It was several weeks before the Copley house was finished. Even then
there were cushions to make out of old pieces brightened up by the
stitches of embroidery or applique work of leaves cut from bits of
old velvet. There were rugs to braid out of all the old rags the
house afforded and there were endless curtains to wash and hem and
hemstitch and stencil and put up. All the family united to make the
work as perfect a thing of the kind as could be accomplished. Every
evening was spent in painting or papering, or rubbing down some bit
of old furniture to make it more presentable, and gradually the house
began to assume form and loveliness.
Paint, white paint, had done a great deal toward making another
place of the dreary little house. The kitchen was spotless white
enamel everywhere, and enough old marble slabs had been discovered
to cover the kitchen table and the top of the kitchen dresser, and
to put up shelves around the sink and under the windows. Mr. Copley
brought home some ball-bearing casters for the kitchen table, and
spent an evening putting them on, so it would move easily to any part
of the kitchen needed. Cornelia and Louise rejoiced in scrubbing
the smooth white surfaces that were going to be so convenient and
so easily kept clean. Even the old kitchen chairs had been painted
white and enamelled, and Cornelia discovered by chance one day that a
wet sponge was a wonderful thing to keep the white paint clean; so
thereafter Louise spent five minutes after dinner every evening going
about with her wet sponge, rubbing off any chance finger-marks of the
day before and putting the gleaming kitchen in battle-array for the
next day.
The dining-room had gradually become a place of rest and refreshment
for the eyes as well as for the palate. Soft green was the prevailing
color of furniture and floor, with an old grass rug scrubbed back to
almost its original color. The old couch was tinkered up and covered
with gay cretonne in greens and grays, with plenty of pillows covered
with the same material. The curtains were white with a green border
of stencilling. The dingy old paper had been scraped from the walls,
which had been painted with many coats of white; and a gay green
border had been stencilled at the ceiling. The carpenter had found
an old plate-rail down in the shop, which, painted white, made a
different place of the whole thing, with a few bits of mothers’ rare
old china rightly placed, two Wedgwood plates in dull yellow, another
of bright green, a big old blue willow ware plate, some quaint cups
hung on brass hooks under a little white shelf. One couldn’t ask for
a pleasanter dining-room than that. It dawned upon the family anew
and joyously every time any one of them entered the room, and made
them a little better and a little brighter because it spoke “home” so
softly and sweetly and comfortingly.
“Mother won’t know the place!” said Louise, standing back to survey
it happily after putting the sideboard in perfect order with clean
linen cover. “She won’t know her own things, will she? Won’t it be
great when she comes?”
But the living room was the crown of all, wide and pleasant and
many-windowed, with its stone fireplace, wide mantel, adorned with
a quaint old pair of brass candlesticks that had belonged to the
grandmother; the walls covered with pale-yellow felt-paper like
soft sunshine; the floor planed down to the natural wood, oiled and
treated with shellac; and the old woolen rugs in two tones of gray,
which used to be bedroom rugs when Cornelia was a baby, washed and
spread about in comfortable places; it no more resembled the stuffy,
dark little place they used to call a “parlor” than day resembles
night. Soft white sheer curtains veiled the windows everywhere, with
over-curtains of yellow cotton crêpe; and the sunshine seemed to have
taken up its abode in that room even on dark days when there was
no sun to be seen. It was as if it had stayed behind from the last
sunshiny day, so bright and cheerful was the glow.
The little “bay” was simply overflowing with ferns the children had
brought from the woods, set in superfluous yellow and gray bowls
from the kitchen accumulation. Harry ran extra errands after hours,
and saved enough to buy the yellowest, throatiest canary the city
afforded, in a big wicker cage to hang in the window.
Cretonne covers in soft gray tones covered the shabby old chairs and
couch, and Carey and his father spent hours with pumice-stone and
oil, polishing away at the piano, the bookcase, and the one small
mahogany table that was left, while Cornelia did wonderful things
in the way of artistic shades for little electric lamps that Carey
rigged up in odd, unexpected corners, made out of all sorts of queer
things; an old pewter sugar-bowl, this with a shade of silver lace
lined with yellow, a relic of some college costume; a tall gray
jug with queer blue Chinese figures on it that had been among the
kitchen junk for years, this with a dull blue shade; a bright yellow
vase with a butterfly-yellow shade; and a fat green jar with willow
basket-work around it on which Cornelia put a shade of soft green,
with some old brown lace over it.
The room was really wonderful when it was done, with two or three
pictures hung in just the right spot, and some photographs and
magazines thrown comfortably about. Really one could not imagine a
pleasanter or more artistic room, not if one had thousands to spend.
The first evening it was all complete the family just sat down and
enjoyed themselves in it, talking over each achievement of cushion
or curtain or wall as a great connoisseur might have looked over his
newly acquired collection and gloated over each specimen with delight.
Carey’s delight in it all was especially noticeable. He hovered
around, getting new points of view, and changing the arrangement of
a chair or a table, whistling wildly and gleefully, a new Carey to
them all. For the whole evening he did not offer to go out, just
hung around, talking, singing snatches of popular songs, breaking
into a clumsy two-finger “rag” on the piano now and then, and
finally ending up with a good sing with Cornelia at the piano. It was
curious, but it was a fact that this was the first time Cornelia had
had time since her home-coming to sit down and play for them; and
it seemed like a revelation to all. They had not realized how well
she could play, for she had been studying music part of the time in
college. Also no one had realized how well Carey could sing. Perhaps
he had never had half a chance with a good accompaniment before. At
any rate, it was very plain that he liked it, and would sing as long
as any one would play for him.
And the father liked it, too. Oh, _how_ he liked it! He took off his
glasses, put his head back on the new cretonne cushion, closed his
eyes, and just enjoyed it. Now and then he would open his eyes and
watch the flicker of the fire in the new fireplace, look from the one
to the other of his children, sigh, and say, “I wish your mother were
here now,” and again; “We must write mother about all this. How she
will enjoy it!”
Then right into the midst of this domestic scene there entered
callers.
Carey was singing when the knock came, and did not hear them; or else
he would most surely have disappeared. It was a way Carey had. But
the knock came twice before Louise heard it and slipped to the door,
letting in the strangers, who stood listening at the door, motioning
to her to wait until the song was finished.
Then Mr. Copley saw them, and arose to come forward. Carey, feeling
some commotion, turned; and the song stopped like a shot, a frown of
defiance beginning to grow between his brows.
The strangers were a man and a woman, and a young girl a little older
than Louise and younger than Cornelia; and one could see at a glance
that they were cultured, refined people, though they were quietly,
simply dressed. Carey, in his gray flannel shirt open at the neck
and the old trousers in which he had assisted in the last rites of
putting the room in perfect order, looked down at himself in dismay,
and backed precipitately around the end of the piano as far out of
sight as possible, meeting the intruders with a glare of disapproval.
Cornelia was the last to stop playing and look around, but by that
time the lady had spoken.
“Oh, please don’t stop! We want to hear the rest of the song. What a
beautiful tenor voice!”
Cornelia arose to her duties as hostess, and came forward; but the
man by this time was introducing himself.
“I hope we haven’t intruded brother.” He grasped Mr. Copley’s
welcoming hand. “I’m just the minister at the little church around
your corner here, and we thought we’d like to get acquainted with
our new neighbors. My name is Kendall, and this is my wife and my
daughter Grace. I brought the whole family along because I understood
you had some daughters.”
“You’re very welcome,” said Mr. Copley with dignity that marked him a
gentleman everywhere. “This is my daughter Cornelia; this is Louise,
and Harry; and”—with an almost frightened glance toward the end of
the piano, lest he might already have vanished—“this is my son
Carey.”
There was something almost proud in the way he spoke Carey’s name,
and Cornelia had a sudden revelation of what Carey, the eldest son,
must mean to his father in spite of all his sharpness to the boy. Of
course Carey must have been a big disappointment the last few months.
Carey, thus cornered, instead of bolting, as his family half expected
of him, came forward with an unexpected grace of manner, and
acknowledged the introduction, his eyes resting interestedly on the
face of Grace Kendall.
“I’m not very presentable,” he said. “But, as I can’t seem to get out
without being seen, I guess you’ll have to make the best of me.”
Grace Kendall’s eyes were merry and pleasant.
“Please don’t mind us,” she said. “You look very nice. You look as if
you had been playing tennis.”
“Nothing so interesting as that,” said Carey. “Just plain work. We’re
still tinkering around this house, getting settled, you know.”
“There’s always such a lot to do when you move, isn’t there? But what
a lovely spot you’ve made of it!” She turned, and looked about her.
“Why, I shouldn’t know it was the same house. What a lot you have
done to it! This room looks so big! How did you get the space? You’ve
changed the partitions, haven’t you? I used to come here to visit a
little lame boy, and it was such a tiny little front room; and now
this is spacious! And that wonderful fireplace! Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes,” put in Mr. Copley, as the whole group seemed absorbed in
gazing about them at the lovely room. “My son did that. He built it
all himself.”
Carey looked up in surprise, with a flush of pleasure at his father’s
tone of pride; and then his eyes came back to the girl’s face all
sparkling with eager admiration.
“You don’t mean you did it yourself? How perfectly wonderful! That
darling mantel! and the way the chimney curves up to the ceiling! It
has charming lines! O father, can’t you coax him to come over and
build one for us?”
“Sure! I’ll build you one!” said Carey graciously, as though he kept
stone fireplaces in his vest pocket. “Start tomorrow if you can get
the stone.”
“Oh, great! Just hear that, father! We’re going to have a fireplace!
Now, don’t you let him off. Did you design it, Mr. Copley?”
Carey lifted embarrassed eyes to his elder sister’s face, and met her
look of loving pride, and flushed happily.
“Why, no, I guess my sister Nell’s to blame for that. She suggested
it first, and worked it out mostly,” he said.
“Indeed, you did it all yourself, Carey,” said Cornelia. “I only
wanted it, and Carey did the rest.”
“Yes, Gracie, that’s where you’re lacking,” said the minister,
laughingly; “you haven’t any brother to carry out your every wish.
Only a busy old father, who doesn’t know how.”
“My father’s all right!” said the daughter loyally; and Carey with
a swift, appraising glance decided that he certainly looked it and
that for a minister it certainly was surprising. He had a faint
passing wonder what this man’s church might be like. Then they
settled down in groups to talk, Carey beside the minister’s daughter,
Cornelia beside the minister’s wife, and Mr. Copley with the
minister, while Harry and Louise sat down together in the window-seat
to watch them all.
“Doesn’t Carey look handsome?” whispered the little girl, with her
eyes on her elder brother. “My, but I guess he’s mad he didn’t put on
his other shirt.”
“I should say! Serves him right,” said Harry caustically, yet with a
light of pride in his eye. “Say, she’s some bird, isn’t she? Better’n
that little chicken we saw him have out last Saturday!”
“O Harry! You mustn’t call _any_ girl a chicken. You know what mother
would say.”
“Well, she _was_ a chicken, wasn’t she?”
“I think I’d rather call her a—a fool!” said Louise expressively.
“Call her what you like, only don’t call her at all!” said the boy.
“Say, doesn’t our sister look great though?”
So they sat quietly whispering, picking up bits of the conversation
and thinking their wise young thoughts.
Mr. Copley’s face looked rested and happy.
“My! I wish my wife were at home,” he said wistfully. “You know she’s
been very sick, and she’s away getting a rest. But we hope she’ll
soon be back with us before many months now. How she would enjoy it
to have you run in like this! She’s a great church woman, and she
felt it, coming away from the church we have always attended over on
the other side of the town——”
Then the talk drifted to the little church around the corner, and to
its various organizations and activities.
“Father ’ll be after you for the choir,” confided the daughter to
Carey; “a good tenor is a great find.”
“No chance!” said Carey, looking pleased in spite of himself. “I
can’t sing.”
Then they all began to clamor for Carey to sing; and right in the
midst of it there was another knock at the door, and in walked the
carpenter and his wife.
Carey began to frown, of course; for, although he liked the
carpenter, he felt that he was of another social class from the
delicate young girl who sat by his side; but when he saw her rise
and greet the carpenter’s wife as cordially as if she were some
fine lady, his frown began to disappear again. This certainly was a
peach of a girl, and no mistake. In fact, the whole family were all
right. The minister was a prince. Just look at the way he took that
carpenter by the hand, and made him feel at home.
The carpenter, however, didn’t seem to be troubled by embarrassment.
He entered right into the conversation comfortably, and began to
praise Cornelia Copley and her ability as an interior decorator; and
before any one knew how it happened the company had started to see
the dining-room and kitchen.
Nobody realized it, but they were all talking and laughing as if
they had known one another for years, and everybody was having a
happy time. When they came back to the living room, they insisted
that Carey should sing and Cornelia should play for them. Harry and
Louise whispered together for a moment, then slipped silently back
to the kitchen while the music was going on, and returned in a few
minutes with a tall pitcher of lemonade and a plate of Cornelia’s
delicious gingerbread. Carey went for plates, and acted the host
beautifully. It all passed off delightfully, even with the presence
of the carpenter, who proved to be a good mixer in spite of his lack
of grammar.
Before they went away the minister had asked the brother and sister
to join the choir and come to the Sunday school and young people’s
society and all the various other functions of the church, and had
given a special urgent invitation to the whole family, including
the callers, to come to a church reception to be held the coming
week. Carey acted as if church receptions and young people’s prayer
meetings were the joy of his life, and acquiesced in everything that
was suggested, declaring, when the door closed behind them, that that
girl was “some peach.” And the household retired to their various
pillows with happy dreams of a circumspect future in which Carey
walked the happy way of a wise young man and had friends that one was
not ashamed of. And then the very next afternoon, being Saturday,
everything went to smash in one quick happening, and a cloud of gloom
fell over the little household.
For it happened that Cornelia and Louise had taken an afternoon off,
having arisen quite early and accomplished an incredible amount of
Saturday baking and mending and ironing and the like, and had gone
down to the stores to choose a much-needed pair of shoes for Louise.
The shoes were purchased, also ten cents’ worth of chocolates;
and they were about to finish the joyful occasion by a visit to a
moving-picture show when suddenly, walking up Chestnut Street, they
came face to face with Carey and a girl! Carey, who was supposed to
be off that whole afternoon hunting for a job! And _such_ a girl!
The most noticeable thing about the girl was the whiteness of her
nose and the rosiness of a certain circumscribed portion of her
cheeks. As she drew nearer, one also noticed her cap-like arrangement
of hair that was obviously stained henna, and bobbed quite furiously
under a dashing hat of jade-green feathers. Her feet were fat, with
fat, overhanging flesh-colored silken ankles, quite transparent as
to the silk, and were strapped in with many little buckles to a very
sharp toe and a tall little stilt of a heel. Her skirt was like one
leg of a pantaloon so tight it was and very short, so that the fat,
silken ankles became most prominent; and her mincing gait reminded
one of a Bach fugue. She wore an objectionable and conspicuous tunic
much beaded with short sleeves and very low neck, for the street.
A scrubby little fur flung across the back of her neck completed
her costume unless one counted the string of big white beads that
hung around her neck to her waist, and the many rings which adorned
her otherwise bare hands. She was chewing gum rhythmically and
industriously, and giggling up into Carey’s face with a silly,
sickening grin that made the heart of Cornelia turn sick with disgust.
As she drew nearer, a pair of delicately pencilled stationary
eyebrows, higher than nature usually places them, emphasized the
whole effect; and the startling red of the girl’s lips seemed to
fascinate the gaze. They were coming nearer; they were almost near
enough to touch each other; and Carey—Carey was looking down at the
girl—he had drawn her arm within his own, and he had not seen his
sisters.
Suddenly, without any warning Cornelia felt the angry tears starting
to her eyes, and with a quick movement she drew Louise to a
milliner’s window they were passing, and stood, trembling in every
nerve, while Carey and the girl passed by.