All's for the Best Part 17

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 grat.i.tude 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 pa.s.sions, 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."

XI.

MY FATHER.

_I HAVE_ a very early recollection of my father as a cheerful man, and of our home as a place full of the heart's warmest suns.h.i.+ne. But the father of my childhood and the father of my more advanced years wore a very different exterior. He had grown silent, thoughtful, abstracted, but not morose. As his children sprang up around him, full of life and hope, he seemed to lose the buoyant spirits of his earlier manhood. I did not observe this at the time, for I had not learned to observe and reflect. Life was a simple state of enjoyment. Trial had not quickened my perceptions, nor suffering taught me an unselfish regard for others.

The home provided by my father was elegant--some would have called it luxurious. On our education and accomplishments no expense was spared.

I had the best teachers--and, of course, the most expensive; with none others would I have been satisfied, for I had come naturally to regard myself as on a social equality with the fas.h.i.+onable young friends who were my companions, and who indulged the fas.h.i.+onable vice of depreciating everything that did not come up to a certain acknowledged standard. Yearly I went to Saratoga or Newport with my sisters, and at a cost which I now think of with amazement. Sometimes my mother went with us, but my father never. He was not able to leave his business.

Business! How I came to dislike the word! It was always "business" when we asked him to go anywhere with us; "business" hurried him away from his hastily-eaten meals; "business" absorbed all his thoughts, and robbed us of our father.

"I wish father would give up business," I said to my mother one day, "and take some comfort of his life. Mr. Woodward has retired, and is now living on his income."

My mother looked at me strangely and sighed, but answered nothing.

About this time my father showed some inclination to repress our growing disposition to spend money extravagantly in dress. Nothing but hundred-dollar shawl would suit my ideas. Ada White had been presented by her father with a hundred-dollar cashmere, and I did not mean to be put off with anything less.

"Father, I want a hundred dollars," said I to him one morning as he was leaving the house, after eating his light breakfast. He had grown dyspeptic, and had to be careful and sparing in his diet.

"A hundred dollars!" He looked surprised; in fact, I noticed that my request made him start. "What do you want with so much money?"

"I have nothing seasonable to wear," said I, very firmly; "and as I must have a shawl, I might as well get a good one while I am about it.

I saw one at Stewart's yesterday that is just the thing. Ada White's father gave her a shawl exactly like it, and you must let me have the money to buy this one. It will last my lifetime."

"A hundred dollars is a large price for a shawl," said my father, in his sober way.

"Oh, dear, no!" was my emphatic answer; "a hundred dollars is a low price for a shawl. Jane Wharton's cost five hundred."

"I'll think about it," said my father, turning from me rather abruptly.

When he came home at dinner-time, I was alone in the parlor, practicing a. new piece of music which my fas.h.i.+onable teacher had left me. He was paid three dollars for every lesson. My father smiled as he laid a hundred-dollar bill on the keys of the piano. I started up, and kissing him, said, with the ardor of a pleased girl--

"What a dear good father you are!"

The return was ample. He always seemed most pleased when he could gratify some wish or supply some want of his children. Ah! if we had been less selfish--less exacting!

It was hardly to be expected that my sisters would see me the possessor of a hundred-dollar shawl, and not desire a like addition to their wardrobes.

"I want a hundred dollars," said my sister Jane, on the next morning, as my father was about leaving for his store.

"Can't spare it to-day, my child," I heard him answer, kindly, but firmly.

"Oh, but I must have it," urged my sister.

"I gave you twenty-five dollars only day before yesterday," my father replied to this. "What have you done with that?"

"Spent it for gloves and laces," said Jane, in a light way, as if the sum were of the smallest possible consequence.

"I am not made of money, child." The tone of my father's voice struck me as unusually sober--almost sad. But Jane replied instantly, and with something of reproach and complaint in her tones--"I shouldn't think you were, if you find it so hard to part with a hundred dollars."

"I have a large payment to make to-day"--my father spoke with unusual decision of manner--"and shall need every dollar that I can raise."

"You gave sister a hundred dollars yesterday," said Jane, almost petulantly.

Not a word of reply did my father make. I was looking at him, and saw an expression on his countenance that was new to me--an expression of pain, mingled with fear. He turned away slowly, and in silence left the house.

"Jane," said my mother, addressing her from the stairway, on which she had been standing, "how could you speak so to your father?"

"I have just as good right to a hundred dollar shawl as Anna," replied my sister, in a very undutiful tone. "And what is more, Im going to have one."

"What reason did your father give for refusing your request to-day?"

asked my mother.

"Couldn't spare the money! Had a large payment to make! Only an excuse!"

"Stop, my child!" was the quick, firm remark, made with unusual feeling. "Is that the way to speak of so good a father? Of one who has ever been so kindly indulgent? Jane! Jane! You know not what you are saying!"