Chapter 2

"Yes, Mother, and I shall never be well again. I have been accused of stealing, and Mr. Reid and the postmaster both believe it. I cannot live here any longer. I have just come from the recruiting office; I have enlisted for the Mexican war, and I hope I shall be shot; I go the day after to-morrow. I will never be seen here again. To think that any one should dare to accuse me of theft! Why did I not knock him down? I hate the world, I hate all mankind, I hate life, I want to die. If it were not for you, Mother, I believe I should kill myself. O Mother, Mother! how can I live?" And the poor fellow laid his head in his mother's lap and wept bitterly.

The poor mother--she spoke not, she did not weep; she laid her hands upon her son's head, and looked up through the thin roof of her poor cottage, far, far into the everlasting heavens, where alone are peace and hope to be found. In her deep agony she called upon the Almighty for aid. She looked like a marble image of despair.

"I must prepare to go," at last her son said; "I have enlisted, and I must be ready. "What will you do with yourself, Mother?"

"Go with you, my child. Wherever you go, there I go too. I can cook for the camp. You have done wrong, my son, in enlisting as a soldier; why not come first to me? Your innocence will yet be proved. Why were you so rash? All might have yet been well with us."

"I cannot bear it, Mother; I must go."

"Then I go with you; I will never desert you."

"But O, you will be killed with fatigue and exposure. Mother, dear Mother, stay till I can get you a new home."

"I go, my son, where you go," said his mother; "my only home is with you."

In two days their few possessions were sold, and they were gone.

We will now return to the counting room where our TRUE story began. Some months had passed; the father and son are there. "George," said Mr. Pratt, "I cannot but fear you made some mistake about that letter. Money is seldom stolen out of letters. Were you very particular about the name and place in your direction?"

"The truth is, Sir, that Frank directed the letter; I wrote and folded and sealed it; but just as I was going to direct it, Harry Flint called me to speak to some one, and I let Frank direct it; but I told him to be sure to direct it to Mr. John Reid, and I know he did so, just as well as if I had seen it."

The father looked much displeased. "You did wrong, George, after my particular orders."

"Why, Father, I am sure it was of no importance which of us did it. That was only a trifle, I am sure. I told Frank the name, and he knows where Mr. Reid lives. I should not think you would blame me for this--"

"I do blame you very much. You should not have left this to Frank. I charged you to be very careful. This was your own duty, and you should have performed it yourself. Your neglect will most likely cost me two hundred dollars, for I shall send the money to Mr. Reid; he of course is not to lose it. You cannot be sure that Frank directed the letter correctly; he is not used to the work."

George began to feel that it was not a trifle to leave another person to direct a letter of importance; he felt very sorry at the thought of losing his father's money. Poor fellow! he had a worse pain than this to endure.

The next morning, when the letters came from the post office, there was one from Mr. Reid. The missing letter had at last arrived, and the two hundred dollars were in it. The letter had been misdirected. There was a mistake in the name of the place. The letter had been sent to Washington, whence he had just received it, as the person whose office it is to read these letters knew him personally, and so could correct the mistake. He then related the sad story of the clerk and his poor mother. He added that he went to the poor woman's house the very day that he left the town, intending to satisfy his mind upon the question of her son's guilt, of which he began to doubt--intending, if he found the young man innocent, to take him back into the office, and if not, to try to induce him to restore the money, and go, to recover his character, to some other place, to which he would have helped him to remove. He was too late. He found the house empty. "I pity the person," he said, "who misdirected that letter--he was the unconscious cause of the ruin of two excellent beings. We may blame the young man's violence, and may call him foolish and passionate; yet it was a deep hatred of even the appearance of sin and shame that made him do so mad an action as to enlist in a wicked war."

Mr. Pratt now read this letter to his son. George covered his face to hide his shame and sorrow; his heart was ready to break with agony. He groaned aloud. He spoke not one word.

George was suffering in silence the bitterest of all pains which a good mind can endure,--that of being the cause of misery to others, through one's own wrong-doing. After a few moments, he started up and exclaimed, "I must send word to the poor fellow that the money is found and his innocence proved; let me do what I can to repair the evil I have caused. If I write to the postmaster and tell him the story, he will take the poor fellow back again. I have some money of my own, Father, to pay for the travelling expenses of the boy and his mother. All perhaps may yet be right. I can work. I will do any thing for them. Poor Harry Brown--so proud and so honest! O, Father! I hate myself. But how shall I send him word? the post is not certain; let me think. Bill Smith said he was going to the war, if he could get money enough for his journey. He would take my letter. I'll be after him, and get him off in no time."

Away flew George; he gave Bill Smith the money, told him the story, and sent him off for that very night, George then wrote to the postmaster, and implored him to write immediately to Harry, and offer him again the place in the office. George went to bed with a heavy heart, still with the hope that poor Harry had not been killed.

Now let us follow Harry and his old mother to Mexico. Many weeks have passed since we left George mourning his fault, and sending up prayers for the life of poor Harry. It is a few days after a battle. On the ground, in the corner of a small tent, lies a poor soldier. Bandages stained with blood are lying about. The poor sufferer is very pale, and his face shows marks of pain. An old woman, whose face is full of anxious love, sits by his side and holds his hand. The young man lifts the old withered hand to his lips and kisses it; he looks up through the thin canvas of his tent, and says, "Thank God, dear Mother, that you are here with me now to take care of me, else I think I should die. Forgive my rashness; if I live will yet be a good son to you. I knew was not a thief, and that ought to have been enough for me. I was wrong to be so angry, and to forget you, whom I ought to have staid by and taken care of, as I promised father I would. Forgive me, dear Mother. Perhaps I shall be a better man with one leg than I was with two."

While the poor fellow, who had lost his leg the first day he went to battle, was slowly uttering these words, the tears were running fast down the hollow cheeks of his old mother, but gentle, quiet tears, as though the heart of her who shed them was resigned and peaceful.

"I thank God for your life, my son. Your fighting days are over; they have been short; but usefulness and happiness are yet before you, though you go through life maimed. I shall yet see you smiling and happy again in our cottage, your innocence proved, your place restored, and friends all around you."

"How can that be?" said Harry; "there is only my word and character as evidence of my honesty. I cannot go back to the old place--never, never, Mother. What shall I do? Better die than live disgraced."

"Have no fear, Harry; I have none. I am sure all will be well, and your honesty proved. So go to sleep, as the surgeon directed. Have faith; you have shown courage." His mother smoothed the clothes over him, and gently stroked his hand, and he was silent, and fell asleep.

Presently, the surgeon looked in. He was a kind-hearted man, and knew their story. He said softly, "When the boy wakes I have some news for him that will do him more good than I can."

Harry, who was just waking, started and exclaimed, "What news? tell me this minute! is the money found?"

"Come, Mr. Gunpowder, keep quiet, if you please, or you'll not hear any thing from me."

"Yes, yes; I am as quiet as a lamb, only be quick. Tell me the news."

"Well, here are two letters that a great six foot chap has brought, not for your lambship, Mr. Harry, but for your good mother, who takes things like a rational being."

He gave the letters to the mother and left the tent, saying with a smile, "Don't be too happy."

The letter from the postmaster was to ask Harry's pardon for the injustice, and to offer the place in the office. "There is no one," it concluded, "I could trust as I can you."

The other was from George, as follows:--

"DEAR MR. BROWN: My neglect of my duty in directing a letter was the real cause of the suspicion that fell upon you. I can never forgive myself. I can hardly hope you can forgive me. If you will be generous enough to try to do so, you will make me less unhappy. If you accept the sum I enclose you to meet the expenses of your journey, I shall be less miserable. By taking it you will prove that you pity and forgive me,--the unintentional cause of so much evil to you and your excellent mother." George enclosed a check for five hundred dollars, all he had saved from his earnings as a clerk for the two years past.

"Thank Heaven, my innocence is proved!" said the honest fellow. "But, Mother, I don't want the money."

"It is kinder to take it," said the mother.

Harry submitted. Ere long, he was able to move on crutches. He and his mother were again in their little cottage. Harry received the heartiest welcome from his towns-people when he was seen again with his one leg in his place in the post-office.

George often went to the town. His first visit was always to Mrs. Brown. He treated her as if she were his mother, and her son was to him as a brother. He was often heard to say, "The sound of Harry Brown's crutches always reminds me sorrowfully that when there is a duty to perform involving the rights of others we should never say, It is only a trifle."

"It seems to me," said Frank, "that I should never have been happy again to have caused so much misery by the neglect of my duty; and yet, Mother, it did seem a trifle."

"My mother," replied Mrs. Chilton, "said to me, when I was a girl, Never consider any duty, ever so great, as too difficult, or any, ever so small, as too trifling. I have never forgotten her words, and though I have not always been faithful to this lesson, it has often saved me from wrong-doing and its consequent unhappiness."

After a short silence, Mrs. Chilton said to her boys, The next story is not so painful, but it illustrates the same truth--that, in matters of conscience, nothing is trifling. You shall now hear how happy a good conscience can make one even under the severest trials.

One pleasant afternoon, my friend and I were seated in the neat little room which served old Susan Vincent for parlor, kitchen, and bed-room. She was sitting in a nice arm-chair which her infirmities made necessary for her comfort. A kind friend had sent it to her. She had on a nice clean gingham gown, a handkerchief crossed on her neck, in the fashion of the Shakers, and a plain cap, as white as the driven snow, covered her silver locks. A little round table, polished by frequent scouring, stood beside her; on it was her knitting work, Baxter's Saints' Rest, and the Bible; the last lay open before her. She was reading in it when we entered. As her door was open and she did not hear very quickly, we had an opportunity of observing her before she perceived us. There was that deep interest in her manner of reading this holy book, as she was leaning over it with her spectacles on, entirely absorbed, that made her resemble a person who was examining a title deed to an estate which was to make her the heir of uncounted treasures. She was indeed reading with her whole soul the proofs she there found of her claim to an inheritance that makes all earthly riches seem poor indeed.

"I am glad to see you, dear," was her affectionate welcome to me; "do I know this lady with you?"

"No," I answered; "she is my friend whom I told you the other day I should bring to see you."

"I am glad to see her if she is your friend," she replied.

"I want you, Susan, if you are strong enough to-day, to repeat to my friend that little account of yourself that you were once kind enough to give me."

"What, the whole story?" said Susan, "beginning at the beginning, as the children say?"

Susan was silent a minute or two, as if to collect her thoughts, and then said, I have always believed, that, though it seemed strange that such a good-for-nothing creature as I am should be spared, and others taken away, that, may be, I was left to give my testimony for some good purpose, and that my experience might do some good to poor pilgrims. For

"It is a straight and thorny road, And mortal spirits tire and faint; But they forget the mighty God Who feeds the strength of every saint."

Susan knew half the hymn book by heart, and loved to repeat hymns so well, that she could hardly have told her story without this preface. She immediately began as follows:--

"My father, who was a sailor, lost his life at sea when I was two years old; my mother never had very good health, and about six years afterward she fell into a consumption. She lived only a year after she was taken sick. I was too young to remember much of her, but I have a distinct recollection of seeing her often sitting by a little stand like this, with an open Bible upon it; and once I was struck with her looking up to heaven with her hands clasped for a long time as if she were praying, and then looking at me, and then at the book; and I saw big tears rolling down her cheeks. She called me to her, and said, with an earnest but broken voice, God save my child from the evil that is in the world! and give her the testimony of a good conscience.

These words I could not forget, for the next day she died. We forget many things in this world, ladies, but the words of a dying mother we cannot help remembering. This was the first time I had ever seen death, but there was such a peaceful, happy expression in my mother's face, that it did not seem very terrible to me, till I found they were going to carry her away; indeed, I think I must have believed it was sleep, and expected her to awake; for, when they took her from me, I was half out of my senses, and screamed for them to leave me my mother.

A kind old lady, a friend to my mother, took me in her lap and put her arms round me, and tried to soothe and comfort me. She told me my mother had gone to heaven; that it was only her body that was dead; but that her soul was living, and was gone to heaven. "She will never be sick or unhappy any more; she is gone to God, and she will live forever with Jesus Christ and all good beings."

"But I want to see her," said I.

"You will see her again, I doubt not, my child, if you are good," the old lady said. Perhaps I should not have remembered so exactly what she said, if she had not frequently repeated the same thing to me, and if I had not loved my mother so much.

This excellent lady took me home with her, and it was to her goodness I owe every thing. She had lost nearly all her property by the failure of a merchant to whom she had lent money; she had supported herself by taking boarders. I was perfectly destitute; my mother had made out to get a living by taking in sewing, but left nothing. The last year of her life she could not have got along without my assistance, and what was given her by her charitable neighbors; and for the last three months she could not even make her bed, or clean her own room, or do her little cooking, without my help. And O, how happy I was when I was helping my dear mother! Now at this moment, when I am so old, and forget so many things, how well I remember her and all she said! It seems as if I could hear her say, "What should I do without you, my dear Susan." It seems to me as if I would rather live over again those days, when I was trying to help and comfort my sick mother, than any of my whole life. Children are not aware how much they can do for their parents, nor do they know what a blessed remembrance it will be to them to think that they have lessened the sufferings of a sick mother. All the riches in the world would not afford them such happiness.

Mrs. Brown, the kind lady who took me home, told me that she would send me to school, and that I should have a home at her house; but that, as she was very poor, she should expect me to exert myself when I was not at school, and do all I could to help in the house; and that I must improve my time at school. She gave me a great deal of good advice, and told me I must not imitate the bad conduct that I might see; and that I must never do any thing without asking my conscience whether it was right to do it. I remember she asked me if I knew what my conscience was. I was not quite sure that I did; so I said, I did not know whether I did. Then she asked me if I ever remembered doing wrong.

"O yes, ma'am," I said; "I never shall forget playing with my mother's bottle of cough drops, when she told me not to, and spilling them all out. I did not tell her of it at first, and she could not get any more till next day; and every time she coughed, it seemed as if my heart would break; and I hated myself, and could not bear it at all till I told her I had played with the bottle and spilled the drops."

"It was your conscience, Susan," the old lady said, "that was so troubled; it was your conscience that said you must tell your mother; this is God's witness in your heart; always do as that directs you, and come what will, Susan, you can bear it."

I was so grateful to my kind friend for her tender care of me, that I attended to all she said to me, and never forgot it; and it has been the source of happiness to me through life. I had not been long in the school before I had a trial of my conscience, and I thank Him who is the giver of all strength that I resisted this first temptation.

One day the schoolmistress left her penknife open upon her desk, when she went out of her room during the recess; nearly all the girls took it into their hands to look at it, for it had a number of blades, and was rather curious; some of them tried the knife to see how sharp it was. We had been told not to meddle with her things, and all of us knew it was wrong; as I was one of the small girls, I did not get a chance to look at it till all had seen it; but, when the others ran out to the play ground, and I was left alone, I went to the desk, and took up the knife, and opened and shut all the blades; but instead of leaving the one open which I found so, I left open another blade, just put it on the edge of my nail, to see how very sharp it was, and then laid it down, and ran after the rest of the girls.

When the schoolmistress came in, she immediately saw that we had taken up her knife. "Some one," said she, "has been using my knife; I am sure of it, because the blade that I left open is shut, and another is open, and it is gapped; who has done it?" Not a girl spoke; I thought that I was the only one who had opened and shut the blades, but I knew I had not gapped either of them. I knew that all the others had taken up the knife; I was afraid to speak; I did not like to take the whole blame, and I was silent as the other girls were.

After waiting a few minutes, our teacher said, "As none of you choose to confess who has done this, I shall have to punish the innocent with the guilty; I shall take away a merit from all of you, except those few girls who, I feel sure, would not disobey me."

There were only five girls in the school who did not lose a merit, and I was one of the number. As she named them over, and gave her reasons for believing them innocent, when she came to me, she said, "Little Susan Vincent has been so orderly and so good ever since she has been here, that I am sure it was not she that did it, and, if she had, I am sure she would confess it."

I felt as if I was choking; I put my head clear down so that no one could see my face; but the girls, who had none of them seen me touch the knife, thought that my modesty made me appear so much confused; no one but God and myself knew that I had a guilty conscience. I felt too dreadfully to speak then; I thought of nothing else all school time; I missed in all my lessons, for I did not attend to any thing that was said to me. The schoolmistress thought I was sick, and I went home miserable enough.

As I went along, I thought over all that Mrs. Brown had said to me about conscience, and I understood then what she meant by the voice of God in the heart. No one accused me, but I felt like a criminal; every one thought well of me; my schoolmistress and companions all loved me; but I despised and hated myself. I felt as if God was displeased with me.

As usual, I went directly to Mrs. Brown to ask what she had for me to do. "What's the matter, Susan?" said she; "you don't look right; have you been naughty, or are you sick, child?"

I could not bear to have her speak so kindly to me when I did not deserve it, and I burst into tears; I loved her like a mother, and I told her all.

"And now, Susan, what are you going to do?"

"I want you, ma'am, to tell the schoolmistress."

"Better tell her yourself," she answered.

After thinking a while, I said that I would; and then my conscience was a little easier. I went a little before the time, that I might see her alone. When I came in, I found a friend of hers with her, and I heard my mistress whisper, "This is my dear little orphan girl." She called me to her, and took me up in her lap. "Well, honest little Sue," said she, "why don't you look up in my face, as you know you always do?"

This was too much for me; I burst into tears, and put my hands over my face.

"What's the matter, Susan?" said she.

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.