“It’s just like having mother again,” said Louise fervently as she kissed her sister goodby and ran to catch Harry, who was already half-way to the corner.
Cornelia held the thought of those words in her heart, and cherished them over against the words she had heard from her young brother and sister the day before; and it comforted her. She watched them until they were out of sight, and then with a sigh climbed the stairs to Carey’s room. But Carey was locked in heavy slumber, with a flushed face and heavy breathing. She pinned up a paper to keep out the light, threw the eider-down quilt over him, and opened the window wide. Then she tiptoed away and left him. There was no use doing anything now. The fumes of liquor were still about him, and the heavy breath of cigarettes. She felt a deep horror and disgust in her soul as she thought about her brother, and tried to work out a plan for saving him as she went about clearing off the breakfast table and washing the dishes.
There was plenty of meat for dinner that night, and lots of gravy left. She would need to think only about vegetables and a dessert. Chocolate blanc-mange would be good. She would make it at once and set it on the ice. Then, when the milkman came, she must remember to get a small bottle of cream to eat with it. By and by she would run down to the store and get a few carrots and a stalk of celery, and stew them together. That made a good combination. No, that wouldn’t do, either, too much sweetness, carrots and blanc-mange. A can of tomatoes cooked with two onions and a little celery would be better. That she could put on in the middle of the afternoon. There was plenty of pancake batter left for Carey and herself for lunch. She fixed the griddle far back on the range, and set the batter in the refrigerator. Then she went with swift steps to the disordered front room.
She went to work unpacking the boxes and setting things in order in the hall and the dining-room. She discovered many needed kitchen utensils and some more dishes, and these she washed and put away. It was discouraging work, and somehow she did not seem to have accomplished much when at eleven o’clock she straightened up from a deep packing-box from which she had removed the last article, and looked about her. Piles of things everywhere, and not a spot to walk anywhere! When would she ever get done? A great weariness from her overwork of the day before was upon her, and she wanted to sit down in the midst of the heaps and cry. It was just then in her weakness that the thought of college came upon her, college with its clean orderliness, its regular places for things, its delightful circle of companions, its interesting work, never any burden or hurry or worry.
Just at this hour the classes were filing into the halls and going to new work. If she were back there, she would be entering her psychology class, and looking at the blackboard for the announcement of the day’s work assigned to each member of the class. Instead of that here she was in the midst of an unending task, hopeless and weary and frightfully discouraged. A tear of self-pity began to steal out, and she might have been weeping in a minute more if she had not been suddenly arrested in her thoughts by sounds overhead, far away and slight, but nevertheless unmistakable.
She wiped her eyes, and went out into the hall, softly listening. Yes, undoubtedly Carey had waked up at last. She could hear the bedsprings rattle, and hear his feet moving lightly on the bare floor, as if he might be sitting up with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Her instinct told her that he would not be very happy when he awoke. She could fancy how disgusted he must be with himself; for Carey had a conscience, and he could not but know that what he was doing was wrong. She could remember how good and helpful a boy he used to be, always thoughtful for his mother. It did not seem possible that he had completely changed.
She could hear him moving slowly about now, a few steps and stopping a long time. Perhaps he had found the poetry on the bureau, although she reflected that it was altogether likely that Harry in his wrath might have cast it under the bed or anywhere it happened. Well, she would better be getting the griddle hot.
She hurried into the kitchen, and pulled the griddle forward over the fire, opened the draughts, and began to get the table in order for an early lunch. She glanced at the clock. It was half past eleven. She would have everything ready the minute he came down. She could still hear him stirring around. He had come down to the bathroom, and the sound of his razor-strop whirred faintly. Well, that was a good sign. He was going to fix up a little before coming down. She put the last touches to her table, set the plates to warm, put on the syrup, and made the coffee. Then she took a broom, and went back to the front room to wait until he came down.
Oh, that front room! It seemed more dreary than ever as she attempted to make a little path in the wilderness.
She was trying to drag a big packing-box out into the hall when Carey finally came down, looking wholly a gentleman except for a deep scowl on his brow. He came at once to her assistance, somewhat gruffly, it must be owned, but quite efficiently.