_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."