CHAPTER XXIII.

END OF TRUTH AND OF LYING.

THE parting was over, and they were fairly on their way; but Ellen could not so suddenly repress her tears, though her father's voice fell soft and lovingly on her ear. His heart was filled with pleasure at the praises of his child to which he had been listening from Dr. Collins; and, as they hurried on after the iron horse, a smile played on his lip, while she, stealthily wiping her eyes, read again and again a tiny note which Frank had crowded into her hand.

"Forgive, dear cousin, the fretfulness and peevishness I have manifested since the day we dug up the dahlia roots. I meant to have made this last fortnight of your stay in P— so pleasant that you would always have remembered it. My only excuse for my foolish conduct is a remark you made to me that night, but which, at present, I cannot repeat. I know, Ellen, you will try to do right wherever you are; and I hope you will be happy.

"FRANK."

The evening of the same day found our young friend seated at her father's table, Aunt Clarissa, primly dressed in a rich, rustling black silk, behind the urn, and her own beautiful sister Alice opposite.

Here, in the old familiar rooms, more than she had ever done, did Ellen miss her brother Joseph; but she felt that this was not the time to cherish sad reflections.

"I am in my own dear home," her heart kept repeating, "with a fond father and aunt ready to indulge every wish, however foolish, and a sister more beautiful than I ever dreamed of to be the companion of my every day life."

And yet, before Ellen retired, she felt that she would give all she had for just one glimpse of the friends she had left.

"What are they doing, now?" she asked herself. "Does Frank really miss me as he said he should? I can't imagine what remark of mine he alludes to."

Alice and Ellen had each of them a room fitted for their use in as tasteful a manner as their father could devise. Aunt Clarissa accompanied the latter to her chamber,—for Ellen found, before the first evening had passed, that her handsome sister loved no extra exertion,—and inquired whether she needed any assistance.

"No, indeed," she answered, laughing. "You are just the same dear, kind Aunt Clarissa you were four years ago. You must teach me to help you, and not wait upon a great healthy girl like me."

Miss Saunders took a seat, unasked, and began to explain how carefully she and her nephew had arranged everything for her niece's comfort.

Then Ellen, after expressing her thanks, and saying, "I hope you'll find I'm not ungrateful," took out her small Bible, the gift of Cousin Mary, and began to read.

"Just see how far Mary and I have read together," she said, warmly. "Let me read aloud to you. Here, please take this easy seat."

And, having arranged everything to her satisfaction, she began the ninety-first Psalm, which she read in a manner which proved that she relied upon its blessed promises.

"Good night," said Miss Saunders, rising, when her voice ceased. "You are a very good reader. I shall ask to come in again."

Ellen jumped up and gave her a fervent kiss, which made the spinster's heart warm all night.

The next morning, the sisters were sitting together in Alice's room, when Aunt Clarissa entered; Ellen was just saying,—

"No, I never learned to dance, and I don't expect to go to balls; but I love singing dearly."

Alice arched her splendid eyebrows with astonishment. "What will people think?" she asked in her own soft voice.

"I'm a school-girl, yet, you know," said Ellen, slightly blushing. "Father says I'm to attend Mr. Adams's classes in the city; but that is not all," she added, conquering a momentary hesitation. "I don't think I should enjoy myself in parties of that kind. I had rather go where I should meet with society that would do me good."

A scornful smile curled Alice's lip; but she said nothing.

"Let me thread your needle, Aunt Clarissa," cried Ellen, running to the window near which her aunt was trying in vain to do so. "I shall always love to do it for you."

"La, dear child! I can generally see very well; but this morning is so dark." Nevertheless, she smiled and looked pleased at the attention.

At this moment a servant knocked at the door.

"Miss Alice," she said, "Mr. Mansfield has called and asked for you."

"Tiresome creature!" exclaimed the beauty. "What possessed him to come here so early? I have a great mind to say I'm too ill to see him."

Ellen started. "Oh!" she began, and then checked herself.

"Come, Ellen, I wont go and entertain him alone. Besides, he's just one of your kind."

Alice, half-pouting, brushed her hair until it shone, and accompanied by her sister, left for the parlor.

Mr. Mansfield was a gentleman whom she had met at a concert, and who, though a wise man, and near thirty years of age, experienced some quickening of the pulse, as he gazed upon her lovely countenance.

"If the mind and features correspond," he said to himself, "I will win her, if I can."

Ellen was astonished at the warm reception her sister gave one whom she had appeared so reluctant to meet. Alas, she soon learned that all with Alice was appearance! There was no reality, no sincerity, even in the most simple words or actions. They sat and talked upon a variety of subjects until the young girl felt quite proud of her sister, who seemed a prodigy of learning.

Before he rose from his somewhat lengthened call, Mr. Mansfield congratulated the sisters upon meeting after so long a separation; and then looking at them he said, smiling,—

"One would be puzzled to know which is the elder."

"I am two years older than Ellen," quickly responded Alice.

"You forget," exclaimed the other, laughing; "I am three years younger than you."

The beauty cast a glance of displeasure at her sister, which was not unperceived by their visitor, and which gave him a keen pang. He bowed rather gravely, and wishing them good-morning, took his leave.

"Now, Ellen," said Alice, when he had scarcely shut the door, "we may as well understand each other. Once for all, I wont have you correcting me in company! It's bad enough to have father watching me, without your breaking in with, 'You're mistaken, sister. It's so;' or 'it's so.'"

"But," interrupted Ellen, "I didn't suppose,—I never thought you wished to deceive him."

"I can't help what you thought; I wont submit to it!"

"But if I said nothing, I, too, should be guilty of falsehood; and I wouldn't tell what is not true. I had rather cut off my right hand."

She spoke warmly, as if she meant what she said.

"Nonsense!" cried Alice, now really provoked. "What do you suppose I care for your Puritan notions. You'll find you can't carry them out in fashionable society."

"Then I'll renounce it forever; nor will it cost me one pang to do so. I am only grieved because—"

She stopped suddenly; there was a noise of something falling near the door. Springing forward, she found herself face to face with Mr. Mansfield; his cane had dropped from his hand.

Alice, after one glance into his face, made her escape through a back door.

Ellen, her cheeks burning with excitement, and her kindling eyes bearing marks of the indignation her sister's unkind words had called forth, frankly expressed her astonishment at finding him there.

"I was drawing on my gloves in the entry," he began, gravely, "when it occurred to me that it might be pleasant for you both to attend Mr. E—'s lecture this evening. I stepped back toward the door when I heard your remark, 'But if I said nothing, I, too, should be guilty of falsehood.' Then followed your sister's retort, when— In fact, I don't think after that I knew exactly what I was about."

She did not answer.

"I may never see you again, Miss Ellen," he added, with an expression of pain; "but I do not like to go until you say you will excuse me for what I involuntarily heard."

She blushed painfully, but after an effort, said,—

"Mr. Mansfield, you are a great deal older than I am, and perhaps will not understand my frankness. As far as I am concerned, I excuse you; but don't you think it would have been better for you to walk right away?"

"Yes, if I had been responsible for my own actions; but to tell the truth, I was stunned with what I heard. And then it may affect the happiness of my whole life. But I feel that I have gained a friend, if I have lost one. I thank you for your candor, and the more as I know what an effort it cost you. As you value your own peace and that of your friends, retain your truthfulness at whatever cost. Truth is a priceless jewel, and I am delighted to see that you, at least, possess it."

As our story has already exceeded its limits, I can only add that Alice, though acknowledged to have more beauty of features and more ease of manner, was neither loved nor respected like her sister. She married at the age of twenty-six a man whom she had deceived into believing her to be four years younger, and for whose position in society she had made one dreadfully false oath at the altar, when she promised to love and cherish him till death.

Ellen remained with her father in B— until her school education was completed; and then, as Alice was in Philadelphia visiting one of her fashionable friends, accompanied him to Europe, where they remained two years. At the end of that time, they returned, and were soon welcomed by Dr. Frank Collins, who had gone into partnership with his father in P—.

"Ellen," he said, on the evening of her arrival, "I have one question to ask you; and as I know you to be truthful, I expect a candid reply. Will you be my wife?"

"Yes, sir, I will."

"Ah, Ellen, then you are not sorry I am not your brother?"

"No, sir, not at all sorry now."

After the marriage of Alice, Mr. Saunders sold his property in the city, and went to P— to live with his daughter, Ellen Collins, in a beautiful house he had built for them. Where every year that he witnessed her truthful, conscientious life, he became more convinced that, in the words of the poet, though:

"The grave's dark portal Soon shuts this world of shadows from the view Then shall we grasp realities immortal, if to the truth within us, we are true."