CHAPTER XIX.

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.