Re-Creations Read online

  “I should say we are!” declared Harry, beginning to make a large flourishing capital T with green and brown crayons. “Talk about dates!” he said contemptuously. “If a fella has got a good home, he oughta stay in it!”

  “O Nellie, it’s so good to have you home!” sighed Louise suddenly snuggling down into her sister’s tired arms. “I’m so glad your college is done!”

  And all at once Cornelia realized that she, too, was glad. Here she had been nearly all this afternoon and evening having a firstrate, beautiful time getting tired with hard work but enjoying it just as much as if she had been working over the junior play. It came to her with a sudden start that just at this hour they were having one of the almost last rehearsals—without her! For a second it gave her a pang; and then she realized that she really and truly was just as much interested in getting Carey’s room fixed up and making a cheerful, beautiful living room someday for the family to gather in, and in having good times to win back Carey, as ever she had been in making costumes for the girls and making the play a success by means of her delightful scenery. For was she not, after all, about to plan the scenery for the play of life in the Copley family? Who should say but there would be as much tragedy and comedy and romance in the Copley play as ever there had been at Dwight Hall? Well, time would tell, and somehow the last twenty-four hours had put her on a different plane and enabled her to look down at her college life from a new angle. What had done it? Her knowledge of how her father and mother had struggled and sacrificed? The dearness of her young brother and sister in their sturdy, honest desire to be helpful and to love her and look up to her? Or was it her longing to hold and help the young brother who had been her chum and companion in the days before she had gone to college? At least, she could truly say in her heart that she was glad she was here tonight, and she was not nearly so dismayed at the dreary house and the sordid surroundings as she had been twenty-four hours before, for now she knew that it only spelled her opportunity, as that lovely lady on the train had suggested, and she was eager to be up and at it in the morning.

  They all went up together to the third story presently and stood in the swept and garnished front room, Mr. Copley going over to the bureau and touching with a tender movement of caress the picture of his wife that stood there and then looking toward the empty white bed with a wistful anxiety. Cornelia could almost read the words of his heart, and into her own there entered the burden of her brother, and she knew she would never rest in her own selfish ease again until she felt sure that Carey was all right.

  She crept into bed beside Louise at last, almost too weary to pull up the covers, and let the little girl snuggle thankfully into her arms.

  “You’re almost—almost like my dear muvver,” murmured Louise sleepily, nosing into her neck and settling down on her sister’s arm with a sigh of content; and Cornelia thought how sweet it was to have a little sister to love and be loved by and wondered how it was that she had dreaded having her for a roommate.

  Then, too weary to think any longer, she fell asleep.

  Hours afterward, it seemed, she was awakened by a stumbling footstep up the stairs, halting and fumbling about in the hall and then going on, stumbling again, up to the third story. She heard a low muttering, too, and it frightened her. Had Carey been drinking? A strange, rank smell of cigarette smoke—and more—drifted into the door, which had been left ajar, and a cold frenzy took hold of her heart. Carey had been drinking! She felt sure. A moment more, and she heard light footsteps from the little hall bedroom above and Harry’s indignant young voice remonstrating, the sounds of a brief struggle, the thud of a heavy body on the bedsprings above, and then Harry’s voice coming clearly down the stairs in disgust as he pattered back to his hard little cot.

  “Ow! You great big fish, you! You oughta be ashamed of yourself!”

  It was hours after that that Cornelia finally fell asleep again, and during those hours she found herself praying involuntarily, praying and pleading: Oh God, help me to help Carey. Don’t let Carey be a drunkard. Don’t let him be wild and bad! Help him to want to be good and right. Help him to be a man. Oh God, help me to do something about it!

  Chapter 7

  The first thing of which Cornelia was conscious in the morning was a scuffle overhead. Louise was sitting up, rubbing her eyes and looking apprehensively toward the ceiling, and the sounds grew louder and more vigorous, with now and then a heavy thud, like a booted foot dropping inertly to the floor.

  Cornelia sat up also and listened.

  “It’s Harry, trying to wake Carey up!” whispered Louise knowingly. “Harry’s mad. I guess Carey came in late again and didn’t undress. He does that way sometimes when he’s tired.”

  “Yes?” said Cornelia with a shiver of understanding. “Yes, I heard him come in.”

  “Oh, did you?” Louise turned a searching glance on her sister and then looked away with a sober little sigh. “Something ought to be done about that kid before Mother gets home,” she said maturely. “It’ll kill Mother.”

  “Something shall be done. There! Don’t look so sorrowful, dear. Carey is young, and I’m sure we can do something if we all try with all our souls. I’m so glad I came home. Mother ought not to have been bearing that alone. Come, let’s get up.” She snatched her blue robe and dashed to the foot of the stairs.

  “Harry! Harry!” she called softly. “Never mind. Let him sleep.”

  Harry appeared angrily at the head of the stairs, his own outfit only half completed, his hair sticking all ways.

  “Great, lazy dummy!” he was saying. “He never undressed at all!”

  “Hush, dear! Don’t wake him. It will be better in every way if he gets his sleep out.”

  “But he hasn’t seen the poetry at all,” wailed the disappointed boy. “I held it in front of his face, and he wouldn’t open his eyes. I washed his face for him, too, and he wouldn’t get up.”

  “Well, never mind, dear. Let him alone. I’ll save him some cakes after you are gone.”

  “Yes, coddle him, the great, lazy baby! That’s what’s the matter with him; he’s too big a baby, selfish, selfish! That’s what he is.”

  “Sh-sh, dear! Never mind! You can’t do anything when a person is as sleepy as that, and it’s no use trying. Come. Let’s have breakfast. I’ll be down as soon as you will.” And Cornelia smiled brightly above her aching heart and hurried into her own clothes.

  “Cakes! Cakes!” said Louise happily. “Won’t it be great? Oh, I just can hardly wait for them. I’m sorry Carey isn’t awake.”

  “Never mind, dear, it will all come out straight pretty soon, and we mustn’t expect to succeed right away.”

  So she cheered them on their way and made the morning meal a success, steadily keeping her father’s thoughts from the absent boy upstairs until he had to run to catch his car. She put up a delightful lunch for Harry and Louise, with dates and cheese in some of the sandwiches and nuts and lettuce in others, and a big piece of gingerbread and an orange apiece.

  “It’s just like having Mother again,” said Louise fervently as she kissed her sister good-bye and ran to catch Harry, who was already halfway 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 a heavy slumber, with a flushed face and heavy breathing. She pinned up a paper to keep out the light, threw the 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. S
he would need to think only about vegetables and a dessert. Chocolate blancmange 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 blancmange. 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 wakened 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 imagine 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 had better be getting the griddle hot.

  She hurried into the kitchen and pulled the griddle forward over the fire, opened the drafts, 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 drearier 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, but quite efficiently.

  “What on earth are you trying to do, Nell?” he asked. “Don’t you know that’s too heavy for a girl to move? I told you. I’d help. Why didn’t you wait for me?”

  Cornelia, feeling a strange excitement upon her, looked up brightly and tried to ignore the fact that he ought to have come down several hours before.

  “Well, there’s so much to be done,” she said. “I certainly am glad to see you, though. But suppose we have lunch first. I’m hungry as a bear, and see, it’s five minutes to twelve. Can you eat now?”

  “Oh, anytime!” he said indifferently. “What is it you want done, anyway? This room’s a mess. Some dump, the whole house! It makes me disgusted.”

  He stood with his hands in his pockets, surveying the desolate scene and voicing Cornelia’s own thought of a few moments before. But it was Cornelia’s forte to rise to an occasion when everyone else was disheartened. She put on a cheery smile.

  “Just you wait, brother, till I get through. I’ve plans for that room, and it won’t be so bad when it gets cleaned and fixed a little. Suppose you take those boxes down to the cellar, and those pictures and tubs, and the old trunk and chest out to the shed room beyond the kitchen, while I scramble some eggs and settle the coffee. Everything else is ready. Then after lunch we’ll get to work. I shall need your help to turn the piano around and open those boxes of books. Why do you suppose they put the bookcase face against the wall, with the piano in front of it? Seems to me that was dumb.”

  “All movers are dumb!” declared Carey with a sweep of his arm, as if he would include the whole world. But he went to work vigorously and carried out the things with a whirl, and Cornelia perceived she must rush to have a plate of cakes before he was done with his assigned task.

  “Aw, gee! You saved me some cakes!” he said with a grin of delight when they sat down at the table. “I oughta’ve got up for breakfast. But I was too tired. We took a joy ride last night down to Baltimore. I saw your poetry. It was great. Who wrote it? You of course.”

  “We wanted you to be sure to get up, but of course you must have been sleepy riding all that way in the wind. It must have been great, though. It was a full moon last night, wasn’t it?” said his sister, ignoring the horror that the thought of the “joy ride” gave her.

  “It sure was,” said the boy, brightening at the memory. “The fellas put ether in the gas, and she certainly did hum. We just went whizzing. It was a jim-dandy car, twelve-cylinder, some chariot! B’longs to a fella named Brand Barlock. He’s a prince, that boy is! Has thousands of dollars to spend as he pleases; and you’d never know he had a cent, he’s so big-hearted. Love him like a brother. Why, he’d let me take that car anywhere, and not mind; and it cost some money, that car did, this year’s racing model! Gee, but she’s a winner. Goes like a streak of greased lightning.”

  Cornelia suppressed her apprehension over the possibilities of accident both physical and financial, and bloomed with interest. Of what use would it be to reprove her brother for taking such chances? It would only make him angry and turn him against her. She would see whether she could win him back to the old friendship, and then there might come a time when her advice would reach him. At present it would be useless.

  “It must be great to have a fine car,” she said eagerly. “I love to ride. There were two or three girls at college who had cars and used to take us out sometimes, but of course that didn’t happen very often.”

  “I’ll borrow Brand’s car and take you sometime,” he said eagerly. “He wouldn’t mind.”

  “Oh, Carey! No, you mustn’t do that!” she cried in alarm. “At least”—as she saw his frown of displeasure—“not till I know him, you know. I shouldn’t at all like to ride in a car whose owner I didn’t know. You must bring him here when we get all fixed up, and I’ll meet him. Then perhaps he’ll ask me to go along, too, sometime, although I’m not sure I’d like to go like a streak of lightning. Still, I’ve never tried it, and you know I never used to be afraid of things.”

  “Sure, you’re all right, Nell. But I’d never bring Brand to this dump! He’s a rich man’s son, I tell you, and lives in a swell neig
hborhood.”

  “Doesn’t he know where you live?”

  Carey shrugged his shoulders.

  “Oh, yes, he drives around and honks the horn for me and brings me home again, but I wouldn’t ask him in—”

  “Wait, I say, till we get it fixed up. You know, I’m an interior decorator! Oh, I wish there was just a fireplace! It makes such a cozy, cheerful place.”

  “I could build one if I had the stuff,” declared Carey, interested. “What kind do you want? But then, everything costs so darned much. If I only had a job!”

  “Oh, you’ll get a job, of course,” said his sister sympathetically, tying to reconcile his troubled look with what the children had said about his indifference toward work. “Where did you work last?”

  The color rolled in a slow, dull wave over Carey’s restless young face, and a look of sullen hopelessness came into his handsome eyes.

  “Oh, I haven’t had anything regular since I left school. I—you see—that is—oh, hang it all! I can’t get anything worthwhile. I’ve been doing some tinkering down at the garage. I could work steady there, but Dad makes it so hot for me when I do that I have to do it on the sly. He says it’s just a lazy job, hanging round with the fellas getting rides. He don’t know anything about it. It’s real man’s work, I tell you, hard work at that; and I’m learning all about machinery. Why, Nell, there isn’t a fella at the garage can tell as quick as I can what’s the matter with a car. Bob sends for me to find out after he’s worked half a day, and I can tell right off the bat when I hear the engine go what’s wrong.”

  Cornelia watched his eyes sparkle as he talked and perceived that when he spoke of machinery he was in his element. He loved it. He loved it as she loved the idea of her chosen profession.

  That being the case, he ought to be encouraged.

  “Why, I should think it was a good thing to stick at it while you are looking around for something better,” she said slowly, wondering whether her father would blame her for going against his advice. “I should think maybe it will prepare you for something else in the line of machinery. What is there big and really worthwhile that you’d like to get into if you could? Of course, you wouldn’t want to be just a mender of cars all your life.”