Re-creations

by Grace Livingston Hill

The blankets were cleanly steaming on the line in half an hour more, and she glanced at the clock. A whole hour had gone, and she must hasten. She sped back upstairs, and went to work again, dragging out the furniture to the hall, picking up books and magazines from the floor, till the room was stark and empty save for cigarette stumps. She surveyed them in disgust, and then assailed the room with brushes, brooms, and mop. She threw the windows wide open, and swept the walls down vigorously. Before her onslaught dust and ashes disappeared, and even the dismal wall-paper took on a brighter hue.

“It’s got to come off and be repapered or painted some pretty, soft, pastel shade,” she threatened in an undertone to herself as she surveyed the room after soap and water had done their best on floor, woodwork, and windows. She was looking at the bleary wall-paper with a troubled frown.

Of course she couldn’t do everything in a day, but Carey’s room must be clean and inviting before she would be satisfied. No wonder he stayed out late nights, or didn’t come home at all, perhaps, with such a room as that. There ought to be more windows, too. What a pity the builder had been so stingy with them! It was a dark, ugly hole; and there was no need for it, for the room occupied the whole end, and could have had openings on three sides and been delightful.

Suddenly she began to feel a great weariness stealing over her, and tears coming into her eyes. She was overwhelmed with all that was before her. She sat down on the upper stair, and looked about her discouragedly. All these things to be put somewhere! And time going so fast! Then she remembered her bread, and with an exclamation rushed down to put it into the pans.

It had risen almost to the top of the breadraiser, and with a mental apology for her forgetfulness she hastened to mold it out into loaves and put it into the greased tins. When it was neatly tucked up under a bit of old linen, she had found in the sideboard drawer, she began to prepare the meat for dinner and put it on to cook, a beautiful big pot-roast. She deftly seared it with an onion in a hot frying-pan, and put it to simmer in boiling water with the rinsings of the browned pan, being careful to recall all her mother’s early instruction on the subject. She could remember that pot-roast was always a favorite dish at home, and she herself had been longing for a taste of real home-cooked pot-roast ever since she had been away.

She fixed the fire carefully so that the meat would simmer just enough, and not boil too hard and make it tough, and gave a despairing glance at the clock. How fast the minutes flew! She ought to go back upstairs, but it was a quarter to three, and she wanted to get the table set for dinner before she left, so that the dining-room would have a pleasant look to the children when they came home. She was quite breathless and excited over their coming. She felt as if she would be almost embarrassed before them after the conversation she had overheard in the morning.

So she attacked the dining-room with broom and duster, wiped off the window-panes, and straightened the shade, swept away a mass of miscellaneous articles from the clock-shelf, cleared off the sideboard, hunted out a clean old linen cover, polished the mirror, and found a clean tablecloth. But the tablecloth had a great hole in it, and fifteen valuable minutes were wasted in finding a patch and setting it hastily in place with a needle and thread that also had to be hunted for. Then some of the dishes had to be washed before they were fit for use, as they were covered with dust from packing; and all together it was five minutes to four before Cornelia finally had that table set to her satisfaction, and could stand back for a brief minute and take it in with tired but shining eyes. Would they notice the difference and be a little glad that she had come? They had taken her for a lazy snob in the morning. Would they feel any better about it now?

And the table did look pretty. It was set as a table should be set, with dishes and glasses and silver in the correct places, and napkins neatly folded; and in the centre was a small pot of pink primroses in full bloom. For it would not have been Cornelia if there had not been a bit of decoration about somewhere, and it was like Cornelia when she went out to market, and thought of meat and bread and milk and butter and all the other necessities, to think also of that bit of brightness and refinement, and go into a small flower-shop she was passing to get this pretty primrose.

Then in panic the weary big sister brought out one loaf of gingerbread, cut several generous slices, left it on the sideboard in a welcome attitude, and fled upstairs to finish Carey’s room.

Five minutes later, as she was struggling with the bedsprings trying to bring them into conjunction with the headboard, she heard their hurrying feet, and, leaning from the window, called: