Part 13 (1/2)
”I am sure,” said Father Brighthopes, in conclusion, ”that, with as much real good in you as you have, the falsehood has cost you more pain than half a dozen floggings.”
Sam acknowledged the fact.
”Then, aside from the wickedness of the thing, is not falsehood unwise?
Don't you always feel better to be frank and honest, let the consequences be what they will?”
”I knowed it, all the time,” sobbed Sam, ”but I _darsn't_ tell the truth! I wished I _had_ told it, but I _darsn't_!”
”Then we may conclude that lying is usually the mark of a coward. Men would tell the truth, if they were not afraid to.”
”I s'pose so. But I never thought of what you say before. When I lie, I git licked, and folks tell me I shall go to h.e.l.l. I don't mind that much; but when you talk to me as you do, I think I never will tell another lie, as long as I live,--never!”
Sam now confessed to all the circ.u.mstances of the last night's disaster, and, at the old man's suggestion, repeated the same to Mr. and Mrs.
Royden. He asked for pardon; and promised to tell no more lies, and to keep out of mischief as much as he could.
He was so softened, so penitent and earnest, that even the severe Mrs.
Royden was inclined to forgive him. Her husband did more. He talked kindly to the young offender, declaring his willingness to overlook everything, and to do as well by Sam as by his own children, if he would be a good and honest boy. The latter was so overcome that he cried for half an hour about the affair in the shed; that is to say, until the cat made her appearance, wearing a portion of the old twine harness, and he thought he would divert his mind by making her draw a brick.
”In mischief again!” exclaimed Mr. Royden, coming suddenly upon him.
”No, sir!” cried Sam, promptly, letting p.u.s.s.y go.
”What were you doing?”
”You see, this b.u.t.ter won't come, and I've been churning stiddy on it all day----”
”What has that to do with the cat?” demanded Mr. Royden.
”Nothing; only I expect to have to go to help milk the cows in a little while; and I was afraid she would jump up on the churn, and lick the cream, while I was gone; so I thought I'd tie a brick to her neck.”
Mr. Royden laughed secretly, and went away.
”That was only a white lie,” muttered Sam. ”Darn it all! I've got so used to fibbing, I can't help it. I didn't think then, or I wouldn't have said what I did.”
The boy really felt badly to think he had not the courage to speak the truth, and made a new resolution, to be braver in future.
The relief of mind which followed the bursting of the clouds over his head brought a keen appet.i.te; and he remembered that he had eaten nothing but an apple or two since breakfast. Hunger impelled him to apply himself to the churn; five minutes of industrious labor finished the task, and he was prepared to go to supper with the family.
In the evening a number of young people, living in the neighborhood, called, in honor of Chester's return from school. The parlor was opened for the ”company,” and the ”old folks” occupied the sitting-room.
Chester was very lively, for he was fond of sociability, and loved to be admired for his grace and wit; but he seemed at length to find the conversation of his old acquaintances insipid.
”Father Brighthopes,” he said, gayly, entering the sitting-room, ”I wish you would go in and teach our friends some better amus.e.m.e.nt than kissing games. I am heartily sick of them.”
”If Jane Dustan was here, I guess you would like them,” said Lizzie, who had preferred to listen to the clergyman's stories, rather than go into the parlor.
Her eyes twinkled with fun; but Chester looked displeased.
”It's nothing but '_Who'll be my judge?' 'Measure off three yards of tape with so and so, and cut it;' 'Make a sugar-bowl, and put three lumps of sugar in it, with Julia;' 'Go to Rome and back again;' 'Bow to the prettiest, kneel to the wittiest, and kiss the one you love best_'