CHAPTER VII.

SCHOOL LIES.

"FATHER," asked Alice Saunders, on the evening of her return from school for a short vacation, "when is Ellen coming home? It seems very odd to be without her."

"I cannot tell, my dear; probably not for a long time. Your aunt writes a very favorable account of her improvement. Among other things she says, 'I can trust her word most implicitly.'"

There was the slightest shade of contempt upon Alice's placid face, as she answered, "That is high praise from Aunt Collins."

Poor Alice!—Poor in all the heart's rich treasures, though beautiful in person, and fairy like in figure. In the fashionable boarding school where she had passed six months, she had been taught many things; but a strict adherence to truth was not among her accomplishments. She had acquired a more correct pronunciation of the French language; could dance with singular grace; could enter a room filled with company with the ease and polish of a lady of thirty; could write an acceptance or regret to a party with taste and elegance, and without any special violation of the rules of rhetoric,—but, alas! In all that pertained to the true, stern discipline of mind, or that regarded her moral culture, she was, if possible, more ignorant than ever.

Thrown into the society of half a hundred young misses, whose only aim seemed to be to outshine each other in dress or fashion; with teachers whose main ambition seemed to be to give, with a smattering of many kinds of knowledge, that superior ease and grace of manners which the papers ascribed to the pupils of Mrs. Lerow; every sentiment of virtue, or the stern principles of right, seemed to be blunted, while nothing really valuable was acquired.

One thing Alice, in common with most of her companions, had learned; and that was to sneer at, or hold in contempt, those persons who had a higher standard of morals than her own. The Bible, too, although her mother's favorite book, was considered old-fashioned and rigid, containing a code of laws which were to the present generation a kind of dead letter and of no manner of importance.

The Sabbath and the sanctuary she had learned to regard as golden opportunities to display the rich, fashionably made dress with which, at the suggestion of Mrs. Lerow, her father so abundantly supplied her.

On the evening of her arrival at home, her father gazed at her with pride, and expressed his satisfaction at her evident improvement in the warmest terms; which opinion Alice took calmly, as praise to which she was justly entitled.

The next day, however, when he took advantage of her return to invite a few acquaintances to dine, he was pained and humiliated by her pertness and affectation. There was such an effort to show off before the young gentlemen of the party the knowledge she had so recently acquired,—such art, in even the tossing of her head, or the languishing expression of her eyes, that, fearing she would disgust his friends as she had disgusted him, he suddenly gave Aunt Clarissa a hint to move from the dining hall to the parlors.

But when a young man invited her to sing, he was more displeased than ever; she had been, she said, so much occupied in her studies; she had practised so little; her music was not yet unpacked; and her voice was affected by a cold.

Her manner of saying all this made it too evident that she wished to be urged; but her father, who, though talking with one of the guests, was attentive to all that was passing, abruptly interfered, saying,—

"Well, my daughter, it is of very little consequence whether you sing now; Madame—, the celebrated singer, is in town, and we shall, no doubt, all have a chance to hear some really fine music."

On returning to his house the next day for dinner, he heard Alice talking over the stairs to a servant.

"What did she say?"

"She left her card, miss, and was sorry you were not in."

The peculiar smile on the servant's countenance arrested Mr. Saunders's attention.

"What is it?" he asked his daughter, in a grave tone.

"Miss Huntington called; and as I was not dressed for company, I sent word 'not at home.'"

"Margaret," said the gentleman, turning to the servant, "the next time you obey an order which obliges you to tell a falsehood, I wish you to come to me for your wages. I will have no one in my house who will carry a message like that."

"Thank you, sir, and my mother will thank you, too," answered Margaret, blushing with pleasure.

"Alice," sternly remarked Mr. Saunders when he had followed her to a parlor upstairs. "Where have you learned to deceive, and to teach your servants to deceive?"

She blushed a little, but said, directly,—

"Oh, papa! It is the most common thing in the world—I mean in genteel society—to send word you are not at home; it is understood to mean that you are engaged."

"Then why not say so? Why put lies into your servants' mouths? Don't you see that if you teach them to lie for you, they will soon learn to lie to you?"

"You use such dreadful words, papa, you quite frighten me; I'm sure I never thought I was doing the least harm."

"I use the right words, Alice. I am cut to the heart to see that, after all the money I have paid for your education, you should be so devoid of the first principles of honor."

He sighed deeply, as he walked to the window, revolving in his mind a plan to send her also, to her Aunt Collins; but, recalled to the present by the dinner-bell, he added,—

"I wish you to understand, Alice, that I will not allow such a system of deception in my house. Margaret has already been notified that one more occasion like that I witnessed, and she leaves her place."

This was plain talk in plain words; and Alice put up her lip with an ugly pout. She did not appear at dinner until her father and aunt were nearly through the first course, and then rendered herself so disagreeable that Joseph called out,—

"Pa, I wish you'd have company every day; Alice acts better when gentlemen are here to see her do so." And he rolled his eyes so exactly in imitation of her action the previous day, that Aunt Clarissa and even her father laughed aloud.

During the weeks which followed, there was scarcely a day passed without proving to Mr. Saunders the entire recklessness of his daughter in regard to the truth. One day he came home and entered the back parlor while she was entertaining a friend in the front one with reminiscences of school life. They were so much engaged they did not notice his entrance, but amid shouts of mirth went on with their conversation.

"But did not Mrs. Lerow require you to study very hard?" asked the visitor.

"Oh, no, indeed!" was the laughing reply. "We had our exercises, of course; but we generally contrived to copy them from one another. Why, half the last term I had my answers written on a paper I held inside my handkerchief; at last the class-teacher mistrusted something from my always being so correct, and asked me up and down whether I had committed the lesson. I told her, of course, I had. It was only a white lie, you know, and everybody tells white lies."

"You remind me of an old lady who visited us last week," rejoined the young girl. "She heard me telling a story at the table, and then repeating it to some callers in the evening. I suppose I did not remember to use exactly the same words, and—do you think she had the impertinence to tell me I had been guilty of falsehood! I excused myself, saying, as you did, 'Everybody tells little lies, or white lies, in these days.'

"'No, my dear,' she said, 'not everybody; I could name several, and among them, some you would call the most polished ladies in the city, who would not, for their right hand, tell a lie, white or black. Truth—simple, unvarnished truth—is their motto, and a beautiful motto it is, such as I wish every young and every old lady would abide by.'

"'But you must own,' I said, 'that almost all fashionable people tell what is called white lies?'

"'I acknowledge that it is far too common,' she went on. 'We are becoming corrupt and unprincipled as a nation; but I will give you one instance where a white lie, and a very innocent one, as the young lady called it, was the means of breaking off a match between two persons who before that had been sincerely attached to each other.'

"The story is an affecting one; and if you like, I'll repeat it to you."

"Do," returned Alice; "I have a curiosity to hear it."

"'You remember,' she went on, 'that pale, intellectual lady you saw riding with me last week?'

"I had noticed her particularly, for she was very beautiful, though so sickly; and I told her so.

"'She was a gay belle ten years ago; no party was thought perfect without her presence. She was amiable, too, and very accomplished; that is, she sang well, danced divinely, as her admirers used to tell her, talked French as fluently as her native tongue; but she had a habit of telling white lies, which threw a blight over her fair prospects, and in the end destroyed her peace.

"'Mr. Stanton, the gentleman who had won her from a score of admirers, really believed her to be an angel. The possibility of her violating or falsifying her word had probably never occurred to him; for he had that high sense of honor which would have led him to forfeit his life rather than be guilty of an act of deception.

"'A French singer of rather questionable reputation just about that time came to the city, and attracted great crowds to her concerts. Miss Hill had a great desire to hear her; but, after listening to her friend's arguments against encouraging a person of such character, she declared nothing would tempt her to go. This was her first lie, for she meant to join a party the next evening; but how to deceive her lover was the question.

"'The next morning, with the help of a friend, the plan was made. She was to go early before the hour when he usually made his appearance, call for her chaperone in a carriage, leaving word with the servant that she had gone to pass the evening with a sick friend, and would not be at home till late. In order to make this excuse more plausible, Miss Hill wrote her lover an affectionate letter, regretting the necessity that deprived her of the pleasure of his company for the evening, adding, "I know that you would say duty is paramount in this case."

"'The carriage was at the door at the moment, and, giving extra charges to the girl to say nothing that could betray her, she hastened away to the brilliant scene.

"'Soon after, Mr. Stanton made his appearance with a carriage to take her to the E—House, where some valued friends had just arrived. He was exceedingly disappointed, as he had promised them, he would call with her. He read her note, and asked the girl in what street the sick friend lived.

"'"I don't know, exactly," she stammered at this unexpected question; "but it was somewhere out of town, for now I remember she took night clothes, and said if the lady was not better, she should be away a day or two."

"'"It is very unfortunate for me," he said, speaking to himself; "I would go anywhere for her, if you could learn where she is."

"'"Oh, sir!" exclaimed the girl. "Her father has gone, too, and nobody else in the house knows anything about it."

"'"This is strange!" he said, stepping into the carriage and giving orders to be driven back to the hotel. "I wonder she did not mention the name of the sick lady. Probably it is some near relative, as her father has accompanied her."

"'The evening was passed with his friends, and at a late hour, he was about to take his leave when a mutual friend entered.

"'He laughed heartily as he shook hands with Mr. Stanton, saying,—

"'"I have been playing the agreeable all the evening to Miss Hill, and merit your warmest thanks."

"'"Where, where did you see her?" was the eager inquiry.

"'"At Madame R—'s concert, of course. All the world was there to-night. To tell the truth, I was somewhat surprised to see Miss Hill, knowing, as I did, your opinion of her concerts; but she appeared to have no scruples."

"'Mr. Stanton turned very pale at this reply, but in a moment controlled himself, and said, "Are you sure Miss Emily Hill was at Madame R—'s concert?"

"'"As sure as I am that I stand here," seriously replied the gentleman, perceiving this was no time for a joke. "I was in the same slip with her and Mrs. Jones who was her chaperone, and after the concert, waited upon her to their carriage. She excused your absence by saying you had a previous engagement which prevented your accompanying her."

"'"Enough," faltered Mr. Stanton; and rising soon after, he took a hasty leave of his friends.'"