Chapter VI: Mrs. Goodenough's Advice

MRS. EYRE, thinking and thinking how to lessen her already moderate outlay, made up her mind, with much regret, that she must part with Hetty. Without Mrs. Goodenough she felt she could not manage, but although Flo would miss her sadly, Hetty must go; for truly there was so little spent, save on necessaries, that to part with Hetty, keep Lina at home from school, and do without a new bonnet, was all the poor little woman could think of.

So when the morning walk and the early dinner were over, Lina and Edgar out at play, and Flo dozing on the sofa, Mrs. Eyre said,—

"You cannot think, Hetty, how sorry I am. But Mr. Eyre's illness, and his absence from the shop, makes such a difference to us that I find I must do without you, for the present; and of course I could not ask you to stay at home waiting until I could have you again."

"Oh, ma'am! Me to go home? Oh, I thought you'd forgiven me, ma'am, and—"

"It is not that at all. I do not expect a girl of your age to be a first-rate servant all at once, and you have been very useful and a great help to me. It is just what I say: I must lessen my weekly expenses, and this is one of the very few ways in which I can do so. And I am very sorry to lose you, Hetty."

Hetty got up and crept away to cry in secret, for she did not want to awake Flo. But, unfortunately, Flo had not been quite asleep, and had understood what was said only too well. She was in a sad way; in fact, I do not know which wept most, Flo or Hetty. But I do know that the saddest person there, on whose shoulders all the trouble would fall, was Mrs. Eyre, who did not cry at all, but said to her husband,—

"Never mind, John. It is only for a time."

Mrs. Goodenough, arriving next morning, found Hetty washing up the breakfast things, while her tears dropped into the water, patter patter, as if she was trying whether salt water would impart an added polish to china.

"In mischief again, Hetty?" said the old woman, laughing. "Such a girl to cry I never did see."

"Mrs. Goodenough, you'd cry if you were me. I'm—go-o-o-o-ing away."

"Well, and what of that? There's plenty of places where an active girl will get as good, ay! and better, wages than you get here, for less work. My Lady Drysdale, where your sister is, wants a kitchen maid. You'd easy get the place. Eight pounds a year, I believe. Me cry if I was the one to go-o-o-o!" and she mimicked poor Hetty in a very heartless way; "not me, indeed. I guessed that they'd be for saving and scraping; for everyone says Cartwrights are very hard—not a penny given if their folks are ill, and no advances, not if they was starving. Every one for himself in this world. You ask Mrs. Eyre for a bit of a character, and go and get this good place, where you'll learn to be a first-rate cook, and be getting your thirty or forty pounds a year by-and-by."

"But Miss Flo. I do love Miss Flo."

"Oh, get out o' that with your love! It's yourself you have to think of. Five pounds a year, and killing yourself carrying that poor child—and eight for half the work. And now 'twill be, 'Mrs. Goodenough, will you help me to move the sofa?' or, 'Will you take baby for half an hour?' as it used to be. I was thinking of leaving before they got you in, and 'twouldn't take much to make me leave now."

"Mrs. Goodenough, is it now, when they are in trouble? Do you mean to say you've been coming here all these years, and haven't got to love Mrs. Eyre and the children?"

"What call have I to love them? I never was one for going about loving folk. And do you think they spend much time in loving me? Don't you be a fool, Hetty. Servants has no business with such feelings; you've your work to do, and you must do it well, because it ain't respectable to do otherways, and they pays you, and there's an end. What's the love wanted for?"

Hetty stared—this line of reasoning was new to her.

"Christians ought to love one another," said she, presently.

"Bother!" was the reply. "You can't love every one, and you know you can't. It's just humbug!"

"Miss Flo loves me. And the mistress said she was sorry to lose me."

"So she well may. You've slaved for her and that child, and now you see what you get by it. Out you go the moment it's convenient. Why, by that counting, I love you; for I'm sorry you're to go—you've saved me a lot of trouble, and I will say you're an obliging girl. Well, the mistress must manage somehow, for I declare I'm too old to be put upon, and the children are no business of mine. I must get to work now; I'm sure I don't know why I am wasting my time trying to put sense into you, Hetty."

Mrs. Goodenough was not generally inclined to talk much to Hetty, whose willingness to oblige often annoyed her, by making her unwillingness more remarkable. And it was quite true that she did not know what made her preach this nice little sermon on self-love; but I think I can guess. If we deliberately harbour selfish feelings, and pride ourselves on them, he who inspires them will use us as his mouthpiece occasionally—which is not a comfortable thought.

For awhile these remarks made Hetty very unhappy. Was it true that everybody cared only for number one, and that to love those about you was folly? But reflection brought happier feelings.

"The Bible," said Hetty to herself; "tells us to love one another, and it can't mean only one's own folk, because that comes by nature. And it says to serve faithfully, not for wages only; at least, I think it does. Matty could tell me—she knows where all the nice verses are; and she tries to love every one, I know. I think Mrs. Goodenough has no feelings."

She took up her Bible—a Sunday-school prize, gained long ago, and in which she read a chapter every day. But now she turned over the leaves in search of advice, for she had a plan in her head, and did not see how to carry it out. Of course she did not find any direct advice in the Bible, but she found many things that washed away the worldly, selfish notions with which Mrs. Goodenough had tried to fill her mind.

She found a great deal about love, and very little about taking care of oneself. She found one verse which said that "even Christ came not to be ministered unto, but to minister"; and another, which seemed to mean that if we do good only to those who do good to us, it is not worth much. "So," thought she, "even if Mrs. Goodenough was right, and my mistress does not care for me, it makes no difference in what I ought to do. But she is kind, and she does feel kind towards me; of course she won't love me as I might come to love her, for what am I compared to her? Well, one thing is clear; if no one ever loves me, it's my duty to love people. And I must see mother, for she has a right to settle it."

She put on her hat and ran down to the parlour. "Can you spare me for an hour, ma'am? I want to speak to mother."

"Yes, of course you do. I can spare you, Hetty. Indeed, we must learn to do without you—poor Flo and I."

On this Flo began to cry again, and so, be sure, would Hetty—when a cry was heard outside, "Cherries! ripe cherries! cherry-ripe! cherry-ripe! Penny a bunch! penny a bunch!"

"Mamma," cried Flora, "do you hear? Ripe cherries, only one penny a bunch. Oh, do get me some—they are so cool and nice."

It was very seldom that Flo asked for anything eatable, for she was not a greedy child, and if she had a cake or other little dainty given her, she always insisted on sharing it with the whole family. But for fruit the poor child had a perfect craving, and the misfortune was that all fruit, except strawberries and grapes, disagreed with her dreadfully.

Hetty ran off to stop the woman with the cherries, but Mrs. Eyre called to her.

"No, Hetty—thank you. I cannot give Flo any cherries. Don't stay out very long, please, for I have to take the other children into town to get new boots; they must have them, I find."

Hetty heard poor little Flo giving way to a most unusual fit of whining.

"Why can you not give me cherries, mamma? Only one pennyworth!"

And Hetty heard no more, for she closed the hall door and ran on down the terrace.

"Poor Mrs. Eyre!" thought she, "not to be able to spare one penny, when the dear little soul wants them so badly. Oh I declare I might get some for her myself; that sixpence of Ned's is in my pocket."

She ran after the woman and bought two bunches, each containing six or seven cherries. These she popped into her pocket, as she had not time to run back with them. Then she was soon at her mother's door.

The lines in the garden were full of fluttering, dangling linen, and Mrs. Hardy and Matty were refreshing themselves with a well-earned cup of tea.

"Why, here's Hetty; and as solemn as you please," cried Mrs. Hardy.

"Oh, mother, I'm so glad to find you resting, for I want a talk with you very much. I've been thinking, and thinking, and I know what I'd like to do, but you'll know whether I ought, and besides, you may not like me to do it."

"Sit down, child. Matty, give her a cup of tea to help her to speak plain. You're not in any scrape, Hetty? That's well; and as for what you've said so far, I don't know what you're at."

Hetty drank her tea, and then proceeded to tell her story, dwelling at some length on Mrs. Goodenough's remarks.

"And now, mother, if you wish it, I can try for that place at Lady Drysdale's, but I would much rather be with my mistress. And there she'll be, with Miss Flo fretting, and the baby teething, and Miss Lina at home all day and very troublesome, just like our Jane, and no help from Mrs. Goodenough, who has made up her mind to leave if she is asked for any. Now, if the mistress would keep me, and not Mrs. Goodenough, I would be of a deal more use to her. The mistress can't carry Miss Flo a bit."

"Ay, child—but the cooking?"

"I could do all that Mrs. Goodenough does. The mistress does it herself. Mrs. Goodenough cleans up, and if there's anything to be put in the oven for dinner, she does that."

"And doesn't forget it, eh, Hetty?"

Hetty looked rather foolish for a moment. Then she said: "Mother, do you know, I really think that the more I have to do, the less I forget. It is not while I am busy that I forget, but when I sit thinking."

"Sit idle, you mean. But I daresay you are right; it's what Matty has always said. All the same, Mrs. Goodenough's work, with carrying Miss Flo added to it, is a good deal, Hetty, for a girl of your age to undertake."

"Well, I'd like it. I like work, and I'm as strong as a pony. And—I just thought, mother, that it might be right. I do love my mistress and Miss Flo. But of course it's for you to choose."

"As to going as kitchen maid at Lady Drysdale's, I wouldn't have it at all, Hetty. It's very different from being in the nursery, like Annie. There's a swarm of men-servants, and you're young and giddy. And I don't deny that I'm glad and pleased to hear you say you love your mistress and the child you've had charge of, and that you're willing to work hard for them. As far as my leave goes, you may see what Mrs. Eyre thinks of it, just for a time. But the thing is, what will Mrs. Goodenough say?"

"She told me herself that if she was asked to move the sofa or hold the baby, she'd leave."

"For all that, she'd be very angry if you put her out. Nor you wouldn't like it done to yourself, Hetty."

"No, that's very true. What can I do? I think I might tell Mrs. Eyre something of what Mrs. Goodenough said to me, and get her to ask Mrs. Goodenough now if she will be willing to give a little help—for you know, mother, she really must, if she's to stay. The mistress is real clever, but she's not very strong."

"You might do that. But you must not be disappointed if she says she will stay. For it's one thing to talk big to you, and quite another to throw away a place where she's very comfortable. If she promises, mind now, you mustn't say another word."

"I will not indeed, mother."

"Do you know what I think?" said Matty, looking up from her knitting. "I think, if mother went up herself and said that about asking Mrs. Goodenough, it would come better from her than from Hetty."

"That's true," said Mrs. Hardy; "and I'll step up to-morrow about ten. I'm very tired now, and a few hours won't make any difference."

"Thank you, mother. I must run home now, for Mrs. Eyre wants to go out. I shall be on the watch for you to-morrow."

Hetty was soon at home again. She found her mistress and the children ready to set out, and Mrs. Eyre only lingered to beg Hetty not to forget to put the mutton into the oven at the right time.