They dashed about the brass fender; they whacked the blacklead brush against the oven-door at every turn; they set down the zinc pail with a ringing thud, and then scoured the hearth with zeal enough to take off half an inch of stone surface; they polished the brass fire-irons with some concoction of bath-brick and salt which they invented on the spot, as they couldn’t find any metal polish; they banged the hearthrug out of doors till the surrounding hills reverberated with the echoes; they rinked the carpet-sweeper up and down till it made me dizzy to listen; and as this was not thorough enough for Ursula, she also got a short stiff brush and apparently pommelled out any dust that might be under the settle and in other obscure corners; they dusted with equal energy, and then went off into the kitchen to consult about the breakfast menu, while the kettle chose the opportunity to boil all over the fire, thereby raising clouds of white ash that settled on everything, and they said, “Oh, dear! Just look at it.”
Finally, I heard the white cloth being flapped over the table; cups and saucers and plates were chinked and rattled off the dresser; knives and forks and spoons jingled on to the table, and I knew that breakfast was well under way. It was just then that Virginia put her head through the staircase-door to ask—in moderated tones calculated not to disturb me should I still be slumbering!—was I awake?
Hastily hopping out on to the rug, I replied that I was “nearly dressed, and would be down in a minute.”
“No hurry,” she replied artlessly, “we’ve only just come down ourselves, and are going to see to breakfast. But what I want to know is: Where do you keep your frying-pan?”
“Hanging on its proper nail in the kitchen,” I replied.
“Well, it isn’t there. . . . No, it isn’t on the saucepan shelf, either—we’ve hunted everywhere. . . . But Abigail didn’t use it yesterday—don’t you remember? We had boiled eggs, and some of that cold ham we brought with us. . . . All right, we can just as well have eggs again. . . . That’s true, we shan’t want bacon, with that pork coming for dinner; but be quick, as the kettle’s boiling now. . . . Oh, it’s not a bit of trouble.”
Whether it was due to the sunshine, or to the tonic of the air, or to the virtuous feeling that always overtakes those who get up early in the morning and disturb everyone else, I cannot say; but at any rate Ursula announced that she intended to start right in, immediately after breakfast, and give the whole cottage a thorough spring cleaning.
The domesticities of the morning seemed to have whetted her appetite for such matters, and she said she felt she must give the place a “Dutch” turn-out, and have every shelf and stool and all the pots and pans scrubbed and scoured and tilted out of doors to dry, as they do in Holland.