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_ _I DID_ not feel in a very good humor either with myself or with
Polly, my nursery maid. The fact is, Polly had displeased me; and I,
while under the influence of rather excited feelings, had rebuked
her with a degree of intemperance not exactly becoming in a
Christian gentlewoman, or just to a well meaning, though not perfect
domestic.
Polly had taken my sharp words without replying. They seemed to stun
her. She stood for a few moments, after the vials of my wrath were
emptied, her face paler than usual, and her lips almost colorless.
Then she turned and walked from my room with a slow but firm step.
There was an air of purpose about her, and a manner that puzzled me
a little.
The thermometer of my feelings was gradually falling, though not yet
reduced very far below fever-heat, when Polly stood again before me.
A red spot now burned on each cheek, and her eyes were steady as she
let them rest in mine.
"Mrs. Wilkins," said she, firmly, yet respectfully, "I am going to
leave when my month is up."
Now, I have my own share of willfulness and impulsive independence.
So I answered, without hesitation or reflection,
"Very well, Polly. If you wish to leave, I will look for another to
fill your place." And I drew myself up with an air of dignity.
Polly retired as quickly as she came, and I was left alone with my
not very agreeable thoughts for companions. Polly had been in my
family for nearly four years, in the capacity of nurse and chamber
maid. She was capable, faithful, kind in her disposition, and
industrious. The children were all attached to her, and her
influence over them was good. I had often said to myself in view of
Polly's excellent qualities, "She is a treasure!" And, always, the
thought of losing her services had been an unpleasant one. Of late,
in some things, Polly had failed to give the satisfaction of former
times. She was neither so cheerful, nor so thoughtful, nor had she
her usual patience with the children. "Her disposition is altering,"
I said to myself, now and then, in view of this change; "something
has spoiled her."
"You have indulged her too much, I suppose," was the reason given by
my husband, whenever I ventured to introduce to his notice the
shortcomings of Polly. "You are an expert at the business of
spoiling domestics."
My good opinion of myself was generally flattered by this estimate
of the case; and, as this good opinion strengthened, a feeling of
indignation against Polly for her ingratitude, as I was pleased to
call it, found a lodging in my heart.
And so the matter had gone on, from small beginnings, until a state
of dissatisfaction on the one part, and coldness on the other, had
grown up between mistress and maid. I asked no questions of Polly,
as to the change in her manner, but made my own inferences, and
took, for granted, my own conclusions. I had spoiled her by
indulgence--that was clear. As a thing of course, this view was not
very favorable to a just and patient estimate of her conduct,
whenever it failed to meet my approval.
On the present occasion, she had neglected the performance of
certain services, in consequence of which I suffered some small
inconvenience, and a great deal of annoyance.
"I don't know what's come over you, Polly," said I to her sharply.
"Something has spoiled you outright; and I tell you now, once for
all, that you'll have to mend your ways considerably, if you expect
to remain much longer in this family."
The language was hard enough, but the manner harder and more
offensive. I had never spoken to her before with anything like the
severity now used. The result of this intemperance of speech on my
part, the reader has seen. Polly gave notice that she would leave,
and I accepted the notice. For a short time after the girl retired
from my room, I maintained a state of half indignant independence;
but, as to being satisfied with myself, that was out of the
question. I had lost my temper, and, as is usual in such cases, had
been harsh, and it might be, unjust. I was about to lose the
services of a domestic, whose good qualities so far overbalanced all
defects and shortcomings, that I could hardly hope to supply her
place. How could the children give her up? This question came home
with a most unpleasant suggestion of consequences. But, as the
disturbance of my feelings went on subsiding, and thought grew
clearer and clearer, that which most troubled me was a sense of
injustice towards Polly. The suggestion came stealing into my mind,
that the something wrong about her might involve a great deal more
than I had, in a narrow reference of things to my own affairs,
imagined. Polly was certainly changed; but, might not the change
have its origin in mental conflict or suffering, which entitled her
to pity and consideration, instead of blame?
This was a new thought, which in no way tended to increase a feeling
of self-approval.
"She is human, like the rest of us," said I, as I sat talking over
the matter with myself, "and every human heart has its portion of
bitterness. The weak must bear in weakness, as well as the strong in
strength; and the light burden rests as painfully on the back that
bends in feebleness, as does the heavy one on Atlas-shoulders. We
are too apt to regard those who serve us as mere working machines.
Rarely do we consider them as possessing like wants and weaknesses,
like sympathies and yearnings with ourselves. Anything will do for
them. Under any external circumstances, is their duty to be
satisfied."
I was wrong in this matter. Nothing was now clearer to me than this.
But, how was I to get right? That was the puzzling question. I
thought, and thought--looking at the difficulty first on this side,
and then on that. No way of escape presented itself, except through
some open or implied acknowledgment of wrong; that is, I must have
some plain, kind talk with Polly, to begin with, and thus show her,
by an entire change of manner, that I was conscious of having spoken
to her in a way that was not met by my own self-approval. Pride was
not slow in vindicating her own position among the mental powers.
She was not willing to see me humble myself to a servant. Polly had
given notice that she was going to leave, and if I made concession,
she would, at once conclude that I did so meanly, from
self-interest, because I wished to retain her services. My naturally
independent spirit revolted under this view of the case, but I
marshalled some of the better forces of my mind, and took the field
bravely on the side of right and duty. For some time the conflict
went on; then the better elements of my nature gained the victory.
When the decision was made, I sent a message for Polly. I saw, as
she entered my room, that her cheeks no longer burned, and that the
fire had died out in her eyes. Her face was pale, and its expression
sad, but enduring.
"Polly," said I, kindly, "sit down. I would like to have some talk
with you."
The girl seemed taken by surprise. Her face warmed a little, and her
eyes, which had been turned aside from mine, looked at me with a
glance of inquiry.
"There, Polly"--and I pointed to a chair--"sit down."
She obeyed, but with a weary, patient air, like one whose feelings
were painfully oppressed.
"Polly," said I, with kindness and interest in my voice, "has
anything troubled you of late?"
Her face flushed and her eyes reddened.
"If there has, Polly, and I can help you in any way, speak to me as
a friend. You can trust me."
I was not prepared for the sudden and strong emotion that instantly
manifested itself. Her face fell into her hands, and she sobbed out,
with a violence that startled me. I waited until she grew calm, and
then said, laying a hand kindly upon her as I spoke--
"Polly, you can talk to me as freely as if I were your mother. Speak
plainly, and if I can advise you or aid you in any way, be sure that
I will do it."
"I don't think you can help me any, ma'am, unless it is to bear my
trouble more patiently," she answered, in a subdued way.
"Trouble, child! What trouble? Has anything gone wrong with you?"
The manner in which this inquiry was made, aroused her, and she said
quickly and with feeling:
"Wrong with _me_? O no, ma'am!"
"But you are in trouble, Polly."
"Not for myself, ma'am--not for myself," was her earnest reply.
"For whom, then, Polly?"
The girl did not answer for some moments. Then with a long, deep
sigh, she said:
"You never saw my brother Tom, ma'am. Oh, he was such a nice boy,
and I was so fond of him! He had a hard place where he worked, and
they paid him so little that, poor fellow! if I hadn't spent half my
wages on him, he'd never have looked fit to be seen among folks.
When he was eighteen he seemed to me perfect. He was so good and
kind. But--" and the girl's voice almost broke down--"somehow, he
began to change after that. I think he fell into bad company. Oh,
ma'am! It seemed as if it would have killed me the first time I
found that he had been drinking, and was not himself. I cried all
night for two or three nights. When we met again I tried to talk
with Tom about it, but he wouldn't hear a word, and, for the first
time in his life, got angry with his sister.
"It has been going on from bad, to worse ever since, and I've almost
given up hope."
"He's several years younger than you are, Polly."
"Yes, ma'am. He was only ten years old when our mother died. I am
glad she is dead now, what I've never said before. There were only
two of us--Tom and I; and I being nearly six years the oldest, felt
like a mother as well as a sister to him. I've never spent much on
myself as you know, and never had as good clothes as other girls
with my wages. It took nearly everything for Tom. Oh, dear! What is
to come of it all? It will kill me, I'm afraid."
A few questions on my part brought out particulars in regard to
Polly's brother that satisfy me of his great lapse from virtue and
sobriety. He was now past twenty, and from all I could learn, was
moving swift-footed along the road to destruction.
There followed a dead silence for some time after all the story was
told. What could I say? The case was one in which it seemed that I
could offer neither advice nor consolation. But it was in my power
to show interest in the girl, and to let her feel that she had my
sympathy. She was sitting with her eyes cast down, and a look of
sorrow on her pale, thin face--I had not before re-marked the signs
of emaciation--that touched me deeply.
"Polly," said I, with as much kindness of tone as I could express,
"it is the lot of all to have trouble, and each heart knows its own
bitterness. But on some the trouble falls with a weight that seems
impossible to be borne. And this is your case. Yet it only seems to
be so, for as our day is, so shall our strength be. If you cannot
draw your brother away from the dangerous paths in which he is
walking, you can pray for him, and the prayer of earnest love will
bring your spirit so near to his spirit, that God may be able to
influence him for good through this presence of your spirit with
his."
Polly looked at me with a light flashing in her face, as if a new
hope had dawned upon her heart,
"Oh, ma'am," she said, "I have prayed, and do pray for him daily.
But then I think God loves him better than I can love him, and needs
none of my prayer in the case. And so a chill falls over me, and
everything grows dark and hopeless--for, of myself, I can do
nothing."
"Our prayers cannot change the purposes of God towards any one; but
God works by means, and our prayers may be the means through which
he can help another."
"How? How? Oh, tell me how, Mrs. Wilkins?"
The girl spoke with great eagerness.
I had an important truth to communicate, but how was I to make it
clear to her simple mind? I thought for a moment, and then said--
"When we think of others, we see them."
"In our minds?"
"Yes, Polly. We see them with the eyes of our minds, and are also
present with them as to our minds, or spirits. Have you hot noticed
that on some occasions you suddenly thought of a person, and that in
a little while afterwards that person came in?"
"Oh, yes, I've often noticed, and wondered why it should be so."
"Well, the person in coming to see you, or in approaching the place
where you were, thought of you so distinctly that she was present to
your mind, or spirit, and you saw her with the eyes of your mind. If
this be the right explanation, as I believe it is, then, if we think
intently of others, and especially if we think with a strong
affection, we are present with them so fully that they think of us,
and see our forms with the eyes of their spirits. And now, Polly,
keeping this in mind, we may see how praying, in tender love for
another, may enable God to do him good; for you know that men and
angels are co-workers with God in all good. On the wings of our
thought and love, angelic spirits, who are present with us in
prayer, may pass with us to the object of our tender interest and
thus gaining audience, as it were, stir the heart with good
impulses. And who can tell how effectual this may be, if of daily
act and long continuance?"
I paused to see if I was comprehended. Polly was listening intently,
with her eyes upon the floor. She looked up, after a moment, her
countenance calmer than before, but bearing so hopeful an aspect
that I was touched with wonder.
"I will pray for him morning, noon, and night," she said, "and if,
bodily, I cannot be near him, my spirit shall be present with his
many times each day. Oh, if I could but draw him back from the evil
into which he has fallen!"
"A sister's loving prayer, and the memory of his mother in heaven,
will prove, I trust, Polly, too potent for all his enemies. Take
courage!"
In the silence that followed this last remark, Polly arose and stood
as if there was something yet unsaid in her mind. I understood her,
and made the way plain for both of us.
"If I had known of this before, it would have explained to me some
things that gave my mind an unfavorable impression. You have not
been like yourself for some time past."
"How could I, ma'am?" Polly's voice trembled and her eyes again
filled with tears. "I never meant to displease you; but----"
"All is explained," said I, interrupting her. "I see just how it is;
and if I have said a word that hurt you, I am sorry for it. No one
could have given better satisfaction in a family than you have
given."
"I have always tried to do right," murmured the poor girl, sadly.
"I know it, Polly." My tones were encouraging. "And if you will
forget the unkind way in which I spoke to you this morning, and let
things remain as they were, it may be better for both of us. You are
not fit, taking your state of mind as it now is, to go among
strangers."
Polly looked at me with gratitude and forgiveness in her wet eyes.
There was a motion of reply about her lips, but she did not trust
herself to speak.
"Shall it be as it was, Polly?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am! I don't wish to leave you; and particularly, not
now. I am not fit, as you say, to go among strangers. But you must
bear with me a little; for I can't always keep my thoughts about
me."
When Polly retired from my room, I set myself to thinking over what
had happened. The lesson went deeply into my heart. Poor girl! what
a heavy burden rested upon her weak shoulders. No wonder that she
bent under it! No wonder that she was changed! She was no subject
for angry reproof; but for pity and forbearance. If she had come
short in service, or failed to enter upon her daily tasks with the
old cheerfulness, no blame could attach to her, for the defect was
of force and not of will.
"Ah," said I, as I pondered the matter, "how little inclined are we
to consider those who stand below us in the social scale, or to
think of them as having like passions, like weaknesses, like hopes
and fears with ourselves. We deal with them too often as if they
were mere working machines, and grow impatient if they show signs of
pain, weariness, or irritation. We are quick to blame and slow to
praise--chary of kind words, but voluble in reproof--holding
ourselves superior in station, but not always showing ourselves
superior in thoughtfulness, self-control, and kind forbearance. Ah
me! Life is a lesson-book, and we turn a new page every day." _
Read next: CHAPTER XI. MY FATHER.
Read previous: CHAPTER IX. WAS IT MURDER, OR SUICIDE?
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