ERNESTINE.
"Mamma," asked Ernestine Alroy, "may I ask the girls to have their next
meeting here and take tea with us?"
Mrs. Alroy looked at her daughter with some hesitation as she
said: "Ernestine, you know I would like to please you, but have you
sufficiently considered the matter? All of your friends are very
comfortably situated, and it will be impossible for us to entertain them
as they do you. Besides, I cannot be at home until after six, and it
will make tea very late."
"I know all that, mamma, but I am sure I can make them have a pleasant
time. I do not think we ought to be ashamed of being poor, when we think
of the One who 'had not where to lay His head.' For your sake, poor
mamma, I wish we had more money; but as for myself, I feel just as happy
as if we were worth millions. I don't care a bit whether my friends
have money or not, and I don't see why it should make any difference to
anybody."
"My poor child!" said her mother, and she sighed as she remembered
that at Ernestine's age she had never even seen apartments so poorly
furnished as theirs, "you have much to learn; you will find that there
are many people in the world to whom it will make a great deal of
difference."
"Well, mamma, we don't care for the Madame Mucklegrands of the world,
and Winnie Burton and all of her folks are as 'real folks' as any in
Mrs. Whitney's book. Do let us have them!"
"Well, dear, I don't exactly like to have you accept hospitalities which
we are not willing to return, and if you think you can make it pleasant
for your friends, you shall do as you wish."
The next day, therefore, Ernestine told the four girls that her mother
sent her compliments and would be much pleased to have them to tea on
Friday evening. In the afternoon the girls all accepted, and Fannie said
that if agreeable to Mrs. Alroy, her father would call for them at nine
o'clock and see them home.
After school that day, as Fannie and Ernestine were walking down Court
Street together, they met a little girl, dirty and uncombed, carrying a
basket of soiled clothes. Two of the boys of their class, racing wildly
down the street, boy-fashion, ran against the child, upset the basket,
and the clothes, not being very tightly packed, fell out. There was
quite a strong wind, and some of the napkins and handkerchiefs lying
loose on top were caught up and sent blowing here, there and everywhere.
The boys ran on, totally indifferent, if not unconscious. The child,
commencing to cry, gave chase to the wind-blown articles, and the basket
rolled entirely over, and nearly every article fell out.
Fannie stood laughing, her sense of the ridiculous overcoming any pity
she might have felt for the girl. Ernestine hesitated a moment. She was
daintiness itself, and the sight of the soiled clothes, belonging to no
one knew whom, was not an attractive one. But for three years she had
been earnestly striving to follow the Golden Rule, so she righted the
basket, picked up the soiled clothes, rolled them together more tightly,
and replaced them in the basket by the time the child returned with the
recaptured napkins. She also helped put these in, and with a few kind
words sent the girl on her way far happier than she would have been if
obliged to struggle with her burden alone.
Fannie had moved on some distance, much ashamed of being mixed up in
such a scene to even so slight a degree, and feeling inclined to
leave Ernestine entirely, for she knew that her mother would have
characterized the whole affair as "plebeian," and she felt half angry
with Ernestine.
[Illustration: Ernestine righted the basket.--See page 46.]
When the latter rejoined her, she said with some irritation, "However
could you touch those horrid, dirty clothes or go near that dirty
child?"
"I didn't like to touch them," said Ernestine simply; "but Christ did a
great many things he did not like to do."
"Well, you are a queer girl, Ernestine! I'm sure I can't make up my mind
that it is my duty to be pleasant to every dirty little beggar who comes
along. There might have been small-pox in those clothes!"
Ernestine smiled at that, but made no reply, and the two walked on in
silence till they reached the corner where they separated.
Fannie went on, swinging her books by the strap, and thinking that dirt
could not be so repulsive to Ernestine as to her; but if she could have
seen Ernestine go straight to the kitchen sink the minute she reached
home, before she stopped to touch anything, Fannie might have realized
something of the self-restraint her friend had exercised in the matter.
But few of us can be brought to believe that things we find unpleasant
are often quite as unpleasant to other people.
Friday afternoon came, and five o'clock found the four girls entering a
side yard in a pleasant if not an aristocratic neighborhood. They went
up the stairs leading from a side hall, and were met at the top by
Ernestine, who was holding open the door.
She led them into a tiny bedroom, not much larger than a closet, but
scrupulously dainty and clean, from the white spread and pillows on the
bed to the fresh towels hanging on the rack above the washstand.
Here she helped the girls remove their wraps, and then they went into
the adjoining room, which was a pleasant surprise, particularly to
Fannie. So pretty and pleasant and homelike it appeared that, at first,
it almost seemed elegant, until one had time to observe that there was
not an expensive article in the room. The floor was covered with a blue
and white checked matting, the chairs and rockers were simply "cane,"
and the only piece of upholstered furniture was the lounge. But there
were some engravings, plainly framed; hanging baskets at both of the
windows; a window-box of lilies-of-the-valley, just beginning to bloom,
and in the other window a similar box of mignonette, which filled the
whole room with its delicate fragrance.
A bright fire blazed in the grate, and the four girls felt at home more
quickly than they had done at either of the two places of their previous
meetings, probably because Ernestine was their only hostess, her mother
not yet having returned from the store.
A late magazine lay on the table, together with a copy of that charming
story, "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and Mrs. Whitney's "We Girls" and "Real
Folks." Winnie could not help picking them up to see what they were, and
it turned out that all of the girls except Gretta had read them, so they
immediately began talking about them.
"Mamma and papa and brother Jack took turns in reading 'Fauntleroy'
aloud to us when it came out in the magazine," said Winnie, "and for a
day or two in each month we hardly talked of anything else."
"I liked the scene of the dinner party best, when the little lord talked
to the guests, but stayed close beside the pretty lady and paid her such
cunning compliments," said Fannie.
"I enjoyed reading about him in the grocery store with Mr. Hobbs," said
Miriam. "I can see them now; Hobbs was so funny! My sister said he was
more of a child than the little hero of the story."
"I think I liked him best when he was with his grandfather," said
Ernestine; "it was lovely of him to think that wicked old man was so
good."
"My mother says that every child in the land, and particularly every
boy, ought to read that story, if for no other reason than to learn
what it is to be a real gentleman and a real lady. She says no depths of
poverty could ever have made 'Dearest' and her son anything else."
"I was just about frantic," said Fannie, "when I began to be afraid he
wasn't the heir after all. It seemed horrid to think that that rough
woman's son should own those fine lands and the title, and I felt almost
as glad when it turned out all right as if he had been one of my nearest
friends."
"I wish I read more," said Gretta. "I do love my music; and if I didn't,
I'd have to keep it up all the same. But I would like to read the book
you are talking about."
"You may take it," said Ernestine, "and keep it just as long as you
wish."
"Speaking of borrowing books," said Miriam, "reminds me that I did the
most dreadful thing to-day. Miss Carter had lent me Mrs. Gaskel's 'Life
of Charlotte Bronte,' and I had just returned it yesterday, feeling very
grateful, for I think it is nice in Miss Carter to take an interest in
so many girls. I should think she would just get to hating us, for it is
the same thing year in and year out, and most of us are so trying.
"But although I love her dearly, you know how angry she gets, and
she was giving Josie Thompson such a lecture about there being no
punctuation in her composition, and then she read a paragraph as it was
punctuated--just 'like commas and periods shaken out of a pepper-box,'
she said. The subject was 'Joan of Arc,' and Josie, as usual, had
rather a mixed idea of her character, and what Miss Carter read sounded
something like this:
"'Joan of Arc, was a poor, girl who heard a great many, ghost stories
and these turned her head and she imagined, that, it would be a great
deal more fun to lead soldiers. To battle in the war. With England than
to be spending her time tending sheep? on the mountains she thought she
would enjoy herself better.'
"That last was so much like Josie--who, as you know, is always talking
about enjoying herself--that I could hardly keep in, and when Josie made
a mouth at Miss Carter the minute her back was turned, three or four of
us giggled out loud, and Miss Carter stopped lecturing Josie and turned
her wrath on us.
"That was yesterday, but this morning the whole affair was still fresh
in my memory, and three or four of the girls in Miss Brownlow's room
happening to come about the same time that I did, I began to tell them
about it. I began in a high key, a great deal worse than Miss Carter
ever uses, although she does pitch her voice very high when she is
vexed. I said:
"'Miss Thompson, I am surprised at you; in fact, I am more than
surprised. It almost passes belief that a girl should begin to study
punctuation almost as soon as her school life begins, as in our schools,
and after six or seven years should not be able even to use a period, to
say nothing of the more complicated marks; to know nothing, absolutely
nothing, of her own language.'
"Here I interrupted myself to show them the kind of mouth Josie made,
and of course they all laughed, for they know how her mouth and nose go
up at every little thing. Then I went on.
"Miss Carter didn't see the mouth that Josie made, and she caught us
laughing, and said, 'Can it be possible that there are girls in this
class, girls of good rank and standing, and of moderately good behavior,
who can laugh, yes, actually laugh, at the ignorance of one of their
school-mates? Something is wrong, radically wrong,'--and here I made the
gesture she always makes when she says 'radically wrong,' and--what do
you think? There she stood, right behind me!"
"What did she do?" asked Fannie.
"Do? She didn't do anything, and I half thought she was smiling. But I
felt as if I would like to sink through the floor, I was so mortified.
And only yesterday I was walking down the street with her, talking
to her as if I thought her my best friend! She'll think I'm a perfect
hypocrite."
"Why don't you apologize?" asked Gretta.
"I can't go and apologize to someone for making fun of her as soon as
her back is turned, can I? And I really didn't intend to make fun of
Miss Carter, either; it was only that the whole affair seemed amusing to
me."
"She probably understands, and does not think any more about it," said
Ernestine. "But now, if you'll excuse me, I'll have to go into the
kitchen for a few minutes; or perhaps you'll come, too."
"Oh, we'd like to come, if we won't be in the way," said Fannie. So they
all trooped into the kitchen.
What a tiny box of a place it was, to be sure! When all five of the
girls were there, there was not room for anybody else. Fannie and Gretta
squeezed close to each other on the box beside the window, Miriam sat on
a chair in one corner, and Winnie stood in the doorway between the two
rooms, watching Ernestine, and thinking how cross she had been only
a week or two before because she had to do a little cooking in the
morning, while Ernestine had to do it every day and go to school beside.
But Ernestine did everything so easily and pleasantly that it was a
pleasure to watch her. She did her cooking on a little oil stove, and
there seemed so little to be done--for Mrs. Alroy and Ernestine had
prepared things the day before--that her young visitors could not feel
as if it were a bit of trouble to entertain them. It was as nice as a
play, too, to see her cut the potatoes in delicate, thin slices and drop
them into the boiling fat, and see them come out delightfully crisp and
brown.
Then the girls all followed her into the sitting-room, laughing and
chattering as only girls can, while Ernestine set the table. The table
linen was white and fine, and the cups and saucers were real old china,
these being about the only things which Mrs. Alroy had saved from her
past grandeur.
Everything was ready and on the table, except the food which was to be
served hot, when Mrs. Alroy came in, looking tired and reserved. She
disappeared for a few moments into the bedroom, and when she came out,
seeming somewhat refreshed, they all sat down to the table.
To the surprise of the girls, Ernestine, in her simple, unaffected
manner, asked a blessing on what was set before them. It seemed queer to
them that if it were to be done at all, it should not be by Mrs. Alroy.
But Ernestine's mother was not yet perfectly resigned to what had come
upon her, and it was that, perhaps--yes, certainly--which made her
burden so hard to bear; but at least she did not interfere with
Ernestine in these matters.
The girls were hungry, and everything tasted delicious, from the sliced
cold ham and the potatoes which they had seen Ernestine frying, to the
dessert of ice-cream and cake.
When supper was over, the girls begged to be allowed to clear off the
table, and Ernestine washed the dishes as they brought them out, while
Winnie wiped them.
Mrs. Alroy sat down and glanced over the newspaper. Fannie watched
her curiously, and privately came to the conclusion that she was the
proudest woman she had ever seen. This conviction came to her with
something of a shock, for she had heretofore supposed that pride and
wealth and fine living belonged together. She furthermore came to
the conclusion that while pride might be fine, it was not especially
charming, for though Mrs. Alroy had been pleasant when the girls were
presented to her, her manner had been only polite, not interested.
When the girls had finished washing and putting away the supper
things, she roused herself and talked with them about their school and
amusements, but as soon as Ernestine returned, excused herself and went
into the little room and closed the door. Ernestine followed her, with a
troubled look on her usually calm face. When she returned, she said:
"Mamma has a severe headache, and begs to be excused for awhile, but
hopes to feel better before you go home."
"We were all to have a text or a verse to-night, weren't we?" asked
Fannie. "The only thing I could find was our Golden Text for last
Sunday, 'Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth.' I spoke to
papa about it, and, although he is not very religious, he said he didn't
believe there was any better way of remembering our Creator than by
trying to do what was right, and he was glad to see that I was thinking
about such things."
"Mamma says there are very few things said in the Bible about the
dangers of delay," said Winnie, "but she gave me this one from Proverbs:
'Boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may
bring forth.'"
"I couldn't find anything in the Bible," said Miriam, "but I found a
poem by Adelaide Procter which I copied, thinking you might like to hear
it all, as I scarcely knew which verse to select. I will read it to you:
"Rise! for the day is passing,
And you lie dreaming on;
The others have buckled their armor,
And forth to the fight are gone.
A place in the ranks awaits you,
Each man has some part to play;
The Past and the Future are nothing,
In the face of the stern To-day.
"Rise from your dreams of the Future,--
Of gaining some hard-fought field;
Of storming some airy fortress,
Or bidding some giant yield;
Your Future has deeds of glory,
Of honor (God grant it may)!
But your arm will never be stronger,
Or the need so great as To-day.
"Rise! for the day is passing;
The sound that you scarcely hear,
Is the enemy marching to battle;
Arise! for the foe is here!
Stay not to sharpen your weapons,
Or the hour will strike at last,
When, from dreams of a coming battle,
You may wake to find it past!"
"How much better we understand things than we did three months ago!"
said Winnie. "I used to dream of the grand things I was going to do
when I grew up." Then she added, blushing a little as she remembered
her cross Saturday morning, "I do yet, sometimes, but I don't think I
neglect quite so many things as I used to."
"I never had much chance either to neglect things or to dream," said
Gretta, "for papa or mamma or my sister was always reminding me that
it was time to do this or that or the other. But I am beginning now to
think of some of my faults. I couldn't find anything for this afternoon,
except the Memory Gem we learned in the First Reader. You know I don't
read a great deal myself, and we all seem to have so much to do at our
house; when it isn't something else, it's practice, practice, practice!
Even this little verse I don't suppose I should have remembered if I
hadn't heard the children reciting it at the 'Colony':
"One thing at a time,
And that done well,
Is a very good rule,
As many can tell."
"Why, that's the very thing, Gretta! I'm surprised that none of the rest
of us thought of it. How queer that the same piece of advice, in one
form or another, has been given to us ever since we were little girls,
and that we have just begun to realize what it all means!" said Fannie.
"What have you, Ernestine?" said Miriam.
"I took mine from Ecclesiastes," was the reply. "'When thou vowest a vow
unto the Lord, defer not to pay it.'"
"I like that, too," said Gretta; "but I think Miss Benton's pretty card
is helping me more than anything else."
"I think that was lovely, too," said Fannie. "I liked the story ever
so much, but it will be nice for us to do as she suggested, and take
a motto this week. How would it do to take the one Winnie brought? It
seems the easiest for us to understand."
So they all learned it, and, at Miriam's suggestion, added the verse
that Gretta had recited.
Mrs. Alroy came back into the sitting-room just as the girls had
finished reading their mottoes, and, though her eyes looked heavy, as if
she were suffering, she joined the little band, and told them that she
thought they were adopting a very good plan to help them over the rough
places of life, and perhaps also enable them to make fewer mistakes than
they might otherwise do.
While she was talking to them, footsteps were heard coming up the
stairs.
"That's papa, I think," said Fannie, and she went with Ernestine to the
door.
Ernestine had seen Mr. Allen often, for he was one of the trustees of
their school, but of course Mrs. Alroy had never met him, so the girls
led him through the narrow hall into the room beyond.
Mrs. Alroy met him at the door and extended her hand, as Fannie said,
"My papa, Mrs. Alroy."
Mr. Allen seated himself, at Mrs. Alroy's invitation, while the girls
went to get on their wraps. As they talked of the weather and the usual
subjects discussed by strangers, Mr. Allen looked at the lady in rather
a puzzled manner, as if wondering where he had seen her before. Finally
he said:
"Excuse me, Mrs. Alroy, but may I ask what was your maiden name?"
She told him, but rather coldly, as if she considered the question
impertinent.
He read her thought well enough, but unhesitatingly continued:
"The Van Ortons of New York?"
"Of New York, yes."
"I thought so; it must be one of your brothers whom you so strongly
resemble. I could not think whom you were like, the day of the
celebration over at the school-house, but that, I see, was what puzzled
me. I know your brother and his family quite well. I have had business
relations with him for years, which have been very pleasant ones."
"I am glad to meet someone who has seen my brother recently. I have seen
no member of my family for years; it has been impossible for me to go
home, and my circumstances have been such that I have managed to prevent
their visiting me, for I had no desire to have them do so. Should you
have any communication with him, I ask as a favor that my name may not
be mentioned."
"Your wishes, of course, will be respected, madam," the gentleman
replied courteously.
The girls appeared at this moment, ready for the walk home, and Mr.
Allen rose, adding:
"Permit me to thank you for the pleasure you have given my daughter, and
to express the wish that you will allow her to make a return soon." Then
they took their departure.
Ernestine went into the little kitchen to prepare things for breakfast,
and when she came back she was shocked to find her mother sobbing
violently. It frightened her, too, for though her mother was never very
cheerful, the girl seldom saw her shed tears.
"Mother dear, what is it?" she said. "Have I been selfish? Was the
evening too much for you?"
"Selfish? No, dear," was the reply. "I am the selfish one, and I am
grateful to know that you have such perfect faith and hope that all is
well. Otherwise your young life would have been darkened long ago by
my constant sorrow and regret. Poor child! It is a hard life for one so
young."
"But, mother, some day you will be happy again."
"I hope so, dear," replied Mrs. Alroy. But she thought to herself that
there was nothing in this world that could make life endurable to her,
unless she could forget. And that, to her proud, sensitive nature,
seemed impossible.