrs. Morrison had become so alarmed for the safety of her
guest that she was pressing her husband to go in search of her, when
her voice was heard at the door.
She entered, smiling, wholly unprepared for the searching glance with
which Ada met her. Her cheeks were brilliant with excitement, and as
she stood under the chandelier, toying with her gloves, the light
shining full on her beaming features, Mrs. Morrison thought she had
never seen a prettier picture, and wondered whether the clergyman
did not entertain the same opinion, and whether he could long remain
insensible to such charms.
When the young girls retired to their room—for Ada, though weary, had
insisted on remaining down-stairs till her friend's return,—Alice
evidently labored under some great excitement, which she in vain
endeavored to subdue.
"I have so much to tell you," she began: "but your mother has forbidden
us to talk long. Mr. Barton inquired after you, and when I told him you
were quite ill, was very uneasy."
"Why didn't he come in, then, to see me?" asked Ada, turning aside her
face.
"He was detained by some persons in the vestry. Only think how
mortifying to me to have to wait there for him, as if I expected of
course he would come home with me but there was no alternative, as I
dared not come alone."
This was only partly true. Mr. Barton stopped a moment on his way out,
and the rest of the time had been passed walking in the moonlight at
the young lady's suggestion. She was artful enough to see that, as
the clergyman was deeply interested in the duties of his profession,
an appeal to him about her own heart would best secure his attention
to herself. She commenced, therefore, by telling him that, although
she had professed religion (lie the first), she had grown cold and
worldly,—that his preaching had roused her to a sense of her danger,
and that it was solely to enjoy the privilege of his ministration that
she had prolonged her visit from week to week.
Mr. Barton heard her in silence, and then gave her some solemn advice
upon the danger of trifling with conscience.
This was not exactly what the young lady had calculated upon; but,
disguising her real feelings, she spoke of Ada, and found the gentleman
all attention. Vexed at his indifference to herself; and indignant that
she had not secured the first place in his esteem, she determined to
prevent his forming a particular attachment for Ada.
This was not quite so easy a task as she imagined; for the gentleman
was a keen judge of character, and before he had ever seen Alice,
formed a high opinion of Ada's merits. Then he often met her friend,
Miss Locke: and somehow the conversation always turned on the absent
one. The apparently careless remark of the young lady, therefore, that
she greatly regretted Ada's want of seriousness (lie the second); but
that her mind seemed wholly absorbed in an attachment she had formed,
did not weigh as much with him as she expected.
Mr. Barton was too anxious a pastor not to discern the signs of real
feeling; and he had too often witnessed the tear of penitence in the
eye of Ada to believe the first charge.
The second statement rather startled him, though he gave no outward
sign of it, and presently remarked,—
"Miss Morrison has been so tenderly nurtured that her parents will be
careful, I suppose, to whom they consign her future happiness."
"Yes," was the artful reply; "and in this case, unfortunately, they do
not approve her choice."
Squire Morrison and his good wife had not the slightest idea of any
attachment which their daughter had formed, and therefore this was lie
the third.
"Indeed!" remarked the minister, not caring to pursue the subject at
present. "But just see how brightly the moon is shining upon the water."
He then gave his companion an account of a lake near his father's
house, hundreds of miles away; and how the moon, shining on it,
converted it into a sheet of burnished silver. Thoughts of home so
softened his heart toward his companion that when he left her at Squire
Morrison's door, the parting was almost tender.
The next day, Ada was unable to leave her bed; and Alice, who had
repeatedly declared that she could not longer postpone her return home,
exclaimed that she would not leave her.
The sick girl was glad that her mother's presence prevented her making
any reply; for Alice's absence was now as earnestly desired as her
presence had formerly been.
A day or two later Miss Locke called and was shown at once into Ada's
chamber, where Alice found them after an hour deeply engaged in
conversation. Her entrance was followed by a sudden silence, during
which her usual sang-froid entirely left her, and she could not conceal
her embarrassment and vexation. This was Saturday, and she had been
prevented from attending the lecture alone the previous evening by Mrs.
Morrison's remark,—
"If I were your mother, Miss Saunders, I should advise you not to go to
lecture to-night; though your motive may be excellent, it seems like
courting the attention of the clergyman. I have resolved that when you
leave, Ada shall never put herself in so awkward a situation."
This suggestion, taken in connection with Miss Locke's long call, led
Alice to fear that her remark concerning Ada had been repeated, and
that it had excited the mother's displeasure; for, notwithstanding her
statement that Ada's parents disapproved her attachment, she believed
they would be delighted to have their daughter secure the affection of
so good a man as Mr. Barton.
To do Alice justice, she had sense enough to see that the young
clergyman was vastly superior to any of the gentlemen she had
heretofore dignified with the name of lovers, and, though vexed that
he never praised her beauty, yet her heart was touched as it had never
been before. The thought that Ada loved him, and that her affection was
reciprocated, roused passions in her of whose existence she was wholly
unaware. An angry flush, therefore, distorted her features on observing
a quick glance of caution from Miss Locke to her friend, and she turned
to leave the room, but, with a sudden resolve to prevent all farther
private communication, she took a seat near the window, and presently
saw Mr. Barton walk deliberately up the front avenue toward the house.
In a moment the thought occurred that he had called to inquire why she
was absent the evening previous; but this pleasant fancy vanished at
once when the bell rang, and she heard him, through the open door, ask
whether Miss Locke was ready to accompany him.
The young lady started, exclaiming,—
"There he is!—There's Mr. Barton! I must go, now!"
This was followed by some earnest, whispered remark to Ada, and the
parting words,—
"You'd better follow my advice, dear; frankness is always best."
Ada arose from her chair to watch them walk away, and then returned to
her seat.
"Alice," she began, timidly, her pale cheeks flushing crimson, "how
could you tell Mr. Barton that I had an attachment which my parents
disapproved; and still worse that this attachment prevented my feeling
any interest in serious subjects?"
"Did he report that I said so?"
"That is not answering my question, and I have often heard you
pronounce it ill-bred to answer one question by asking another. I only
asked why you did it. The fact I know very well."
Perceiving that she could not avoid it, Alice smilingly replied,—
"It was all for your good, my dear. You know it is true that you have
an attachment, and that your father is so strictly denominational
that only his civility to a guest influences him to allow you to hear
Mr. Barton preach. How could I infer otherwise than that he would be
displeased?"
"But why speak on such a subject to him?" Ada inquired, earnestly. "It
appears to me strange and indelicate, besides violating a friend's
confidence."
For one moment Alice's thoughts recurred to the scene in Aunt
Clarissa's chamber, when the truth made the old lady tremble, and
she said to herself, "Truth is certainly very disagreeable;" but she
quickly rallied and answered, in a grieved tone,—
"I see. Ada, it is time for me to leave you. You have listened to the
counsels of others, and have begun to distrust your old friend. I could
explain entirely to your satisfaction; but you are not in a state of
mind to listen unprejudiced."
"If you knew how sad I felt when I heard it, you would not say so,
Alice. Now justice to yourself demands that you should speak. There is
enough of our old friendship left in my heart to plead for you."
"Perhaps I was imprudent," Alice began; "but it was all through my
affection for you. I saw you were becoming so much absorbed in your
attachment that your health was affected, and that your seriousness
was yielding to love; and I wished to convince myself whether the
attachment was mutual."
Ada's mild eyes flashed her indignation.
"I was convinced," Alice went on, "that Mr. Barton is heart whole. I
don't believe he ever wasted a moment's thought on such a subject."
At this moment Mrs. Morrison entered, and, noticing that her daughter
was unduly excited, recommended that Miss Saunders should retire to the
parlor where she would soon join her.
After persuading Ada to lie down for a while, the lady went to her
guest and requested a few moments' conversation.
"I am sorry to have occasion for what I feel constrained to say to
you; but duty to my daughter requires it. I fear we have been deceived
in you. A lady visiting in W— informs us that your father has always
attended the Baptist church; that your mother was a member there, and
that you had never made a profession of religion. She said many other
things which I will not repeat. I was aware of this when I advised you
not to go to lecture last night; but I was not aware, until within
an hour, of the manner in which you have returned our hospitality.
I was sewing in the next room, and heard my daughter question you
concerning a conversation with Mr. Barton, and I agree with her that
it was equally unladylike, unchristian, and ungrateful for you to
converse with him as you did. Ada, I am happy to say, agrees with me
that it would have been safer for her to confide in her mother, and in
the desire you expressed to terminate your visit, which, after these
events; must be far from agreeable to either party."
Ten o'clock the next day was the earliest hour that Alice could leave.
The entire evening she busied herself in packing her trunk, but in the
morning was obliged to join the family at breakfast.
Perhaps the reader can imagine her chagrin when, as they arose from
table, the servant brought in an elegant bouquet to which was attached
a card with the words, "Miss Ada, with the regards of Charles Barton."
Her surprise was equal to her vexation when she heard Squire Morrison
read the card and taking the flowers from the servant, carry them
himself to his daughter's room, with the laughing remark,—
"So that's the way the wind blows!"
Alice's parting with the Morrisons was rather constrained. Her journey
home was enlivened by reflections that, though truth may sometimes be
disagreeable, falsehood proves much more so. Certainly lying had in her
case not tended to her happiness or prosperity. She made a half-resolve
to turn over a new leaf; but she made it in her own strength, and we
shall see that evil habits proved too strong for her.