30,000 Dollar Bequest and Other Stories. Mark Twain

You are as ignorant as cats, both of you, and you don’t know what you are talking about. You are like all the rest of the moral moles; you lie from morning till night, but because you don’t do it with your mouths, but only with your lying eyes, your lying inflections, your deceptively misplaced emphasis, and your misleading gestures, you turn up your complacent noses and parade before God and the world as saintly and unsmirched Truth-Speakers, in whose cold-storage souls a lie would freeze to death if it got there! Why will you humbug yourselves with that foolish notion that no lie is a lie except a spoken one? What is the difference between lying with your eyes and lying with your mouth? There is none; and if you would reflect a moment you would see that it is so. There isn’t a human being that doesn’t tell a gross of lies every day of his life; and you – why, between you, you tell thirty thousand; yet you flare up here in a lurid hypocritical horror because I tell that child a benevolent and sinless lie to protect her from her imagination, which would get to work and warm up her blood to a fever in an hour, if I were disloyal enough to my duty to let it. Which I should probably do if I were interested in saving my soul by such disreputable means.

      “Come, let us reason together. Let us examine details. When you two were in the sick-room raising that riot, what would you have done if you had known I was coming?”

      “Well, what?”

      “You would have slipped out and carried Helen with you – wouldn’t you?”

      The ladies were silent.

      “What would be your object and intention?”

      “Well, what?”

      “To keep me from finding out your guilt; to beguile me to infer that Margaret’s excitement proceeded from some cause not known to you. In a word, to tell me a lie – a silent lie. Moreover, a possibly harmful one.”

      The twins colored, but did not speak.

      “You not only tell myriads of silent lies, but you tell lies with your mouths – you two.”

      “That is not so!”

      “It is so. But only harmless ones. You never dream of uttering a harmful one. Do you know that that is a concession – and a confession?”

      “How do you mean?”

      “It is an unconscious concession that harmless lies are not criminal; it is a confession that you constantly make that discrimination. For instance, you declined old Mrs. Foster’s invitation last week to meet those odious Higbies at supper – in a polite note in which you expressed regret and said you were very sorry you could not go. It was a lie. It was as unmitigated a lie as was ever uttered. Deny it, Hester – with another lie.”

      Hester replied with a toss of her head.

      “That will not do. Answer. Was it a lie, or wasn’t it?”

      The color stole into the cheeks of both women, and with a struggle and an effort they got out their confession:

      “It was a lie.”

      “Good – the reform is beginning; there is hope for you yet; you will not tell a lie to save your dearest friend’s soul, but you will spew out one without a scruple to save yourself the discomfort of telling an unpleasant truth.”

      He rose. Hester, speaking for both, said; coldly:

      “We have lied; we perceive it; it will occur no more. To lie is a sin. We shall never tell another one of any kind whatsoever, even lies of courtesy or benevolence, to save any one a pang or a sorrow decreed for him by God.”

      “Ah, how soon you will fall! In fact, you have fallen already; for what you have just uttered is a lie. Good-by. Reform! One of you go to the sick-room now.”

      Chapter IV

      Twelve days later.

      Mother and child were lingering in the grip of the hideous disease. Of hope for either there was little. The aged sisters looked white and worn, but they would not give up their posts. Their hearts were breaking, poor old things, but their grit was steadfast and indestructible. All the twelve days the mother had pined for the child, and the child for the mother, but both knew that the prayer of these longings could not be granted. When the mother was told – on the first day – that her disease was typhoid, she was frightened, and asked if there was danger that Helen could have contracted it the day before, when she was in the sick-chamber on that confession visit. Hester told her the doctor had poo-pooed the idea. It troubled Hester to say it, although it was true, for she had not believed the doctor; but when she saw the mother’s joy in the news, the pain in her conscience lost something of its force – a result which made her ashamed of the constructive deception which she had practiced, though not ashamed enough to make her distinctly and definitely wish she had refrained from it. From that moment the sick woman understood that her daughter must remain away, and she said she would reconcile herself to the separation the best she could, for she would rather suffer death than have her child’s health imperiled. That afternoon Helen had to take to her bed, ill. She grew worse during the night. In the morning her mother asked after her:

      “Is she well?”

      Hester turned cold; she opened her lips, but the words refused to come. The mother lay languidly looking, musing, waiting; suddenly she turned white and gasped out:

      “Oh, my God! what is it? is she sick?”

      Then the poor aunt’s tortured heart rose in rebellion, and words came:

      “No – be comforted; she is well.”

      The sick woman put all her happy heart in her gratitude:

      “Thank God for those dear words! Kiss me. How I worship you for saying them!”

      Hester told this incident to Hannah, who received it with a rebuking look, and said, coldly:

      “Sister, it was a lie.”

      Hester’s lips trembled piteously; she choked down a sob, and said:

      “Oh, Hannah, it was a sin, but I could not help it. I could not endure the fright and the misery that were in her face.”

      “No matter. It was a lie. God will hold you to account for it.”

      “Oh, I know it, I know it,” cried Hester, wringing her hands, “but even if it were now, I could not help it. I know I should do it again.”

      “Then take my place with Helen in the morning. I will make the report myself.”

      Hester clung to her sister, begging and imploring.

      “Don’t, Hannah, oh, don’t – you will kill her.”

      “I will at least speak the truth.”

      In the morning she had a cruel report to bear to the mother, and she braced herself for the trial. When she returned from her mission, Hester was waiting, pale and trembling, in the hall. She whispered:

      “Oh, how did she take it – that poor, desolate mother?”

      Hannah’s eyes were swimming in tears. She said:

      “God forgive me, I told her the child was well!”

      Hester gathered her to her heart, with a grateful “God bless you, Hannah!” and poured out her thankfulness in an inundation of worshiping praises.

      After that, the two knew the limit of their strength, and accepted their fate. They surrendered humbly, and abandoned themselves to the hard requirements of the situation. Daily they told the morning lie, and confessed their sin in prayer; not asking forgiveness, as not being worthy of it, but only wishing to make record that they realized their wickedness and were not desiring to hide it or excuse it.

      Daily, as the fair young idol of the house sank lower and lower, the sorrowful old aunts painted her glowing bloom and her fresh young beauty to the wan mother, and winced under the stabs her ecstasies of joy and gratitude gave them.

      In the first days, while the child had strength to hold a pencil, she wrote fond little love-notes to her mother, in which she concealed her illness; and these the mother read