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But that was not Ernestine's nature: she was not artistic nor temperamental, as Milly often proved to her. In her dumb, heavy fashion she still tried to prop up the ill-fated Cake Shop and make it pay expenses at least, in one way or another. The time came, as it must come, when even this was more than Ernestine could compass.
She felt that her present life with the Laundryman offered her no outlet for her powers, and this was the period when she became fertile in launching schemes for which she displayed a few weeks' intense enthusiasm that gradually died out before Ernestine's chilly good sense. One of the first of these enthusiasms was "Squabs."
Their faces were pale and tear-stained for many days; and only Olive, whose self-control was greatest, could venture into Ernestine's presence, without bursting into tears, and having to beat a hasty retreat.
Ernestine's first view of the market-place filled her with amazement. The lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, and the yelling of men combined to make such a confusion of sound that she felt bewildered, even awestruck. Mrs. Perkiss went straight to the oldest inn in the place and put up the cart. She was there to buy, not to sell.
A face like a fresh lily, and beautiful brown eyes, the sweetest voice, and the vainest little heart ever known to a girl of fifteen, had Ernestine Dering; and yet she was a favorite, with all her little vanities, and home, without Ernestine's face, would have been blank to all the girls. She came running up the steps and stopped. "Oh, Olive, such laces!" she cried, with a longing sigh.
Only a few minutes later, Kittie came into the dining-room for something, and on going back, failed to close the door, so that the murmur of voices came quite distinctly out to the quiet kitchen. A discussion was warmly in progress, and in a minute Olive started out of her reverie at hearing her name spoken. "What's the use? Olive knows, or ought to know better." It was Ernestine's voice.
Ernestine's fondness for Milly's visitors was not due to any vulgar desire to push herself into superior circles, merely a human curiosity about these members of another world and a pathetic admiration for their refinement. With the same attitude she was painstakingly, if shyly, improving her table manners and her speech.
Gradually it began to systematise itself, and Ernestine's good sense, her earnestness, which was fairly devotion, her respect for every one's knowledge and gratitude for all help to say nothing of her eyes and smile and voice slowly penetrated even the conservatism of science. Dr. Parkman did not neglect her.
It must be so nice to be an artist; you'll be a great one, some day, won't you?" "I want to be," answered Olive, who had lately learned that nothing so threw Jean into raptures, as to be appealed to, and confided in. "After I learn to draw heads just as nicely as possible, I am going to sketch yours and Ernestine's for mama." "Are you really?" exclaimed Jean in delight, "and like that one?"
"To be sure, go on," said Bea with interest and creasing down a hem with much satisfaction in the thought that her hands looked very pretty and white, almost as pretty as Ernestine's.
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