CHAPTER VIII.

THE LIAR ABANDONED.

"'THE night which followed was spent by Mr. Stanton in pacing the floor of his chamber; and the first dawn of the morning found him resolved upon an immediate termination of his connection with Miss Hill. He could not take to his heart one in whom he had no longer the least confidence. But the rupturing of this bond, which he had heretofore considered almost as sacred as marriage, made his noble heart sink within him.

"'At an early hour he called at Mr. Hill's. The servant was all smiles, and informed him that her mistress found her friend better, and returned late the previous evening. Stifling a groan at this new proof of duplicity, he asked her to inform Miss Hill that he wished to see her. She presently made her appearance, and, though rather startled at his pallor, exclaimed, gayly,—

"'"Wasn't I fortunate in being relieved so soon? I was able to return last evening."

"'"Emily," he said, in a tone which cut her to the heart, "I know all. It is unnecessary for you to burden your conscience with another falsehood. I know the story of a sick friend, of duty to her, is all a falsification. You passed the evening at Mrs. R—'s concert."

"'She sank back in a chair, blushing violently, while he, with great effort controlling himself, went on,—

"'"I loved you, Emily; but that love was based on a false estimate of your character. I believed you as pure in morals as you are beautiful in person. Yesterday, only yesterday, I would have taken your word against all the world; but now the illusion has passed away. We must part, Emily. You have ruined my happiness. If it were not for the recollection of my mother, you would have ruined my faith in your sex."

"'Miss Hill gasped for breath.

"'"I must be dreaming!" she exclaimed. "Surely, this cannot be true! You do not, cannot, mean to give me up just for one little white lie?"

"'"One white lie," he repeated, "has been enough to ruin my hopes of happiness forever: but you have done far more than that. You have proved yourself to be wholly lost to that rectitude which must be a ruling principle with my wife; you have not only told me, who trusted you so implicitly, many deliberate falsehoods, but you have taught your servant, also, to deceive me; even now you met me with a lie—call it white or black, as you please—on your lips."

"'He paused, overwhelmed with emotion.

"'"Try me! Try me!" she repeated, in agony. "I will never be guilty of even the smallest variation from the truth."

"'"It is too late—too late, now!" he murmured, hoarsely, pressing her cold hand. "But oh, Emily, remember hereafter how I have loved you; and when your lips would utter that which is false, call to mind a lonely wanderer, whom your crime has exiled from his country and home!"

"'They parted, and have never met since. Remember,' added the lady, 'all his suffering, all her years of sorrow, since that eventful morning, came from what she then considered an innocent deception.'"

"And what is she now?" I asked, when I had wiped away my tears.

"'She is a penitent Christian woman,' she answered. 'From that time, I do not believe she has ever deviated from the truth; but oh, what a fearful lesson is hers! I have seen her shudder when gay, thoughtless young ladies utter words which are totally false. I have told you this story, hoping you may profit by her experience.'"

The young girls were both startled when Mr. Saunders advanced slowly from the back parlor.

"I have heard your story," he said to the visitor. "I knew both Mr. Stanton and Miss Hill. The breaking off of their engagement occasioned much talk at the time. I never understood the cause till now, when I think him perfectly justified in the course he pursued. I hope, Alice, Miss Hill's experience will prove a most useful lesson to you. Lies show a mind and heart so degraded and mean that no beauty of person or polish of manner can, for any length of time, hide the deformity."

As I have before said, Mr. Saunders was most liberal in gratifying the wants of his children. He liked to see his house handsomely furnished, his table set with abundance and elegance, and his children dressed tastefully, even richly. When Alice came from school, he gave Aunt Clarissa a handsome sum of money, and requested her to replenish his daughter's wardrobe.

Wishing to outshine her companions in dress, the young miss begged for one or two articles which even Aunt Clarissa considered extravagant. Alice, however, was vain, and having been told how becoming they were to her particular style of beauty, determined in some way to obtain them. One was a richly embroidered velvet mantilla, not at all suitable for a girl in her teens, the other a love of a Paris bonnet, as she termed it, made of blue velvet and lace, with an exquisite white feather tipped with blue. The bonnet the milliner pronounced low at fifteen dollars, while the price of the mantilla was forty.

"I will have them charged," she said to herself, "and then save all my pocket-money until they're paid for."

The next Sabbath, the young girl, arrayed in a new lustrous silk, together with her bonnet and mantilla, appeared before her father to accompany him to church.

"Why, Alice! I scarcely recognized you," he said, starting back, actually dazzled by the beauty of her appearance. "Well," he added, after a moment, during which he surveyed her from head to foot with a most comical expression, "you certainly are decked out. I never saw your mother dressed so extravagantly in my life. Where did you get this, and this?" Touching with his finger the bonnet and mantilla.

"At Miles's, papa. They look rich; but they were very cheap."

"Well, I hope they are paid for. You know I don't allow a bill anywhere."

He spoke decidedly, aroused by a sudden suspicion.

"Oh, yes, sir. They are all paid for. Aunt Clarissa had the money, you know."

She looked full in his face as she made this reply; and he, quite satisfied, said he was ready, and it was time to go to church.

Alice heaved a sigh of relief. She had got over the interview much better than she expected; and so wholly was her conscience seared by a long course of deceit that she felt scarcely a pang when she thought of the ready falsehood by which she had obtained the coveted articles.

But the end was not yet. Day after day of the vacation glided away. The evening before she was to leave for school, her father returned home rather earlier than was his wont, and sending a servant to his daughter's room, desired her to join him in the parlor. He did this in order that he might be alone with her; for on several occasions his aunt had been present when he reproved his child, and had always taken her part, or suggested such ready excuses for her conduct, that his advice was entirely counteracted.

Alice came running down the stairs, humming a refrain from a favorite song. Her cheeks were tinged with the softest rose color, and the silken tresses lay lovingly upon them, while a pretty smile dimpled her small mouth.

As she entered the room, fully expecting to see a caller, her father stood and gazed at her; but no pleasure kindled his eye or heightened the color on his cheek. He was thinking how much to be preferred were the plainest features accompanied by true nobleness of heart! How mean, how degraded she appeared to him then, as he recalled his business with her!

"Papa," she said, softly, "did you send for me?"

"Yes, I did," was the brief reply.

They stood for a moment gazing at each other, and then, with a burst of feeling, he exclaimed,—

"Oh, my child! Will you never learn to trust your father?"

"I don't know what you mean," she answered, her cheek crimsoning.

He unfolded his pocket-book and took out a bill, which he held before her.

She started, and turned pale. "I did not mean you should ever see it," she said, quickly. "Indeed, papa, I meant to save all my spending money until I had paid it myself."

"Did your aunt know of this deception?" he asked, looking keenly in her face. "If you have not lost the power of speaking the truth, tell me, did Aunt Clarissa encourage this deceit? Remember, I am not in a mood to be trifled with!"

"No, sir!" was the faltering reply.

"How, then, did she suppose you obtained these expensive articles, entirely unsuited to your years?"

She was silent.

"Speak and speak the truth!" he said, in a loud, excited tone.

"I told her you gave them to me."

The words were almost inarticulate; but they reached his ears.

"Lie upon lie," he repeated, bitterly. "Oh, Alice, that I should ever live to bless the day your mother died! But this conduct would have killed her!"

He covered his face with his hands, while a few tears trickled down her cheeks. They were, however, tears of regret that her falsehood had been detected, and not tears of penitence for her sin.

"Bring the bonnet and mantilla to me," he said, presently. "Pack them in the boxes in which they came."

Astonished at such a command from her usually indulgent parent, Alice reluctantly obeyed.

"To-morrow morning these will be returned," he said, in a firm tone, after having satisfied himself that they were in no way injured.

"But they have been worn, papa," she began, the tears now flowing copiously.

He made no answer, and presently waved his hand for her to leave the room, but suddenly called her back to say, "You can unpack your trunks. I am satisfied Mrs. Lerow's influence over you has not been what I wished. I shall look out for a school of an entirely different character, where such finery would be out of place."