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How She Told a Lie.
BY THE AUTHOR rp “JOHN HALIFAX
GBNTLKMAN.”
The three trHvelers—kind Cousin
Ev* and hex y rung charges, Cherry
and Ruth—were standing cn *be stair
case of the curious Hotel de Bourg-
throude, 1 y the Place de la Pucelle,
Rouen. '1 lie narrow, gloou y little
square looked still narrower and
gloomier in the drizzle of the dull
November city, **nd the ug’y pump in
the middle of it, with a sii 1 uglier
statue on* the top, marking the place
where Jeanne d'Arc was burnt, had
been a sore disappointment to the
^children. Th«y had come, enthusias
ic little nhgriiua, to see the spot where
their fav >rlte heroine died; and
iBih tv* cotild hardly get them to
jelieve that It was the spot—ihat the
immon looking market place, wher#
sw ordinary market people were
/sing and repassiug, had actuary
le scene of that cruel deed—
,t&t from the v* ry identical windows
these identical houses brutal ryes
*d watched the maid as she stood,
le flames curling rout d her, clasping
le rude cross which some charitable
nil pushed toward her hand.
“,D> you remember,” Cousin Eva
id, “how, at the last moment, she
Retracted all the false confession of
iere*y and witchcraft which torture
rad wrung from her, and exclaimed :
'Yes, ny voices were of G)d,’ and
how, when she saw the flames ap
proaching htr, she shut her ryes,
> called out once: 'Jesus !’ dropped her
[head upon her breast and that was
*11, till tiny raked up a handful of
sharred bones out of the embers, and
threw them into the Seine? ’
The children looked veiy.grave. \t
Jh*y did realize the whole,
wonder what sort of a day it
was, 1 ’ whispered Cherry ; “dull and
gloon y, like to-dsy, or with a bright,
blue,sunny shy ? Perhaps she looked
up at it before the fire touched her.
And perhans he stood here—just
'where we stand—the Euglish soldier
who cried out, ‘We have burnt a
saint!’”
“And so she w*s,” said Ruth, with
a quiver passtiug over the eager little
face, “a real stint.”
“But, Cousin Eva,” added Cheri y
“why did she ever own to being a
witch? and how could she say her
voices were not true when she believed
they were true? One w#y or the other
she must have told a He.”
Miss Cheri y was of an. argumenta
tive rather than a sentimental turn.
She thought a good deal herself, and
liked to make other people think,too,
so as to enable ner to get at the bot
tom of things. She could never over
look the slightest break In a chain
of practical reasoning; and if she
had a era tempt ip this world it was
fora wdaa person or a parson who
tcld a lie. This fl*w, even in her
favorite maid of Orleans, otherwise so
strong and brave, was too much for
Cherry to passover.
“Do you think,” said Cousin Eva,
“that it would be possible, under
stress of circumstanoes, to tell a lie—to
^confess to something one had never
lone? Bishop Cranmer, for instance—
have you forgotten how he signed a
recantation and then thrust into
le fUmes ‘that unworthy right
land?’ And Galileo, wffeu forced 1 y
"the inquisition to declare the eaith
stood still, muttered afterward, ‘Eper-
m muove.’ Yes, yes,” continued she,
! “one never knows what one mt> y be
driven to till the time comes. The
force of torture is veiy strong. Once
upon a time I remember 1 told a lie.”
“You told a lie,” echoed Cherry,
lor king with amazement into the
bright, sweet, honest face—my.
cheeked, blue-* yad—her little cousins
themselves had not more innocent
ey^ than Eva’s—as clear and round
as a bal y’s.
"But nobody ever tortured you?”
asked tendered-hearted Ruth, cling
ing to the tender hand which, indeed,
she ntvtr went far away from, Id.
these alarming “foreign parts.”
“No, my little girl; the thumb
screws, the rack, and the maiden be
long, luckily,to that room in the tower
where we saw them once, and we are
in the nineteenth and not In the fif
teenth century. Still, even nowaday-*,
a good deal of moral torture can be
brought to bear upon one occasionally,
especial’y when one is only a child, as
I was then. Aud I was tried sharply—
enough to make me remember it even
r, au l feel quite sure that if I had
Jeanne d’Aro I should very like-
we done exaoily tyj 3,Uft.dki. Also
makes people liars like disbelieving
them.”
Ruth gave a tender lil tie pressure to
the hand she held, while Cherry said
proudly : * You Dever disbelieve us
aud yju never need to! But tell us,
Cousiu Eva, about the lie you told.
Was it del ying something y >u had
done, or owing to something y m were
quite innocent of, like poor Jeaune
d’ Arc ? Do tell! You know how well
we like the story,”
“What, here in this pelt of rain?”
answered Cousin Eva, as she proc* eded
to investigate from under her umbrella
the curiou-i has reliefs o 1 the Field of
the Cloth of Gold, which 'till remain
in the court of the Hotel du Bourg-
throade. “No, children, y >u must
wait a more desirable opportunlly.”
Which, however, was not long in
coming. The day brightened—grew
into one of those exquisite day* which
French people call Fete de Si. Martin
—and truly I know nothing like it
except what it most resembles—a
sweet peaceful contented o'd age. So
Cousin Eva decided to take the chil
dren to a place which she herself had
once seen and never forgotten—the
little church on the hilltop called
Notre Dame de Bon Sscours.
“ Is that the same w bich Alice sing
about in the opera of ‘Robert le Dia-
ble?’” and Cherry struck up in htr
clear, young voice—
•* Quand je qulttals ma Normandie,”
Rouen is Normandy, so of course it is
the same—
■‘Dalgtie proteger nos amours
Notre Dame de Bon Secours.’’
“Please don’t sing quite so loud or
the hotel people will hear you,” said
timid Ruth, and was quits relieved
when they started off. I need not
relate how extremely the children eD-
j< yed the stiff climb up the hill, and
admired the love y building, all ablaze
with brilliant but harmonious color
ing, and .the little side chapels filled
with innumerable votive inscriptions :
“A Marie,” “ Graces a Marie,” “ Elle
a exauce mes veeix,” etc. Curious,
simple, almost childish, it all was, yet
touching to those who feel, as Cousin
Eva did, that to believe earnestly in
ai y thing is better than believing in
nothing.
Afterward tiny all sat and rested in
one of the prettiest resting-places I
know for those that live and move, or
for “ them that sleep ”—the grave
yard on the hilltop, close behind the
church of Notre Dame de Bon Secours
From this high point the y could see
the whole country for miles and miles,
the Seine winding through it in plc-
piclureaque curves; Rouen, with its
bridges and streets, distinct as if a
in*p, lay at their right hand, and,
rislDg out of the mass of houses, ethe-
reftbzsd ly the yellow sunset, were
the two spires of the cathedral and
the church of St. Ouen.
“Can yiu see the market place,
Cousin Eva? If so, poor Jeanne d’Arc,
when she was brought out to die,
must have seen this hill, with the
church on top of it; that is, supposing
there was a church.”
“There might have been, though
not this one, which is modern, y .u
see.”
“ J wonder,” continued Cherry,
who was always wondering, “ if she
looked up at it, and thought it hard
that Notre Dame de Bon Secours
should not Jiave succored her. Per
haps because, to escape from the here
tic English, she had told a lie.”
“And that reminds me,” added
Ruth, who was not given to ethical
questions, “that while we sit and rest
we might hear from Cousin Eva about
the lie she told.”
“Yes, yes, please ssy, Cousin Eva,
was it a big or a little one? Why
did you tell it? And was it ever
found out?”
“I don’t quite see the difference be
tween big and little, my child. A lie
is a lie, though sometimes there are
extenuating circumstances iq the rea
son for telling it. And once told, the
question whether it is found out or
not does not matter. My lie was never
found out, but it grieved me all the
same.”
“Will it grieve you to tell me about
it? I should not like that,” said
Ruth, softly.
“No, dear; because I have long
since forgiven nuyeelf. I was such a
small child, much younger than
either of you, and unlike you
had no parents, only an aunt, an
uncle, and a lot of rough oouslns who
domineered over me and made me
afraid. That was the cause. The
sure way to make a child untruthful
Is to make it
it ware
eldest cousin clutched ms by the
shoulder, saying : ‘Did you do
that ?’”
“And what had you done?” asked
Cherr y.
“Nothing ; but Will thought I had.
We were all digging in our garden,
and had just found his favorite jessa
mine plant lying uprooted on the
ground. It had been my favorite, too,
but Will took it from my garden a d
planted it in his own, where I watch
ed it anxiously, for I was afraid it
would die.”
“ ‘You did it on purpose,’ Will per
sisted, ‘or if not out of revenge, out of
pure silliness. Girls are always so
silly. Didn’t you propose yesterday
to dig it up to see if it had got a root ?’
Which was quite true. I was a
vei y sil'y little girl, but i meant no
harm. I wouldn’t for the world have
harmed either Will or his jessamine.
I told him so, but he refused to be
lieve me. So did th*y all. They
stood around me and declared I must
have done it. Noboc T y else had been in
the garden, except, indeed, a dog, who
was in the habit of burying his bones
there. But they never thought cf him
as the sinner; it was only of me.
And when I denied the thing they
were only the more angry.
“ ‘You know you are telling a lie,
and where do little girls go that tell
lieB?’ cried Will, who sometimes told
them himself; but then he was a be y,
and it was a rule in that family, a
terribly mistaken one, that the boys
might do anything, and that the girls
must alwr ys give in to the boys. So
when Will looked fiercely at me, re
peating, ‘You know you did it,’ I
almost felt as if I really had done it.
Unable to find another word I began
to cry.
Look, here,children,* he called to
all the rest of the children. ‘Eva has
gone and pulled up my jessamine, out
of spite, or mischief, or pure silliness
—I don’t know which, and I don’t
care. I’d forgive her if she would
only confess, but she won’t. She
keeps on telling lie after lie, and we
won’t stand children that tell lies.
If we punish her, she’ll howl, so 1
propose that until she confesses we
all send her to Coventry.”
“ ‘It’s a very nice town, but I don’t
want to go there,’ sa\d|I ; ’ at which
I remember, they all burst out laugh
ing, and I cried only the more.
“I had no idea of what sending to
Coventry meant, unless it was like
sending to Siberia, which I had
lately been reading of, or to the quick
silver mines, where condemned con
victs were taken, and where nobody
ever lived more than two year*.
Perhaps there were quicksilver mines
at Coventry. A cold shudder of fear
ran through me, but I was utterly
powerlesp. I could but die.
“Soon I discovered what my pun
ishment was, and, though not death,
it was hard enough. Famy, children,
being treated di>y after day, and all
dty long, just as if you were a chair
or table—never taken the least notice
of, never answered if you spoke, never
spoken to on any recount, never
play ad with, petted or scolded ; com
pletely and absolutely ignored. This
was being sent to‘Coventry,’ and it
was as cruel a punishment as could
have bten inflicted upon ar y little girl
wh- liked her pi# y fellows, rough as
th* y were, and was very fond of one
of them, who was never rough, but
always kind and good.
“This was a little be y who lived
next door. His parents, like mine,
were cut in India—nor had he any
brothers or sisters. He was just my
age, and younger than ar y of my
cousins. So we were the best o
friends, Tommy and I. His surna ne
I have forgotten, but I know we
always called him Tommy, and I
loved him dearly. The bitterest paDg
of all this bit ter time was that even
To nmy went over to the enemy.
"At first he had been very sorry for
me—had tried, all through that holi-
d#y Saturday when my punishment
began, to persuede me to confess aud
escape it; and when he failed—for
how coaid T confess to what i had
never done—to in action so mean
that I would have been ashamed even
to have thought of doing ?—then
Tommy also sent me to Coventry
On the Hund#y, all ‘us children’—we
didn’t mind grammar much in those
days--walked to ohuroh together
across the fields, and Tommy always
walked with me, chattering the whole
vfay. Now we walked In total silence,
for Will’s eyes were upon him, and
even Tommy was afraid. Whatever
I said, he never answered a single
word.
“Then I felt as if the whole world
ire against me—as if it were no
a lie. In short, in my childish way, I
suffered much as poor Jeanne fi’Arc
must have suffered when she was shut
up la her prison at Rruen, ca'led a
witch, a deceiver—forsaken of all. and
yet promised pardon if she would only
confess aud own she was a wicked
woman, whicn she knew she was not.
“I was quite innocent, but after
three days of being supposed guilty, I
ceased 'o care whether I was gulity or
not. I seemed-not to care for anything,
Since they supposed I was capable of
pulling up a harmless jessamine root
out of spite,wbatdid it mutter whether
they thought I had told a lie or not ?
Indeed, if I tell one, it would be much
easier than telling the truth; and
every day ‘n y sticking it out’ aud per
sisting in the truth beeame more diffi
cult.
“This state of things continued till
Weduesdsy, which was our half holi
day, when my cousins went for a long
walk or played cricket, and I was
sent in to spend the afternoon with
Toma y. Th< y were the delight of
my life,those quiet Wednesdays, when
Tomn y and I went ‘mooning about;,’
dug in our garden, watched our tad
poles—we had a hand basin full of
them, which we kept in the arbor till
th* y developed into myriads of frogs,
anu went hopping about everywhere.
But even tadpoles could not charm
me now, and 1 dreaded, rather than
longed for, my half holiday.
School h*d been difficult enough, for
Tommy and 1 bad the same daily gov
erness ; but if when we plsysd to
gether, he was never to speak to me,
what should I do? Beside, his grand-
mother would be sure to find it out;
and she was a prim and rather strict
old lady, to whom a child who had
been sent to Coventry for telling a lie
would be a perfect abhorrence. What
could I do ? Would it not be better
to bide away somewhere, so as to es
cape going into Tomn y e house at all?
Indeed, I almost think that some
vague thought of running away and
hiding myself forever crossed my
miud, when I heard Will calling me.
“ He and two of the others were
standing at the front door, a terrible
council of three, like that which use!
to sentence to death the victims in
the Prlgoni which we saw last month
at Venice. I felt not unlike a condemn
ed prisoner—one who had been shut
up so long that death came almost as
a relief, which it must often have
been to those poor souls. The three
big boys stood over me like judges
over a criminal, and Tommy stood
beside them, looking very sad.
“ ‘ Little girl,’ said Willie, in quite
a judicial tone, ‘we think yruhave
been punished enough to make you
thoroughly ashamed of yourself. We
wish you to go and plsy with Tommy,
as usual; but Tomn y could not possi
bly have you unless you were out of
Coventry. We will give you one
chance more. Confess that y ou pulled
up the jessamine and we will forgive
you and tell nobody about you, and
you shall go and have tea with Tom
my, just as if nothing had happened.
Think—you have only to say one
word.’
“ ‘ And if I don’t say it ?’
“‘Then,’ answered Will, with a
solemn and awful expression, ' I shall
be obliged immediately to tell every
body everything.’
“ That terrible threat, til the more
formidable because of its vagueness,
quite overcame me. To be set down
as a liar or to become one; to be pun
ished as I know my aunt would pun
ish me on her son’s mere statement
for a wrrag I had never done, or to do
a wrong thing, and, escaping punish
ment, go back to my happy life with
my dear Tommy, who stood, the tears
inhisey-s awaiting my deoision 1
*,It was a hard strait—too hard tor
one so young. And Will stood glar
ing at me with his remorseless eves.
“ ‘ Well, now—say once for all, did
you pull up my jessamine?’
“ It was too much. Suddenly, slow
ly, I made up my mind to the inevita
ble, and ansa ered, ‘ Since y >u will
have it so—yes,’ But the instant I
had said it 1 fell into such a fit of sob
bing—almost hysterical soreaming—
that my cousins were frightened and
ran away.
“Tommy staid, however. He got
me into the quiet arbor as fast as he
could. I felt his arms around my
neck and his comforting was very
tender, very sweet. But It was long
before I stopped crying, and still
longer before anything like cheerful
ness oarne into my poor little heart.
We played together all the afternoon
very affectionately, but in a rathe
melancholy sort of way, as if we had
g on our jpjuds to whloh we
h id cowed him into unkindness; btS
he loved me. Only, as is often the
ca-ie, if his love had had a little more
courage it would have been better for
me—perhaps for him, too.
“We spent a peaceful but rather dull
afternoon, aud then were summoned
indoors to tea.
“Now tea at Tommy’s house was a
serious thing. Tommy’s grandmother
always ate at the table aud looked at
us through her spectacles, aud talked
to us in a formal aud dignified man
ner, asking if we had been good chil
dren, had learnt our lessons web, had
played together without quarrelling,
etc. She was a kind old lady, years
upon years older than we, aud quite
unable to understand us at all. Con
sequently we never did more than
answer her questions and hold our
tongu* s. As for telliug her anything,
eur troubles especially, we should as
soon have thought of confidiug in the
Queen or Emperor of all the Rus
sians.
I never opened my lips all tea
time, and at last she notice 1 it. Also
that my eyas were rather red.
‘ This little g rl icons as if she had
been crying. I hope you have not
made her cry, Tommy, my dear.’
“Tommy was silent. But i eagerly
declared that Tommy had not made
me cry. Tommy was never unkind
to me.
“ ‘I am glad to hear it, Evangeline,’
she always gave me my full name,
‘and I hope you, too, are a good child,
who is never in mischief, and above
all never tells lies. If I were net|
quite sure of that I could not allow
Tommy to play with you.’
“She looked me fully in the face,
If she saw through and through
which she did not, being very shoi
righted—yet I felt myself tremble
eveiy limb. As for Tommy, he j
glanced at me and glanced away
again, turning crimson to the very
roots of his hair, but he said noth
ing.
“What would have appeared next,
I cannot tell; we waited in terror,
holding one another’s hands under
the tablecloth. But mercifully at
tiat instant the old lady was fetched
to speak to some one, and we
children had to finish our tea alone.
“It almost choked us—me at at
rate. But as soon as it was
atd Tommy and I found ourse
out in the g r>len, I flung my art
around his neck and told him all.
“And Tommy believed m
matter whether the others did
Tommy believed me at last!
sympathized with me, comfortc
thought I was not so wicked
though I had told a lie,j
one I was accused of tell!
wept with me over all
fered, and promised thatJ
haps it was bettfr to le!
rest now, if such a thing were'
pen again he would not be
Will, or any hoc y, but wool
up for me ‘like a man.’ ”
“Aud did ha do it?” asked
with slight incredulity in her
“He never had the opportunity,
week after this he 4^ suddenly set
for to join his parenK abroad anc
never saw my frier^ Tommy
more.” x
“But did ywu never hear of hii
Is he alive still ? He must be * v«
old gentleman by this time.”
“Very. No doubt a father—pc
bly even a grandfather,” repi
Cousin Eva, smiling. -
Cherry blnshed. “I didn’t me
that, sinoe he was barely as old
you, and you are oertainly not
grandmotner. But I want to he
more of Tommy. Is he married ?”
“I really cannot say. The last tlm«
I hear! of him was ten yaars agdl
when he was Hying somewhere]
abroad—I rather think in Shanghai.
He was not married then.”
“I wish,” whispered Ruth solemnly,
“I wish ha would come back
England and marry you.”
Cousin Eva laughed. “There mtgt
be two opinions on that question,
you know. But oh! my children^
when you are married and have ohi
dren of your own, remember ml
story. If ever a poor little
l <”ks up la your face saying, 'I didn’t
c that,’believe it 1 If it sobs out,
am naughty,’ don’t call it naugl
Give it the benefit of the doubt. Ha 1 !
patience, take time; and whatey
you do, don’t make it afraid. jCoi
arealway* liargL^JMti^MEm ei
is less harmfu^l^^Rileve a per
who tells a lie, than to doubt anoth«
who is speaking the truth.
thmk so, too,” said Cherry,
emember poor Jeanne d
poor Cousin Eva,”
well-
fadlni