CHAPTER VII.
THE LITTLE LIE-GIRL.
And now I will skip along to the next summer, and come to the dreadfullie I told about the hatchet. You remember it, Horace and Prudy, how Isaw your uncle Ned's hatchet on the meat block, and heedlessly took itup to break open some clams, and then was so frightened that I darednot tell how I cut my foot. "O, mamma," said I, "my foot slipped, andI fell and hit me on something; I don't know whether 'twas a hatchetor a stick of wood; but I never touched the hatchet."
It was very absurd. I think I did not know clearly what I wassaying; but after I had once said it, I supposed it would not do totake it back, but kept repeating it, "No, mamma, I never touched thehatchet."
Mother was grieved to hear me tell such a wrong story, but it was notime to reason with me then, for before my boot could be drawn off Ihad fainted away. When I came to myself, and saw Dr. Foster was there,it was as much as they could do to keep me on the bed. I wasdreadfully afraid of that man. I thought I had deceived mother, but Iknew I couldn't deceive him.
"So, so, little girl, you thought you'd make me a good job while youwere about it. There's no half-way work about you," said he. And thenhe laughed in a way that rasped across my feelings like the noise ofsharpening a slate pencil, and said I mustn't be allowed to move myfoot for days and days.
Every morning when he came, he asked, with that dreadful smile,--
"Let us see: how is it we cut our foot?"
And I answered, blushing with all my might, "Just the same as I did inthe first place, you know, sir."
Upon which he would show all his white teeth, and say,--
"Well, stick to it, my dear; you remember the old saying, 'A lie wellstuck to is better than the truth wavering.'"
I did not understand that, but I knew he was making fun of me. Iunderstood what Ned meant; for he said flatly, "You've told a bouncer,miss."
I was so glad Gust Allen wasn't in town; he was a worse tease thanNed. When Abner came in to bring me apples or cherries, he alwaysasked,--
"Any news from the hatchet, Maggie?" And then chucked me under thechin, adding, "You're a steam-tug for telling wrong stories. Didn'tknow how smart you were before."
Miss Rubie said nothing; she came in with Fel every day; but Ipresumed she was thinking over that solemn text, "Thou, God, seestme."
'Ria did not say anything either; but I always felt as if she was justgoing to say something, and dreaded to have her bring in my dinner.
I knew that father "looked straight through my face down to thelie;" but I still thought that mother believed in me. One day I foundout my mistake. Ned had been saying some pretty cutting things, and Iappealed to her, as she came into the room:--
"Mayn't Ned stop plaguing me, mamma?"
"No more of that, Edward," said mother, looking displeased. "It is tooserious a subject for jokes. If Margaret has told us a wrong story,she is, of course, very unhappy. Do not add to her distress, my son.We keep hoping every day to hear her confess the truth; she may besure there is nothing that would make us all so glad."
So mother knew! She must have known all along! She turned to bring memy dolly from the table, and I saw her eyes were red. I wanted tothrow myself on her neck and confess; but there was Ned, and somehow Inever saw mother alone after that when I could make it convenient.
She was right in thinking me unhappy, but she little dreamed howwretched I was. Horace and Prudy, you have heard something of thisbefore; but I must tell it now to Dotty and Fly; for that hatchetaffair was a sort of crisis in my life.
You know I had not always told the truth. My imagination was active,and I liked to relate wonderful stories, to make people open theireyes. It was not wrong in the first place, for I was a mere baby. Thewhole world was new and wonderful to me, and one thing seemed about asstrange to me as another. I could not see much difference between thereal and the unreal, between the "truly true" and the make believe.When I said my mamma had silk dresses, spangled with stars, I wasthinking,--
"Perhaps she has. There's _sumpin_ in a trunk locked up, and I _guess_it's silk dresses."
But as I grew older I learned better than to talk so. I found Imust keep such wild fancies to myself, and only tell of what I knew tobe true. Every time I wanted to utter a falsehood, a little voice inmy soul warned me to stop.
Fly, you are old enough to know what I mean. Your eyes say so. Youdidn't hear that voice when you were patting round grandma's kitchen,making Ruthie's coffee-mill buzz. You were too little to hear it then.It had nothing to say to you when you stole your mamma's "skipt," andsoaked it in the wash-bowl; or when you stuffed your little cheekswith 'serves without leave, or told lies, lies, lies, as often as youopened your sweet little lips.
"You don't 'member actin' so?"
O, no; it was "so _many_ years ago!" But I was going to say you didall those dreadful things, and still you were not naughty. Nobodythinks any the worse of you to-day for all your baby-mischief. Weonly laugh about it, for you did not know any better. But if you wereto do such things now, what _should_ we say? Your soul-voice wouldtell you it was wrong, and it would be wrong.
My soul-voice talked to me, and I was learning to listen to it. I wasnot in the habit of telling lies; I had been hurried and frightenedinto this one, and now it seemed as if I could not stop saying it anymore than a ball can stop rolling down hill.
It was dreadful. I had to lie there on mother's bed and think aboutit. I could not go out of doors, or even walk about the room. Fel hadlain in her pretty blue chamber day after day, too sick to eatanything but broths and gruel; but then her conscience was easy. Iwasn't sick, and could have as many nice things to eat as the rest ofthe family; still I was wretched.
My little friends came to see me, and were very sorry for me. I wasglad to be remembered; but every time I heard the door open, Itrembled for fear some one was going to say "hatchet."
And when I was alone again I would turn my face so I could watch thelittle clock on the mantel. It ticked with a far-away, dreamy sound,like a child talking in its sleep, and somehow it had always one storyto tell, and never any other;--"You've told--a lie;--you've told--alie."
"Well," thought I, "I know it; but stop plaguing me."
There was a pretty picture on the clock door of a little girl, withher apron full of flowers. It was to this little girl that Iwhispered, "Well, I know it; but you stop plaguing me." She went righton just the same,--"You've told--a lie; you've told--a lie." I turnedmy face to the wall to get rid of her, but always turned it backagain, for there was a strange charm about that dreadful little girl.I could tell you now just how she was dressed, and which way she benther head with the wreath of flowers on it. You have noticed the oldclock in Ruth's room at grandpa's? That's the one. I never see it nowbut its slow tick-tock calls to mind my sad experience with thehatchet.
Days passed. I was doing my first real thinking. Up to that time I hadnever kept still long enough to think. It was some comfort to draw thesheet over my head, and make up faces at myself.
"You've told a lie, Mag Parlin. Just 'cause your afraid of gettingscolded at for taking the hatchet. You're a little lie-girl. Theydon't believe anything what you say. God don't believe anything whatyou say. He saw you plain as could be when you cut your foot, andheard you plain as could be when you said you never touched thehatchet. And there he is up in heaven thinking about you, and notloving you at all! How can he? He don't have many such naughty girlsin his whole world. If he did, there'd come a rain and rain all day,and all night, for as much as six weeks, and drown 'em all up 'cepteight good ones, and one of 'em's Fel Allen. But 'twouldn't be you,for you're a little lie-girl, and you know it yourself."
It is idle to say that children do not suffer. I believe I neverfelt keener anguish than that which thrilled my young heart as I layon mother's bed, and quailed at the gaze of the little girl on theclock door.
Still no one seemed to remark my unhappiness, and I have never heardit alluded to since. Children keep their feelings to themselv
es muchmore than is commonly supposed, especially proud children. And ofcourse I was not wretched all the time; I often forgot my trouble forhours together.
But it was not till long after I had left that room that I could bringmy mind to confess my sin. I took it for granted I was ruined forlife, and it was of no use to try to be good. I am afraid of tiringyou, little Fly; but I want you to hear the little verse that grandpataught me one evening about this time, as I sat on his knee:
"If we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us oursins."
I see you remember it, Dotty. Is it not sweet? "God is faithful andjust." I had always before repeated my verses like a parrot, I think;but this came home to me. I wondered if my dreadful sin couldn't bewashed out, so I might begin over again. I knew what confess meant; itmeant to tell God you were sorry. I went right off and told him; andthen I went and told father, and I found he'd been waiting all thistime to forgive me. It was just wonderful! My heart danced right up. Icould look people in the face again, and wasn't afraid of the girl onthe clock door, and felt as peaceful and easy as if I'd never told alie in my life--only I hated a lie so. I can't tell you how I did hateit.
"I'll never, never, never tell another as long as I breathe,"whispered I to the blue hills, and the sky, and the fields, and theriver. And I knew God heard.
I suppose it is a little remarkable, Fly; but I believe this reallywas my last deliberate lie. Children's resolves are not always thefirmest things in the world, and my parents did not know how much minewas good for. They did not dream it had been burnt into my soul withred-hot anguish.
I have always been glad, very glad, I was allowed to suffer so much,and learn something of the preciousness of truth. It is a diamond witha white light, children. There is no other gem so clear, so pure.