HEEDLESS HETTY

BY

ANNETTE LYSTER

AUTHOR OF

"KARL KRAPP'S LITTLE MAIDENS," "WHAT SHE COULD,"

"RALPH TRULOCK'S CHRISTMAS ROSES," "THE RUTHERFORD FROWN," ETC.

London

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

AND 164, PICCADILLY

BUTLER & TANNER,

THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS,

FROME, AND LONDON.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. MRS. EYRE WANTS A GIRL

II. LITTLE FLO

III. FLO'S KITTEN

IV. "WHAT'S IN A NAME?"

V. UPS AND DOWNS

VI. MRS. GOODENOUGH'S ADVICE

VII. CHERRIES

VIII. AT THE SEA-SIDE

IX. THE BIG BLACK DOG

X. FORGIVEN

CHAPTER I.

MRS. EYRE WANTS A GIRL.

"GOOD-EVENING, Mrs. Hardy," said a pleasant voice, as the speaker tapped with her hand upon the half-open door of Mrs. Hardy's cottage.

Mrs. Hardy was a washerwoman, and her visitor knew that sometimes there was but scant room in her kitchen for strangers; indeed, she often wondered how the children managed on a wet day, and how the little ones escaped scalds and burns. However, this being Friday evening, the actual work was over, and the big deal table was piled with heaps of snowy linen, which Mrs. Hardy and her daughter Martha were sorting out and packing in nice large baskets, ready to be carried home the next day.

"Oh, come in, Mrs. Eyre; you needn't be afraid of the wash-tubs or the hot irons to-day. We've finished everything, ma'am."

"And such lots of things," said Mrs. Eyre, as she took the seat offered her by Martha. "I am sure I don't know how you get through it all, Mrs. Hardy."

"Well, ma'am, it takes a power of method. When I first took up this business, often I had all the ironing to do on Saturday, or the most of it; and then 'twas hurry-scurry in the evening to get the things home. I used to get so worried that I fairly thought I'd die. And one Saturday morning, who should come in but your good mother, ma'am, that's in heaven now; and the pleasant way she had. There was I on that chair in the corner, crying, and all the children crying round me. So says she, 'My poor Hannah, are you fretting so badly yet?' I dried my eyes and felt ashamed—for she thought I was crying for my poor man that had died about a year before; and I had to confess that I was crying because I didn't see how to get the ironing done. But indeed I have too much talk—all this don't matter to you."

"Ah, but it does—anything about my dear mother matters to me. Go on with your work, Mrs. Hardy, and tell me the rest of your story. I'm very sure she helped you."

"That she did, ma'am. The place was in a mess, with half-done collars and cuffs on the chairs, and the rector's shirts piled on the table; some of the linen in the baskets, and more on the stool over there. Well, not a word did she say about that, though I knew she saw the untidy way the place was in well enough. Says she, 'The first thing, Hannah, is to get the ironing finished, and then you and I will have a talk. Suppose you send the children out, all but Annie and Matty, who can bring us the hot irons. I am a good ironer, and I'll help you all I can,' says she; and tucked up her sleeves and went to work as if she'd done nothing else all her life. So pleasant with the two girls too, with a word when they brought the irons, that they worked as willing as possible. And of course I wasn't idle; so, before I thought it could be done, the clothes were in the basket. Annie and Matty carried them off; and your dear mother sat down and talked to me."

"'It's all method, Hannah,' she says. 'People sometimes ask me how I get through so much work, and am never in a hurry; now it is just method,' says she. And before she left me she wrote out that paper that you see on the wall there. See, ma'am. 'Monday, collect the wash, put the things in soak, and boil such articles as must be boiled. Tuesday—' You see, ma'am? it's all laid out. 'And make your girls help you when they come home from school; it will be much better for them than running about idle; be pleasant with them, and they will like it well.' Ah, she was a great help to me that day, the dear lady."

"I think she had a willing hearer, Mrs. Hardy."

"Yes, ma'am, because she had a pleasant, kindly, friendly way. It wasn't, 'My good woman, your house is little better than a pigsty,' or, 'Hannah Hardy, why don't you manage a little better about your work?'—not she. Ah, a real lady she was, and a real friend to me."

"But people may often mean very kindly who have not my dear mother's pleasant ways. That kind of manner is a great gift, but some people have not got it, and that they cannot help. They must do the best they can."

"The best they could do, Mrs. Eyre, meaning no offence, would be to stay at home. Folks are only human after all, if they are washerwomen; and they have their feelings."

"Miss Posnett was very kind that time I had a bad whitlow," put in Martha.

"Who's named Miss Posnett?" inquired her mother. "Mind your manners, Matty, and name no names."

"All this time, Mrs. Hardy, I have not told you my errand here to-day. You know the doctors say that my little Flora must not be allowed to walk, or even to stand. She has never been strong since her bad fall. Neither will they allow her to be drawn about in a little carriage, because she gets so dreadfully cold. They say she must be carried. The consequence of this is that I must have a girl to help me, for I never could carry her—she is light enough, but I am not very strong. Now I remember what a comfort your Annie was to me during the short time I had her, and I want to know if you can spare me one of your other girls. It may be only for a time, for Flora may get well and strong again, but I would teach her as I taught Annie, and then when she leaves me she could get a good place, as Annie has done."

"Lady Drysdale says that Annie is a right good servant, and that even the grand nurse is pleased with her. Well, it would be the making of Matty, but I can't spare her, and that's the plain truth. Though I hate refusing you, ma'am."

"But is not Hetty fifteen? Older, I think, than Matty was when Annie came to me."

"No doubt, ma'am. But Matty was Matty, and Hetty is Hetty. There's a sight of difference in girls!"

"Mother," said Matty, "I know you could not spare me, and I shouldn't like to leave you. But if Mrs. Eyre would try Hetty. She is very strong, and very willing. Fond of children too, and used to them—very good-tempered Hetty is. Don't give Mrs. Eyre a bad opinion of poor Hetty, mother, for it's my belief she would do well."

Mrs. Hardy left off working and sat down, in a curiously divided frame of mind. Hetty had been peculiarly heedless and troublesome that whole week, and was just now crying in the bedroom behind the kitchen, after what her mother called "a raking good scolding." It was hard to keep silence, for she had been very angry, and yet she had a notion that Hetty might do better away from home, and from all the temptations to idleness that beset her there. Not that the girl was exactly idle, for she could work well, and liked to work, but let any one interrupt her, if it were only a kitten running into the kitchen, or a noise in the street, and the work was forgotten. Only last night she had been bringing a hot iron from the fire, when a fiddle struck up a doleful air outside, and Hetty clapped down the iron on the ironing blanket and ran out of the house. Mrs. Hardy had been apprised of her carelessness by the horrible smell of the burning blanket, in which there was, of course, a big hole. It was the last of many sins, and no one could deny that the "raking good scolding" was well deserved.

"Matty, are you in your right mind?" asked Mrs. Hardy.

"Yes, mother. If Hetty was in Mrs. Eyre's service, or carrying Miss Flo while Mrs. Eyre drew the little carriage, she would be safe enough. And she would do her best, and indeed, ma'am, Hetty is a good girl. Mother will tell you, she never was known to tell a lie yet."

"It is true enough," Mrs. Hardy admitted.

"There's not a bit of harm in Hetty. I'll even allow that she means well. But I couldn't find it in my conscience to recommend you to try her, ma'am. There's Mrs. Simmons' Emma, she's sixteen, and a steady girl."

"No, no; I will not have her. I heard Emma Simmons using such coarse, violent language to her brother the other day. I would not like my children to hear it."

"You will never hear a bad word from Hetty, ma'am," said Matty. "She is heedless, she does forget things, I know. But she's a good girl, that knows the Commandments, and wants to keep them; and mother knows that too. Will you see her, ma'am? I know she'd do well with you. Hetty, come here."

The door of the inner room opened—Hetty must have been pretty close to it. Out she came—a tall, well-made girl, much taller than neat little Matty. Mrs. Eyre knew her face very well, which was lucky, for just now any one might have objected to her, as likely to frighten the children. Her eyes were quite lost in her swollen eyelids and cheeks, her poor lips were swelled, her whole face was crimson, and her apron was soaking wet, having been freely cried into. Her stuff skirt was torn in several places, her calico bodice displayed two corking pins where buttons were wanting. Her thick, short, brown hair hung over her forehead; altogether, as she sneaked into the room and stood, ashamed to look up, she presented a most forlorn appearance.

"Hetty, did you hear what we were saying?" asked Matty.

"Yes; I couldn't help hearing."

The girl had a very sweet voice, and spoke nicely, Mrs. Eyre observed.

"You're a nice-looking article to be looking for a situation," remarked Mrs. Hardy. "Now, how often would you clap the child on the ground and run off, if you heard the squeak of Blind Davie's fiddle?"

"Mother, sure you know, when the children were little, 'twas always me that kept them best. I love little children, and I would never hurt one—and you know that, mother."

"Well, I don't think you would, to say true," answered the mother. "Try her for a month, Mrs. Eyre, without wages. Washing is a scattery trade, no doubt—takes a power of method. And Hetty has no method."

"Oh, do, Mrs. Eyre—please do! If—if—I didn't see—or hear—Oh, ma'am, do try me! I'll do my best to please you."

"Well, Hetty, I will try you. Come to me on Monday."

"To-morrow, ma'am, if you like. I could have her ready."

"Monday will do. Come early, Hetty. I will try you for a month, and after that, if you stay with me, I will pay you at the rate of five pounds a year, paid quarterly, and we will count this first month in your first quarter. You will have plenty to do, but you look strong and healthy, so you will not find it too much. But you must try to remember what I tell you to do."

"I will try, indeed, ma'am. I am real tired of always being wrong."

"Then good-bye until Monday. And don't cry any more, Hetty; crying never did any good yet. If you will remember that you are one of Christ's servants as well as mine, and that to please Him should be your first thought, I am sure you will get over your heedless ways. Good-bye, Mrs. Hardy. I must go now."

But Mrs. Hardy followed her visitor out of the house and shut the door.

"I wouldn't let her go to you, ma'am, only I do think she may do well with you. She is fond of children, and children take to her at once. My little Bob, that was a sickly baby, was never so good as when Hetty had him. And I know things go on here that take her mind off her work. People coming and going, and the door obliged to be kept open, and all. She may be more correct-like when there's none of that going on. But don't you be soft with her. She's a girl that takes a deal of scolding, and I'm just afraid you are not one to give her enough of it. And if you praise her, ma'am, her head's turned directly. She's not a bit like Annie; so don't expect it."

"Ah, well, I will try her for a month, Mrs. Hardy. I can promise no more than that."

"Nor would I ask more, ma'am. Good-bye, ma'am, and thank you. If you tame our Hetty,—Heedless Hetty, as our boys call her,—I'll say you could do anything."

"I shall try to make her tame herself, Mrs. Hardy."

"She'll never do that, ma'am."

"Ah, Mrs. Hardy, you don't remember that she will not have to do it in her own strength. That would be too much for any of us. But think of the words, 'If any lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth liberally, and upbraideth not.' My mother said to me once, 'The difficulty does not lie so much in your faults as in the fact that you do not see that they are sins; and even when you do see this, you do not go the right way to be cured of them; for nothing but the love of God shed abroad in our hearts by His Holy Spirit can cure the least fault.' But I must really get home now; so good-bye, Mrs. Hardy."

Mrs. Hardy went indoors again. She found that the two girls had finished putting the things into the baskets, and she did not observe that Hetty, in the hurry of her mind, had put three heavy sheets on the top of Miss Posnett's stiff collars and frilled nightcaps. But when Miss Posnett sent those articles back on Monday, it was well for Hetty that she was out of the way.

"Hetty," began Mrs. Hardy, "you are in luck for once, and I hope you're aware of it. Mrs. Eyre ain't rich, but a lady down to her very shoes, and she'll be kind to you. If you lose this chance, I think you'd better emigrate to some savage place where folk won't mind your wild ways; only mind they're no cannibals, for you're plump and young, and if they found you of no use, they might think it better to eat you."

"Mother! how can you?" cried Hetty.

"Take off that dress now, and give it a good patching. Matty, look up all her things; we must mend and wash them. And then I'll go and buy her some neat aprons. Oh, dear, look at her Sunday frock! Did you sleep in it, Hetty? Here, Matty—your fingers are cleverer than mine; mend this, like a good girl. Even if we get her back in a week, let us send her out decent."

CHAPTER II.

LITTLE FLO.

IF Hetty had been allowed to follow her own way, she would have gone to Adelaide Terrace at six o'clock in the morning, to show her zeal, but her mother would not hear of it.

"You'd find her in bed, most likely, and some one would have to get up to let you in. No; at nine Mr. Eyre goes off to his business, and you be there soon after nine. Try and keep out of mischief till then—if you can."

As the clock struck nine, Matty and Hetty set out together, carrying between them the small wooden, paper-covered box which contained Hetty's very modest outfit. She could easily have carried it alone, but Matty thought it looked better between them, and perhaps was not sorry to make sure that Heedless Hetty went at once to her new home, and reached it in a presentable state. Hetty had cried, of course, when saying good-bye to her mother and brothers, but for all that she was in fine spirits, and full to the lips of the most excellent resolutions.

"Matty," said she, "you tell Dan that he may leave off calling me Heedless Hetty. I mean to learn to be a good servant, as Annie did; and when I come home, it's Handy Hetty that Dan will be calling me."

"Look where you're going! There now! You've stepped into that puddle—the only one in the road—and dirted your shoe, that Dan blacked so lovely for you!"

"Oh, so I have! Wait! I must rub it off," cried Hetty, and setting down her end of the box into the puddle which had already soiled her shoe, she ran to the side of the road, where she had espied some grass.

"Well, of all the girls!" said Matty to herself, as she tried to see if the box was very wet. "Heedless Hetty will suit well enough yet a bit. Come along; there'll be a scraper and a mat at Mrs. Eyre's, and if I could see you safe there, I'd be glad."

Hetty came back, looking a little ashamed of herself. She did not refer to her message to Dan, and in a few moments they reached No. 1, Adelaide Terrace.

"Set the box down on the step. Give me a kiss, Hetty. Dear heart! Do try to do well here. Mind, if you don't, even I must allow that it is your own fault, and you'll never be worth anything if you don't take hold now and mind what you're about. You've got all your senses like other girls, and it is high time you began to use them."

"I do try, Matty. I never mean to do wrong. But somehow I do forget things so easily."

"Because you don't try to keep your mind fixed on what you're doing, and so you're at the mercy of every little thing that happens. Just heedless—that's about it, Hetty dear. Do you ever pray to be made heedful?"

"Oh, Matty! I'd never think of asking such a thing. I pray to be made good, and holy, and kept from saying bad words, like Emma Simmons, or stealing, like—"

"Now listen, Hetty. You've no temptations to do those things, thanks to your good, careful mother. It's just as if a railway man in the station down yonder should pray that he might not be drowned, when there is not so much as a pond in the place big enough to hold him, and never give a thought to the real dangers he lives among. You pray for what you really want, Hetty. That kind of prayer is only words. Promise me you will, dear—quick! For I must ring now."

"I'll try. Oh, Matty, whatever shall I do without you? I wish—"

But the door opened, and the figure of an ancient dame, who spent her mornings in doing Mrs. Eyre's rough work, appeared before them.

"So here's our new nursemaid," said she, laughing at Hetty's dolorous face. "Which of you is coming here?"

"This is Hetty," said the elder sister.

"Ah, I wish it was you," was the reply.

Hetty would have felt less abashed had she known that the speaker would have made the same remark if Matty had been the new maid.

"Good-bye, Hetty. I'll try to see you some evening; but you know we'll be very busy, wanting your help."

Matty lifted the box into the hall, pushed her sister in very gently, and went quickly away. Hetty felt and looked very forlorn; and, but for the amused smile on Mrs. Goodenough's wrinkled face, she would have begun to cry again. But now a door opened, and Mrs. Eyre, with her baby in her arms, came into the narrow hall.

"Hetty, how nice and early you have come! Leave your box there for the present, and come here to Miss Flo; she is very anxious to see you."

She led Hetty into the parlour, where all her children were assembled. There were four—two little girls, a boy of about three, and the baby, who was a boy also.

The eldest girl, whom they called Lina, was a pretty, active, healthy-looking little maiden, about six years old, very good-tempered, and very fond of her own way—which, after all, is not a very uncommon liking. Then came Flora, who was five, but such a tiny creature that it was hard to believe that she was so old. Little Edgar, the eldest boy, was quite as big and far heavier than this poor wee fairy. She lay on a sofa near the window, and her small face, which was usually very grave and pathetic in its sad patience, was all alive now with anxiety and curiosity. She had lovely dark eyes and pretty brown curls, but her face was too white and pinched to be called pretty, though she had been a lovely baby. She fixed her eyes on Hetty's face, and a little shy, timid smile crept over her own; then she said, in a soft, clear little voice,—

"Is this Hetty? Oh, mamma, she looks kind. I shall not be afraid of Hetty."

She spoke quite plainly and distinctly, much more so than did Lina, who often gabbled so fast that it was hard to understand her.

"This is Hetty, who will carry my little Flo so safely that there will be nothing to be afraid of. My little Flo—she likes Hetty, I think."

"I like Hetty. Her eyes look kind. Please, Hetty, stoop and kiss me. Will you be kind, Hetty, and patient with me? I'm sometimes peevish, I'm afraid."

"Kind? Oh, Miss Flora, that I will!" said Hetty earnestly.

"But don't cry, Hetty. Why should you cry?"

"Well, miss, you see I've just said good-bye to my sister. But I won't cry," Hetty answered, with a choke in her voice. The sight of the child had touched her soft heart.