"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.