CHAPTER XX.

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.