I said nothing about the ink, but went straight to the schoolroom to find the table neat as Miss Clare always leaves it, and no sign of even a fresh inkspot. What possessed the child? This inveterate and inventive untruthfulness was like a form of madness. I sat in dismay for an hour or more, not thinking, but stunned by this new idea—that the child was not responsible for her words; and yet, could it be so? None of our children were so merry at play, so intelligent at lessons. Well, I would talk it over with John without the loss of another day.
“John, I am miserable about Fanny. Do you know the child tells fibs constantly?”
“Call them lies; an ugly thing deserves an ugly name. What sort of lies? What tempts her to lie?”
John did not seem surprised. Perhaps he knew more of this misery than I supposed.
“That’s the thing! Her fi—lies are so uncalled-for, so unreasonable, that I do not know how to trust her.”
“Unreasonable? You mean her tales don’t hang together; that’s a common case with liars. You know the saying—‘Liars should have good memories’?”
“Don’t call the poor child a liar, John; I believe she is more to be pitied than blamed. What I mean is, you can’t find rhyme or reason for the lies she tells.” And I gave my husband a few instances like those I have written above.
“Very extraordinary! There’s a hint of malice in the Hugh and the ink-bottle tale, and a hint of cowardice in that about the jam; but for the rest, they are inventions pure and simple, with neither rhyme nor reason, as you say.”
“I don’t believe a bit in the malice. I was going to correct her for telling an unkind tale about Hugh, but you know how she hangs on her brother, and she told her tale with the most innocent face. I am convinced there was no thought of harming him.”