Was it Heaven or Hell? Chapter 2

The family consisted of four persons: Margaret Lester, widow,
aged thirty six; Helen Lester, her daughter, aged sixteen;
Mrs. Lester's maiden aunts, Hannah and Hester Gray, twins, aged
sixty-seven. Waking and sleeping, the three women spent their days
and night in adoring the young girl; in watching the movements
of her sweet spirit in the mirror of her face; in refreshing their
souls with the vision of her bloom and beauty; in listening to the
music of her voice; in gratefully recognizing how rich and fair
for them was the world with this presence in it; in shuddering
to think how desolate it would be with this light gone out of it.

By nature--and inside--the aged aunts were utterly dear and lovable
and good, but in the matter of morals and conduct their training
had been so uncompromisingly strict that it had made them
exteriorly austere, not to say stern. Their influence was effective
in the house; so effective that the mother and the daughter
conformed to its moral and religious requirements cheerfully,
contentedly, happily, unquestionably. To do this was become
second nature to them. And so in this peaceful heaven there
were no clashings, no irritations, no fault-finding, no heart-burnings.

In it a lie had no place. In it a lie was unthinkable.
In it speech was restricted to absolute truth, iron-bound truth,
implacable and uncompromising truth, let the resulting consequences
be what they might. At last, one day, under stress of circumstances,
the darling of the house sullied her lips with a lie--and confessed it,
with tears and self-upbraidings. There are not any words that can paint
the consternation of the aunts. It was as if the sky had crumpled
up and collapsed and the earth had tumbled to ruin with a crash.
They sat side by side, white and stern, gazing speechless upon
the culprit, who was on her knees before them with her face
buried first in one lap and then the other, moaning and sobbing,
and appealing for sympathy and forgiveness and getting no response,
humbly kissing the hand of the one, then of the other, only to see
it withdrawn as suffering defilement by those soiled lips.

Twice, at intervals, Aunt Hester said, in frozen amazement:

"You told a LIE?"

Twice, at intervals, Aunt Hannah followed with the muttered
and amazed ejaculation:

"You confess it--you actually confess it--you told a lie!"

It was all they could say. The situation was new, unheard of,
incredible; they could not understand it, they did not know
how to take hold of it, it approximately paralyzed speech.

At length it was decided that the erring child must be taken to
her mother, who was ill, and who ought to know what had happened.
Helen begged, besought, implored that she might be spared this
further disgrace, and that her mother might be spared the grief
and pain of it; but this could not be: duty required this sacrifice,
duty takes precedence of all things, nothing can absolve one from
a duty, with a duty no compromise is possible.

Helen still begged, and said the sin was her own, her mother had
had no hand in it--why must she be made to suffer for it?

But the aunts were obdurate in their righteousness, and said the
law that visited the sins of the parent upon the child was by all
right and reason reversible; and therefore it was but just that the
innocent mother of a sinning child should suffer her rightful share
of the grief and pain and shame which were the allotted wages of the sin.

The three moved toward the sick-room.


At this time the doctor was approaching the house. He was still
a good distance away, however. He was a good doctor and a good man,
and he had a good heart, but one had to know him a year to get
over hating him, two years to learn to endure him, three to learn
to like him, and four and five to learn to love him. It was a slow
and trying education, but it paid. He was of great stature; he had
a leonine head, a leonine face, a rough voice, and an eye which was
sometimes a pirate's and sometimes a woman's, according to the mood.
He knew nothing about etiquette, and cared nothing about it; in speech,
manner, carriage, and conduct he was the reverse of conventional.
He was frank, to the limit; he had opinions on all subjects; they were
always on tap and ready for delivery, and he cared not a farthing
whether his listener liked them or didn't. Whom he loved he loved,
and manifested it; whom he didn't love he hated, and published
it from the housetops. In his young days he had been a sailor,
and the salt-airs of all the seas blew from him yet. He was a sturdy
and loyal Christian, and believed he was the best one in the land,
and the only one whose Christianity was perfectly sound, healthy,
full-charged with common sense, and had no decayed places in it.
People who had an ax to grind, or people who for any reason wanted
wanted to get on the soft side of him, called him The Christian--
a phrase whose delicate flattery was music to his ears, and whose
capital T was such an enchanting and vivid object to him that he
could SEE it when it fell out of a person's mouth even in the dark.
Many who were fond of him stood on their consciences with both feet
and brazenly called him by that large title habitually, because it
was a pleasure to them to do anything that would please him;
and with eager and cordial malice his extensive and diligently
cultivated crop of enemies gilded it, beflowered it, expanded it
to "The ONLY Christian." Of these two titles, the latter had
the wider currency; the enemy, being greatly in the majority,
attended to that. Whatever the doctor believed, he believed with
all his heart, and would fight for it whenever he got the chance;
and if the intervals between chances grew to be irksomely wide,
he would invent ways of shortening them himself. He was
severely conscientious, according to his rather independent lights,
and whatever he took to be a duty he performed, no matter whether
the judgment of the professional moralists agreed with his own
or not. At sea, in his young days, he had used profanity freely,
but as soon as he was converted he made a rule, which he rigidly stuck
to ever afterward, never to use it except on the rarest occasions,
and then only when duty commanded. He had been a hard drinker at sea,
but after his conversion he became a firm and outspoken teetotaler,
in order to be an example to the young, and from that time forth he
seldom drank; never, indeed, except when it seemed to him to be a duty--
a condition which sometimes occurred a couple of times a year, but never
as many as five times.

Necessarily, such a man is impressionable, impulsive, emotional.
This one was, and had no gift at hiding his feelings; or if he
had it he took no trouble to exercise it. He carried his soul's
prevailing weather in his face, and when he entered a room
the parasols or the umbrellas went up--figuratively speaking--
according to the indications. When the soft light was in his eye
it meant approval, and delivered a benediction; when he came with a
frown he lowered the temperature ten degrees. He was a well-beloved
man in the house of his friends, but sometimes a dreaded one.

He had a deep affection for the Lester household and its several
members returned this feeling with interest. They mourned over
his kind of Christianity, and he frankly scoffed at theirs;
but both parties went on loving each other just the same.

He was approaching the house--out of the distance; the aunts
and the culprit were moving toward the sick-chamber.