Chapter II: Part 2

As soon as I could speak, I said, "I did open the knife; I was wicked when you thought I was good, for I did not tell the truth; I opened and shut all the blades, and I cut a notch on my nail with one, and then I did not tell you of it when you asked who opened it." When I had got it all out, I felt better; it seemed as if a great load was taken off of my heart.

In a few minutes, my kind friend said to me, "I am sorry you did wrong, Susan; but I am very glad to see that you have a tender conscience, and that it has made you come and confess your faults; I am very glad that you are so sorry; it is a bad sign when children think they are happy, after they have done wrong. I trust, my dear Susan, that you have suffered so much, that you will never commit such a fault again; it was only foolish and disobedient to take up my knife, but it was very wrong not to tell me, when I asked who did it, and let me punish so many girls for your offence."

I saw that she thought I was the only one that had touched the knife, and believed me worse than I was; and then I felt what a difference there was between a good and an evil conscience; for it did not trouble me half so much that she thought me worse than I really was, as to see that she thought me better.

Then she said, "You must, Susan, confess before the whole school that it was you that took my knife."

While she was speaking, the girls came in. I had cried so much that I could hardly speak; and my good friend said that, as I was a little girl, she would speak for me.

As soon as she said that I had confessed that it was I that took the knife, almost every girl in the school cried out, "It was not little Susan, it was I!" "It was not Sue, it was I!" was heard all round the room. This made me feel bold enough to speak, and I said,

"Yes, I did take it up when you were all out on the play ground; I opened and shut all the blades, and cut a little notch on my nail."

"And so did I!" "And so did I!" was heard from a number of voices. "And we took it up first," said all the girls.

When there was silence, the schoolmistress told us that she was glad to see that, though we had done wrong in the morning, we were trying now to do right, and repair our fault; that although we had not obeyed conscience then, we were acting as it directed us now.

"And are you not all happier?" said she. "Yes," they all said. "And is not God good, to put this feeling in your hearts, that makes you unhappy when you do wrong, and happy when you do right? Follow this guide, children, and it will lead you to heaven."

It may seem strange that a child, hardly nine years old, should remember all that was said at such a time; but I suffered a great deal before I confessed my fault, for I was a little proud of my good character at school, and my suffering made me remember. Besides, Mrs. Brown often talked about conscience to me, and told me that I must learn to govern myself, for that when she died, I should have nothing but my character to depend upon; no guide but my Bible and my conscience, and no protector but God.

When I was about fifteen years old, Mrs. Brown, my kind friend, died, go sweetly and calmly that death in her seemed beautiful. I sat by her side, after I had closed her eyes, and looked in her dear face, till even my grief at losing her was quieted, and till I felt what we learn in the good book, that the good never die. I felt sure that her soul was with God.

After the funeral, I went out to inquire for a place, and soon found one, for every one knew Mrs. Brown's regard for me.

I met with a great trouble at my first place; I was the chamber maid, and the nursery maid was envious of me, because my mistress liked me better than her. She often accused me of faults I did not commit; but, when my mistress spoke to me, I looked and was so innocent that she was convinced.

One morning my mistress sent for me; as soon as I saw her face I knew that something very bad was the matter, for the tears came into her eyes when she spoke to me. She told me that she was very sorry, but that she could not keep me any longer; she was grieved to lose me, but more for the cause.

I asked her to tell me the cause.

"I am afraid," she said, "indeed, Susan, I have a good reason to believe, that you are not honest."

I do confess, ladies, that I was very angry; it seemed as if all the blood in my body flew up into my face and head; I could not speak, and I don't know but my confusion and anger together made me look guilty.

"I am glad," said she, "that you don't tell any falsehood about it; you are welcome to stay here till you get a place."

By this time I could speak, and I said to her, "I am as innocent as the child just born. I never took so much as a pin from any one; I do not wish to stay a minute in your house; I would not stay in any one's house who had accused me of dishonesty;" and I called upon my mother and my friend Mrs. Brown, though I knew they could not answer me, and I cried aloud like a child.

My mistress shed tears, and said she should not have accused me without certain proofs of my dishonesty, and begged me to confess my fault, and to stay till I got a place; but I told her I would not stay another minute, and I went to my chamber and tied up my bundle, and put on my bonnet and shawl, and walked straight off without speaking to any one.

I had gone nearly a mile before I was at all calmed, and then, out of breath, and miserable beyond words to tell, I sat down under an old tree by the roadside. It was autumn; the tree was stripped of its leaves, the wind sounded mournfully among the dead branches, there were heavy dark clouds in the sky, and my heart was heavier and darker than the clouds, and my sighs were sadder than the wind.

The place where I had been living was two miles from the village where I had lived with Mrs. Brown, and I had taken the road to it, though then she was not there to take me in; I had no relation in the wide world; O, I never shall forget that dreary moment, and how desolate I felt. I looked up into the sky, and called upon God, the Father of the fatherless; I cried to him for help, and help came to me, for I felt stronger and I grew composed; and then I remembered I was innocent, and just then the sun broke out between two dark clouds, and it looked to me like the pure bright eye of God, looking right into my heart, and seeing my innocence; and then it seemed as if my soul was full of light, and I went on my way to the village, feeling as if I had no dreadful sorrow.

When I got into the village, I remembered my old schoolmistress, and I knew that, though she was poor herself, she would share her bed with me for a night at least, and I remembered that scripture, "Be not anxious for the morrow."

It was dusk when I knocked at her door; and O, you know not, who have never been without a happy home, how cheering to my heart was the sound of her kind voice, saying, "Walk in." She was not very quick sighted, and at first she took me for a stranger, till I said, "It is I, Miss Howe; do you not know me?" She turned me towards the light that was still left in the west, and in a second exclaimed, "Why, it is little Sue, my orphan girl!" This was too much for me. She put her arms round me, and I cried again like a child; but they were not such bitter tears as I had shed before.

"What brought you here at this time?" said she, "and what is the matter? But come take some supper first, and tell me afterwards; you look very tired." She took off my bonnet, and made me sit down by the fire, and finished getting her tea ready which she was preparing when I came in, and made me drink a cup of it before she asked another question, and then she said, "Now, Susan, tell me what is the matter; something has happened, I know." Then I told her all that I knew myself, for why my mistress had treated me so I could not tell.

When I had finished, she said, "Now, Susan, you will find the advantage of a good character; if I did not believe that you would starve sooner than steal or tell a falsehood, I should be afraid about you now; but as it is, I do not feel uneasy, for I believe that innocence always prevails. I will do the best I can for you; I shall never forget the penknife; so, my child, do not cry any more, and let us talk of other things; you shall have half of my bed and whatever I have, till you can get a place to suit you; so, dear, do not be downcast."

O, young ladies, you must know what it is to be alone in the world, and to be accused wrongfully, to be able to know the blessing of kindness, of true Christian charity; it seemed as if a voice had said to my troubled heart, "Peace, be still."

Directly after breakfast the next morning, Miss Howe left me; she said she was going to take a short walk before school began, and should soon return. She looked much pleased when she came back. "I think," said she, "I have got a good place for you. It is at the minister's; I heard they wanted some one; I went and told them all about you, and they believe you are innocent. Mr. A--says he remembers you in Mrs. Brown's sick chamber, but his wife thinks it proper to go and see the lady you have been living with, and he will come and see you this evening."

At first this made me feel very badly; my pride and my anger began to rise, but after a while I conquered them. I remembered that no one could take away my good conscience, and I could not think that I should be forsaken.

I passed the day very comfortably, and even cheerfully; I sometimes forgot that I had any trouble. Just after tea, the minister came in; he shook hands very kindly with me, but he looked very serious, and fixed his eye right in my face.

O, if I had not had a good conscience then, how could I have borne that look! but it seemed to me as if I could feel my soul coming up into my face, to tell its own innocence; I am sure my looks must have said, I am not afraid, for I have done no wrong.

He seemed more satisfied, but he told me that he had been to Mrs.--, where I had lived, and she had told him that the evidence was so great of my dishonesty that she could not doubt it. She was only sorry for me.

"We have determined," said he, "to try you; I cannot but hope that you are what you seem, innocent; but time will show."

I had felt so proud of my character, that the idea of going upon trial was hard for me to bear, and I just answered that I would go; I was not as grateful as perhaps I ought to have been, for it was very good in him to believe me innocent, in spite of all that was told him against me, and I ought to have thanked him for his compassion upon such a forlorn creature as I was then.

Many years after, I found out what I had been accused of, and I had the satisfaction of having my innocence acknowledged. The morning of the day when I left my mistress, she had received some money in gold. She had counted all the pieces over very carefully, and was about putting them away, when she was called suddenly out of the room to see a friend at the door upon important business. It was cold, and she called me, and sent me into the room for her shawl, where I never even saw the gold.

Her brother, who had come with her friend, ran into the room to warm himself while they were talking; he saw the gold, and, to tease his sister, put one of the eagles into his pocket meaning to return it the same day.

He was in a merchant's counting house, and that very day was sent out of town upon important business, at only a minute's warning. He was a careless fellow, and forgot his jest, and did not learn till long afterwards its sad consequences.

My mistress, who knew that no one had entered the room but her brother and I, and was certain of her accuracy in counting the money, was convinced that I was a thief. She had believed some ill-natured things the other servant, who disliked me, had said against me, and had become ready to think ill of me. When, long after, this lady found out her injustice, she took pains to declare my innocence and to ask my forgiveness. But ladies should be careful not to accuse poor girls wrongfully, and not to leave money about. Terrible ruin may follow such carelessness.

After I had lived five years at the minister's, I married a carpenter, a good man, whom my friends all liked; and, though I was almost broken hearted at leaving my happy home, I was willing to give up all for him.

And then new troubles and trials began. My husband was not very successful at first, but I took in sewing, and we got along; we loved each other, and were very happy. But about a year and a half after our marriage, he had a fall from a house, and injured his spine, and after a sickness of three months he died.

At the time he was brought home so dreadfully hurt, I had an infant six weeks old; I was not very strong, and nursing my husband, and the care of my infant, and my distress at his death, all together, were too much for me; I had a severe illness. The doctor, who was a very kind man, took care of me and sent me a nurse, who tended me through the worst of my illness, and did not leave me till I was able to crawl about, and help myself and take care of my poor baby, who had been sadly neglected; for I was so sick that I required all the nurse's attention; and now came my hardest trial.

One night in December, about three months after my husband's death, I was sitting over my little fire late in the evening, reading my Bible, in hopes that those words of comfort might quiet my grief, when I was startled by a knock at the door, and my landlord entered. He lived in the other part of the house in which he rented me one room; I never liked this man, and at first I felt frightened, but in a minute I got over it.

"I want the rent," he said.

"But you know," I said, "all my troubles, and that my poor husband left nothing, that I have been sick, and that I have no money; I shall soon be able to earn enough to pay you, if you will only take pity on me and wait till I can."

"Well," said he, "one good turn deserves another; perhaps I'll accommodate you if you will do something for me."

"If it is any thing I can do," I said, "I should be glad to do it, and very thankful to you for your kindness in waiting for the rent."

He went into the other room and brought in a large bundle of laces and silks and other valuable goods. "I want you," said he, "to open your feather bed and put all these things into it; they are rightly mine, but I have my reasons for wishing to hide them; some goods have been stolen, and the constables are after them, and if they were to see these they might seize them instead of those they are searching for, and it would make a great bother."

I had no doubt they were stolen goods, and I said immediately that I would not do what he wished me to, but as civilly as I could.

"I will," said he, "give you one of the pieces of cambric for your trouble, and I will never ask you for this last quarter's rent; it will be a great favor to me, for they know that you are sick, and you have the credit of being very honest, and the things would not be touched in your bed, and a great deal of trouble would be saved."

"I will," said I, "keep the credit of being honest; I can have nothing to do with any of these things; your conscience can best tell whether they are honestly come by."

"Do you dare," said he, "to say I stole them?" in such a loud voice as to wake up my poor baby and to make me start.

"I say nothing," I answered, "but that it is against my conscience to do what you asked me to do."

He flew into a passion, and said, "Conscience or no conscience, you do as I ask you to, or out of my house you go this very night."

"Not to-night," I said.

"Yes, to-night," he answered. "Do as I tell you, and you have no rent to pay, and this piece of cambric is yours, and I am your friend; but refuse me, and out of the house you go this very night; I have warned you long enough to pay the rent."

I told him that I could not do what was against my conscience for all the goods of this world, and that if he was so cruel as to turn me out of doors, God would protect me and my child. "But," said I, "are you not afraid to do such a wicked thing, it is so dark and stormy, and my poor baby"--and at the thought that it had no father to protect it, I burst into tears, and could not speak.

He was silent, and seemed to feel some pity. Presently he said, "Well, you may stay till daylight, but then you must either hide these things for me, or you must march. And I suppose it will not worry your stomach to let these things stay here till then." So he put the goods on a chair, and laid my cloak and bonnet upon them.

As soon as he was gone, and his door shut, I took the things and put them all just outside of the door. I was too much troubled and frightened to go to bed. At break of day he was in my room again. "Will you do as I desire," said he, "or will you clear out? I'll make you pay for putting these things on the dirty floor." He stopped a minute. "Come, now, hide these things, and we are friends, and no trouble about your rent, and all's right, you know."

I thank heaven that I never hesitated; it did not seem a possible thing to me that I should assist this man in hiding his stolen goods. I am certain that I should have rather died.

I cannot think now how it was that I felt so calm and so strong. I collected together a small bundle of clothes, and tried to wrap up my baby so that the cold air should not come to her; it seemed as if I could hear my conscience say, "Be not afraid;" I felt as if I was not alone.

I left the house, determining to go from door to door till I found some one to take me in. I was refused admittance at two or three; and then I remembered a poor widow who had sent me broth when I was sick, and I went to her. It was hardly daylight when I knocked; there was a driving sleet, but my heart did not fail me, my God did not forsake me.

It was some time before the good woman came down; I had taken my own cloak to cover my dear baby, and I was wet to the skin, and had such an ague fit from cold that I could hardly speak to beg shelter for heaven's sake.

She took me in, she made a fire, and got me something hot to drink; she took my child, and dried and warmed it, and put her and me to bed.

I found that the fever I had just been cured of was returning; the cold and wet was too much for my strength; I thought I might die, and I told the kind widow my story, and the name of the clergyman with whom I had lived in the country, and begged her if I should grow worse to send for him, for I knew he would be my friend. It was fortunate I did, for I grew ill very fast; I had a high fever, and did not know afterwards what I said.

She sent for him. He came and told her that all I said was true; he got me a nurse and physician, and gave the poor widow money for me, and said he would pay all my expenses, and thanked her as much, she told me afterwards, for her care of me as if I had been his own child.

After the fever left me, a severe rheumatism settled in my back, which I had strained in lifting my husband. I have never since been able to stand upright. But O, this was nothing to what I suffered when they told me, when I was well enough to bear to hear it, they told me that my baby, my little daughter,--I cannot bear now to think of it,--she took cold too, and then the weaning her, and all, it was too much for the little thing; my child went to God who gave it.

It seemed at first as if I should die; then I remembered that if I had done as that wicked man wanted me to do, I should have perhaps been well, my baby alive and well, and all might have seemed prosperous; and did I regret that I had not saved her life and my own health by acting against my conscience? no, not for a moment. I had no longer a kind husband, I had lost my only child and my health; and yet the light of God's blessing has ever been in my heart; when I think of all my trials, and remember that I have kept a conscience void of offence, O, I cannot tell you what peaceful thoughts I have, what a strange joy I sometimes experience.

My kind friend, the minister, had me removed as soon as I was well enough to his house, and got me this little room in the neighborhood, where I have taken in sewing work, and have ever since got a very good living.

When I inquired about my landlord, I found that the officers came that morning, found the stolen goods, and carried him to prison. My friend went to see him, and told him from me that as soon as I could earn the money, I would pay him what I owed him. This I did with the very first money I received. I went to see him, and took the rent to him myself. He did not know me, the stoop had changed me so much.

Certainly, ladies, she added, I have met with what are called great misfortunes; I have lost all that I loved best on earth, and I am a cripple for life; but I still rejoice to think that my mother's prayer has been heard for me; through the blessing of God I have been saved from the evil that there is in the world, for I have ever had the testimony of a good conscience.

The sun was setting before the old lady had finished her story; its slanting beams streamed in through the narrow window, and fell on the gray locks that were parted neatly on her forehead, and on her bright, calm, uplifted eye, and gave a glow of youthful enthusiasm and celestial brightness to her face.