CHAPTER I.JANE, MY IRISH COOK. I WAS sitting, one day, pleasantly occupied with a new volume, when the door opened quietly, and my cook, an Irish girl, (a very excellent one, by the way,) came in, and advanced towards me. "Well, Jane, is any thing wanted?" I asked, in the mild tone in which I always endeavor to speak to my domestics. "I should like to go out for a couple of hours, if you have no objection, Mrs. Elmwood," Jane replied, in a respectful voice. Now Jane had been out only two days before, on her regular afternoon for going, and I felt that it was hardly right for her to want two afternoons in the week. So I said, a little coldly, "I would rather not have you go, Jane." Her countenance fell instantly, and she turned away and left the
room with a disappointed air. I was touched by this, and began to
question myself
as to the justice of what I had done. But I soon argued down my feelings by such reasonings as these. "Jane ought to know better than to ask for two afternoons in the week. The agreement was positive in regard to one, and I am surprised that she should have asked for two. The best way is to keep domestics strictly to their contracts. If you begin with granting them indulgences, they will soon claim them as a right. Then, if I were to let Jane go out to-day, Margaret would think it hard if I did not let her go out to-morrow. No—no. I am sorry to disappoint her, but it is best to be exact in these things." After I had settled the matter thus, or, rather, supposed that I
had settled it, I resumed my book; but did not enjoy it as before. I
could not drive from my imagination the disappointed look and air of
Jane, as she turned from my room and went back to her place in the
kitchen. Every now and then reproving thoughts would force themselves
upon me so distinctly, the words I was reading left no impression of
ideas upon my mind; and I would pause, with a half breathed sigh, and
review again the justice of my reasons for not granting the small
request of my cook. The oftener I thus looked at them, the less was I
satisfied
with their force. Still, I could not make up my mind to withdraw my interdiction. For this would have been confessing to my domestic, that I had been wrong, and such a confession pride was not ready to make. Thus, unhappily, did the hours wear away until near dark, when Margaret, my chambermaid, came in to fill the pitcher on my wash stand with water. "Do you know, ma'am, what is the matter with Jane?" she said, pausing at the door, as she was about leaving my room. "Why?" I asked, while my heart smote me. "She's been sitting down in the kitchen and crying, all the afternoon about something." "Sitting and crying," I said, a momentary feeling of indignation arising quickly in my mind at the thought, that, because I would not let her go out, she had remained in idleness ever since. "Yes, ma'am. But her work is all done. She got up very early, and was at it all the morning as hard as she could be. After dinner, all she had to do was to wash up her dishes, and this she did right away, and then cleaned her kitchen up very nice. Ever since that she has been crying about something or other—what, I am sure I don't know." I did not reply to this, but sat thoughtful and silent. Margaret paused a moment to hear if I had any thing to say, and then left the room, and me to my no very pleasant reflections. A consciousness of having wronged Jane was not the least agreeable of these,—nor did the too constant and vivid picture upon my excited imagination of the disappointed girl sitting and crying all alone in the kitchen for some two or three hours, add much to my quiet satisfaction of mind. But the difficulty of my position was, to know how I ought to act towards her under the circumstances. It was now too late to withdraw my prohibition, for the afternoon had passed away, and could never be recalled. "I will send for Jane, and tell her I am sorry I did not grant her request," I said to myself. But there were too many objections to this course. It involved, in the first place, a confession of wrong, and that I was not prepared to make. "Besides," I reasoned, "what will it matter to her whether I am sorry or not, seeing that I have deprived her of an anticipated pleasure? Merely to tell her this, will be a kind of mockery to her feelings." So I decided, at least for the time, not to say any thing to Jane in the way of apology, but to be more careful how I acted in the future. Tea was ready punctually at the usual hour, and the table as neatly set as ever. Jane looked very serious. She seemed hurt, but showed no appearance of anger, or ill feeling towards me. If she had exhibited only a little perverseness of temper, I would have something to fall back upon. But the quiet, sober, resigned air, in which was too evident the appearance of disappointment, troubled still more deeply the waters of my spirit. "I'm afraid I have not acted altogether right towards Jane," I said to my husband, from whom I never can conceal any thing, as we passed from the tea-room. "How so, Mary?" he asked, looking me steadily in the face. "She wanted me to let her go out this afternoon. But as she had been out day before yesterday, which was her regular day, I told her that she could not go. She did not say anything at this refusal, but went back into the kitchen, where, Margaret told me, she sat and cried until near dark." "Did you inquire why she wished to go out to-day?" "No. And in that I was to blame. I permitted myself to feel a
little unkindly at her wanting
two afternoons in the week, when our agreement was only for one, which she always had. And so I said 'no,' without hesitation or reflection. I saw in a moment, by the peculiar change in her countenance, that my cold reply was unexpected, and that she was both wounded, and disappointed. Before I had time to reflect, or question her, she turned away, and left my room." "I'm afraid you have been somewhat to blame," my husband replied, honestly and frankly, as he always does. "But how you are to repair the wrong, I do not clearly see. The least you can do, I suppose, is to tell Jane that she can have to-morrow afternoon, if she wishes it." "Yes, I can do that. And I will," I said, catching at the suggestion, which afforded my mind some relief. "To-morrow will, no doubt, suit her as well." "Perhaps it may," my husband returned, a little gravely. "You don't think it will, then?" I said, looking into his face. "I am sure I do not know, Mary," he smilingly replied. "It may or it may not. Cure is rarely as good as Prevention, you know." After a little more conversation on the subject,
it was dropped, but not from my thoughts. I felt anxious for the arrival of the next day, that I might tell Jane she could have the afternoon to herself. "That will mend the matter, of course," I said. "Jane will get an extra afternoon; and the tacit confession on my part that I acted thoughtlessly in not granting her request when asked, will heal her wounded feelings." The more I thought this over, the more clearly did I see, that to act just as my husband had proposed, would put it all right again. One afternoon would be the same as another to Jane. To get out was the thing desired by her. On the next day, as my mind continued to dwell on the matter, I saw the remedy, in a clearer light, to be all that was required. And this made me feel quite comfortable again. But cook still looked sober. This I did not exactly like. And I found it hard work to keep myself from becoming a little irritated on account of it. After dinner I sent for her, in order to tell her that she might go out if she chose. She came into my room, and I said, "Jane, you can go out this afternoon, if you like." "I don't care about going out to-day, ma'am," she returned, in a
respectful tone. But she did
not smile, as she had been in the habit of doing heretofore, whenever she replied to any thing I said. "Very well, Jane, you can do as you like," I said, a little hastily, and not in the most amicable tone of voice. The fact is, this remedy that I had built on so confidently, proved to be good for nothing, and all through the girl's perverseness, I instantly permitted myself to think. After having repented so heartily of what I had done—after having studied for hours of the best way of repairing the wrong—and then, after having told Jane, as plainly as I could tell her, that I was sorry for my thoughtless refusal to grant her request made on the day before, to have all go for nothing, and myself thrown back to my original position, was more than I could bear. Jane turned away as I replied, and again passed slowly from my
presence, evidently wounded at my manner. And so matters had become
worse instead of better. In attempting to heal the breach, I had only
made it wider. But, for this, I blamed the cook's perverse temper.
It was too evident to my mind that she had become sulky. I had done
all that I could do, and was not going to trouble my head any further
about the matter.
This last was easily resolved, but less easily done. I was not well enough satisfied with myself to have a quiet mind. Conscience smote me for the unkind feelings I had instantly indulged and the unkind manner in which I had spoken; and conscience is a rather troublesome guest sometimes. But I had done all I could do, I persuaded myself, towards repairing the seeming wrong to which I had subjected Jane, and was not going to make any further attempts to heal the wounds my refusal to grant her request had inflicted. By the help of a little indignation against the poor girl, and the effort to throw all blame upon her, I managed, by tea time, to become quite indifferent. My husband's return from his store, however, dispelled this. Seating himself along side of me, he said— "Mary, I have learned the reason why Jane felt so keenly your refusal to let her go out yesterday." "Indeed!" I ejaculated, the blood rising to my face. "Yes. You know Michael, our porter, is her cousin. Well, he
didn't come to the store to-day until after dinner. He then looked
unusually serious. 'Is there any thing the matter with Jane?' he
asked me. I said, 'nothing that I know of, why?' 'Because,' he replied, 'we all expected her yesterday afternoon, but she didn't come.' 'Why did you expect Jane?' I inquired. 'Oh, because Ellen was going away, and she was to go with us to see her off. But I haven't told you—' Michael's voice choked a little, but he recovered himself, and went on. "'My youngest sister, Ellen, who came out with us from Ireland,
(you know Michael is married,) has been ailing ever since we got to
this country. And more than that, has never seemed happy here. The
old place was very dear to her, and she had pined to get back into the
old cottage with our mother ever since. She was always her mother's
favorite, and, indeed the favorite of us all. Well, as month after
month went by, Ellen grew worse and worse, both in body and mind. She
would never go into company. There was but one face out of our own
house that was dear to her, and that was the face of her cousin Jane,
who lives with you. Every week Jane would come and spend an afternoon
and evening with her—the afternoon and evening she had to
herself—and these were Ellen's happiest times. She loved Jane as a
sister, and
so do we all. At last Ellen grew worse and worse, and pined so to get home again, that I told her if she wished to go back to the old country, she should go. It did not take her long to make up her mind, poor thing! To see her eye brighten, and the colour come again to her thin pale cheek, as she would talk of home, and our mother, and the joy of getting to them once more, used to melt me right down. Jane and she never talked about it, that both did not have a good hearty cry. As for me, I did not want to part with her. I loved her too well, and I felt sure that, if she did go home, I should never see her again. And so I delayed taking her passage day after day, and week after week, until the poor girl drove me to it by saying one day, 'Michael, I shan't live long, and I want my body laid in our own church-yard, close beside where little Margery lies. Do send me home, Michael!' I couldn't stand this; and so went off and engaged her passage. The ship was to sail in a week—yesterday was the day. Jane was at our house on her usual day of coming out, and said that she would be sure and come to see her off. We all looked for her certain; but she didn't come. We waited, and waited, almost an hour after the time we ought to have left home —poor Ellen crying all the while. But no Jane came. I thought Ellen's heart would break. She loved Jane so dearly, and Jane loved her, and yet no Jane came; she was about going away, never perhaps to meet any of us again in this world. At last we went down to the ship, still in hopes that she would meet us, even there. But no; the ship sailed, and Ellen had given to her cousin, whom she loved as a sister, no parting word, no parting embrace, no parting look—and she was going home to die!' "Michael, as manly a fellow as he is, could no longer contain his feelings. The muscles of his lips and face twitched, his voice failed him, and the tears came into his eyes, notwithstanding his evident strong effort at self-control. I explained to him, as well as I could, the reasons why Jane did not come. To these he made no reply." Here I burst into tears, and covering my face with my hands,
actually sobbed aloud. I never felt so wretched in my life as I did
at that moment. In my thoughtlessness I had done a great wrong. I
had caused a deep grief to settle upon the heart of a lone Irish girl,
in a strange land, that no subsequent act of mine could remove. The
ship had sailed, and her dearly loved relative
had gone back to their old home, never to return, and she had not been allowed the sad privilege of a parting embrace. "Jane ought to have told you why she wished to go out," my husband said, after a little while. "If she had only done that, all would have been right. I think she is much more to blame than you were." But this did not silence my self-upbraidings. I could enter more deeply into a woman's feelings than he could, and therefore understand much better the state of mind in which Jane had been, and how natural it was for one of her peculiar temperament, and habit of silently bearing both mental and physical pain, and enduring without an oral murmur the severest disappointments, to shrink away at the refusal of a timid request, and bear the keenest privation rather than urge a once denied petition. But what could I now do? Nothing. Apologies would be little less than vain mockeries. They could not bring back time and events. The ship had sailed. For weeks after, Jane's quiet, sober, dreamy expression of face
never met my eye, without troubling the still, deep waters of my
woman's heart. I strove to make some amends for what
I had done, by increased kindness of manner towards her, and by many little tokens of good will. But it was a long time before the cheerful tone of her face came back. As for me, it was a lesson I shall never forget. It taught me to be more considerate of those whose lot in life a good and wise Providence has placed below us in external things; to regard them as fellow creatures, with like affections with ourselves, and to study as carefully to be just to those below, as to those above us. I say to myself, often, when I recall the circumstance just related, that Jane was to blame for not telling me why she wished to go out; that her reasons were so urgent, that she ought at once to have stated them. But this does not satisfy me. Jane's omissions do not palliate my wrong conduct. My duty was to inquire the reason why a respectful request was made, if I had any hesitation about granting it, and yield or deny the privilege according to the force of those reasons. There was no excuse for any maladministration in my own little domain. At the head of a family, my duty was to govern in my household with mildness, forbearance, consideration, and wisdom—not bind down every member over whom I could exercise control by laws as unvarying as those which regulate the movements of an automaton. To an intimate female friend I one day, a few weeks after the
occurrence of this incident, mentioned the whole circumstance. A
little to my surprise, she smiled at my self-condemnation, and said,
that no one was to blame in the slightest degree but Jane herself.
For her part, she didn't believe that the girl cared a great deal
about seeing her cousin, or she would have mentioned it quick enough.
She had never found one of that class who was at all backward at demanding
any thing reasonable, and too few of them thought of hesitating even
in unreasonable matters. For a moment I felt inclined to catch hold
of this suggestion, but my better thoughts quickly prevailed. Another
sweeping and more unfeeling declaration in regard to domestics, let me
deeper into my friend's character than I had before penetrated. She
was one of those who have few sympathies with the humble poor. Alas!
that there should be so many of these. And alas! that among my own
gentler sex, there should exist so large a number who, as petty
tyrants, rule with rods of iron all whom Providence has placed beneath
them. A domestic, by these persons, is considered so far
inferior to them in mind and morals, as well as in condition, as not to be a being of like sympathies with themselves, or entitled to their consideration. Their highest duty in regard to them is to pay them regularly their wages. I know one of these "ladies," who made to someone the absurd but somewhat laughable declaration, that there was as much difference between rich and poor people, as between china and earthenware. And, what was more, she religiously believed her own assertion. Gross as were her ideas of the distinctions in human nature, there are too many who think with her, but are more cautious about expressing their opinions. |