Part 2

Altogether, it was an interesting week these three people spent—for a week it took. Anthony began to protest after the first two days, and said he could not ask so much of his friends. But Juliet would not be hindered from taking infinite pains, and Mrs. Dingley good humouredly lent the two her chaperonage and her occasional counsel, such as only the gray-haired matron of long housewifely experience can furnish.

The selection of the furniture took perhaps the most time, and was the hardest, because of the difficulty of finding good styles in keeping with the limited purse. Anthony possessed a number of good pieces of antique character, but beyond these everything was to be purchased. Juliet turned in despair from one shop after another, and when it came to the fitting of the dining-room she grew distinctly indignant.

"It's a perfect shame," she said, "that they can't offer really good designs in the cheap things. Did you ever see anything so hideous? Tony, if I were you I'd rather eat my breakfast off one of those white kitchen tables—or—"

She broke off suddenly, rushed away down the long room to a group of chastely elegant dining-room furniture and came back after a little with a face of great eagerness to drag her companions away with her. She took them to survey a set of the costliest of all.

"Have you gone crazy?" Anthony inquired.

"Not at all. Tony, just study that table. It's massive, but it's simple—simple as beauty always is. Look at those perfectly straight legs—what clever cabinet maker couldn't copy that in—in ash, Tony? Then there are stains—I've heard of them—that rub into wood and then finish in some way so it's smooth and satiny. You could do that—I'm sure you could. Then you'd get the lovely big top you want. And the chairs—do you see the plain, solid-looking things? I know they could be made this way. Then the dining-room would be simply dear!"

"Juliet, you're coming on," declared Anthony with satisfaction that evening as the two, back at the Marcy country place, strolled slowly over the lawn toward the river edge. "At this rate you'll do for a poor man's wife yourself some day. That frock you have on now—isn't that a sort of concession to the humble company you're in?"

"In what way?" Juliet glanced down at the pale-green gown whose delicate skirts she was daintily lifting, and in which she looked like a flower in its calyx. She had rejoiced to exchange the dusty dress in which she had come home from town for this, which suggested coolness in each fresh fold.

"Why, it strikes me as about the simplest dress I ever saw you wear. Isn't it really—well—the least expensive thing you have had in that line in some time?"

The amused laugh with which this observation was greeted might have been disconcerting to anybody but Anthony Robeson, but he maintained his ground with calmness.

"How many of these do you think you can furnish Mrs. Anthony with in a year?" Juliet inquired, her lips forcing themselves to soberness, but the laughter lingering in her eyes.

"Several, as girlishly demure as that, I fancy," asserted the young man with confidence.

But Juliet's momentary gravity broke down. "Oh, you clever boy!" she said. "I shall advise Mrs. Anthony to send you shopping for her when she needs a new frock. You will order home just what she wants without stopping to ask the price, you will be so confident that you know a cheap thing when you see it. Afterward you will pay the bill—and then the awful frown on your brow! You will have to live on bread and milk for a month to get your accounts straightened out. Oh, Tony!—No, I shouldn't do for a poor man's wife—not judging by this 'girlishly demure' gown, you poor lamb.—But, Tony," with a swift change of manner, "I do think the little house will be very charming indeed. I can hardly wait to know that the painting and papering are done, so that we can go down and get things in order. I long to arrange those fascinating new tin things in that bit of a cupboard. Tony"—turning to him solemnly—"does she know how to cook?"

"I think she is learning now," he assured her. "Seems to me she mentioned it in to-day's—" He fumbled in his breast-pocket and brought out a letter.

Juliet stole an interested glance at it. She observed that there were three closely written sheets of the heavy linen paper, and that the handwriting was one suggestive of a pleasing individuality. Anthony, in the dim twilight, was scanning page after page in a lover's absorbed way. Juliet walked along by his side in silence. She was thinking of the face in the photograph, and wondering if Miss Eleanor Langham really loved Anthony Robeson as he deserved to be loved.

"For he is a dear, dear fellow," she said to herself, "and if she could just see him planning so enthusiastically for her comfort, even if he does have to economise, she'd—"

"No, it's not in this letter," observed Anthony, putting the sheets together with a lingering touch which did not escape his companion's quick eyes. "It must have been in yesterday's."

"Does she write every day?"

"Did you ever hear of an engaged pair who didn't write every day?"

"It must take a good deal of your time," she remarked. "But, of course, she can cook. Every sane girl takes a cooking-school course nowadays. It's as essential as French."

"You did, then?"

"Of course. Don't you remember when I used to edify you with new and wonderful dishes every time you dropped in to luncheon?"

"But did you learn the more important things?"

"I paid especial attention to soups, sir," laughed Juliet. "Now, if Mrs. Anthony has done that you can live very economically."

"I'll suggest it to her," said Anthony gravely.

V.—MUSLINS AND TACKHAMMERS

It took several trips to the small house, and a great deal of hemming and ruffling of muslin on the part of Juliet and the Marcy sewing-woman, to say nothing of many days of Anthony's hard labour, to get everything in place. But it was all done at length, and the hour arrived to close the new home and leave it to wait the oncoming day in September when it should be permanently opened.

"I'll just go over it once more," said Juliet to Mrs. Dingley. The latter lady was lying in a hammock out under the apple trees, waiting for train time and her final release from duties which were becoming decidedly wearisome. It was the first day of August, and the evening was a warm one. Anthony had gone off upon a last errand of some sort. Mrs. Dingley was too exhausted to offer to accompany her niece, and Juliet ran back into the house alone. She wandered slowly through the rooms, looking about to see if there might be any perfecting touch which she could add.

It was a charming place; even a daughter of the house of Marcy could but own to that. Under her skilful management the little rooms had blossomed into a fresh, satisfying beauty that needed only the addition of the personal adornment which Anthony's bride would be sure to bring, to become a home—the home not only of a poor man but of a refined and cultured one as well. Restricted though she had been to the most inexpensive means of bringing about this happy result, Juliet had made them all tell toward an effect of great harmony and beauty. Perhaps to nobody was this more of a revelation than to the girl herself.

She was very proud of the living-room, as she looked about it. The partition between it and the tiny hall had been removed, according to her suggestion, and the straight staircase altered by means of a landing and an abrupt turn which transformed it into picturesqueness. With its low, broad steps, its slender spindles and odd posts, it added much to the character of the room.

Like most old New England houses, this one's chief glory was its great central chimney, with big fireplaces opening both into the living-room and the dining-room. In the former, between the fireplace and the staircase, and forming a suggestion of an inglenook, Juliet had contrived a high, wide seat, cushioned in dull green, and boasting a number of pretty pillows. It must be confessed that she had surreptitiously added a little to these in the matter of certain modestly rich bits of material, and she contemplated the result with great satisfaction. It may be remarked, with no comment whatever, that in spite of their beauty there was not a pillow of all those scattered about the house which a weary man might not tuck under his head without fear of ruining a creation too delicate for any use but to be admired.

Having seized upon the idea of staining cheap material, she had carried it out in a set of low bookcases across the end and one side of the room. These awaited the coming of the several hundreds of choice books which Anthony had saved from his father's library. Two fine old portraits, dear to the hearts of many generations of the "Robesons of Kentucky," lent distinction to the home of their young descendant. Altogether the room was both quaint and artistic, and with its few plain chairs and tables, mostly heirlooms, and all of good old colonial design, was a room in which one could readily imagine one's self sitting down to a winter evening of cosy comfort, such as is not always to be had in far finer abiding-places.

The dining-room was a study in its reds and browns, and its home-made furniture was an astonishing success—if one were not too severely critical. As she surveyed it Juliet seemed to see the future master and mistress of this little home sitting down opposite each other in the fireglow, and smiling across.

The coming Mrs. Robeson, if one might judge by her photograph, was a woman to lend grace and dignity to her surroundings, whatever they might be. Juliet could imagine her pretty, stately way of presiding at such small feasts as the room was destined to see, making her guests quite forget that she was not mistress of a mansion equal to any in the land. Would she be happy? Could she be happy here, after all that she had had of another and very different sort of life? For some reason, as Juliet stood and looked and thought, her face grew very sober, and a long-drawn breath escaped her lips.

The little kitchen was an exceedingly alluring place, gay in the bravery of fresh paint and spotless, shining utensils. There were even crisp curtains—at eight cents a yard—tied back at the high, wide-silled, triple window with its diminutive panes. It needed only a pot or two of growing plants in the window, and a neat-handed Phyllis in a figured gown, to be the old-time kitchen of one's dreams.

But it was upon the rooms on the upper floor that Juliet had exhausted her imagination and effort. Nothing could have been conceived of more dainty than they. Here her denims and muslins had run riot. Low dressing-tables clad in ruffled hangings, their padded tops delicate with the breath of orris; beds valanced with similar stuffs; high-backed chairs, their seats cushioned into comfort—everything was done in the cleverest imitation of the ancient styles in keeping with the old-fashioned house. It all made one think of the patter of high-heeled, buckled slippers, and stiff, rustling, brocaded gowns, and powdered hair, and the odours of long ago. Anthony would never know what his friendly home-maker had put into these rooms of sentiment and charm.

VI.—A QUESTION OF IDENTITY

At the door of the blue-and-white room, the one upon which the girl had lavished her most tender fancies, she stood at length, looking in. And as she looked something swam before her eyes. A sob rose in her throat. She choked it back; she brushed her hand across her face. Then she tried to laugh. "Oh, what a goose I am!" she said sternly to herself. And then she ran across the room, sank upon her knees before the window-seat with its blue and white cushions, and burying her face in one of them cried her wretched, jealous, longing heart out.

Anthony, coming in hastily but softly through the small kitchen, heard the rush of footsteps overhead, and stopped. He waited a moment, listening eagerly; then he came noiselessly into the living-room and stood still. His face, always strong and somewhat stern in its repose, had in it to-night a certain unusual intensity. He looked at his watch and saw that there was an hour before train time. Then he sat down where he could see the top of the staircase and waited.

By and by light footsteps crossed the floor above and came through the little hall. From where he sat Anthony caught the gleam of Juliet's crisp linen skirt. Presently she came slowly down. As she turned upon the landing she met Anthony's eyes looking up. In a fashion quite unusual to the straightforward gaze of his friend her eyes fell. He saw that her cheeks were pale. He rose to meet her.

"Come and rest," he said. "You are tired. You have worked too hard. Such a helper a man never had before. And you have made a wonderful success. Juliet, I can't thank you. It's beyond that."

But she would not be led to the cosy corner by the window. She found something needing her attention in the curtain of the bookcase in the dimmest corner of the room, and began solicitously to pull it in various ways, as if there were something wrong with it. He watched her, standing with his arm on the high chimney-piece.

"I think you enjoyed it just a little bit yourself, though," he observed. "Didn't you, chum?"

"Yes, indeed," said Juliet.

Her back was toward him, her head bent down, but his quick ear detected a peculiar quality in her voice. He questioned her again hurriedly.

"You're not sorry you did it?"

"Oh, no," said Juliet.

Now there is not much in two such simple replies as these to indicate the state of one's mind and heart; but when a girl has been crying stormily and uninterruptedly for a half-hour, and is only not crying still because she is holding back the torrent of her unhappiness by sheer force of will, it is radically impossible to say so much as four words in a perfectly natural way. Anthony understood in a breath that the unfamiliar note in his friend's voice was that of tears. And, strange to say, into his face there flashed a look of triumph. But he only said very gently:

"Come here a minute—will you, Juliet?"

She bent lower over the curtain. Then she stood up, without looking at him, and moved toward the door.

"I believe I'm rather tired," she said in a low tone. "It has been so warm all day, and I—I have a headache."

In three steps he came after her, stopping her with his hand grasping hers as she would have left the room.

"Come back—please," he urged. "Your aunt is asleep out there, I think. I wanted to go over the house once more with you, if you would. But you're too tired for that. Just come back and sit down in this nook of yours, and let's talk a little."

She could not well refuse, and he put her into a nest of cushions, arranging them carefully behind her back and head, and sat down facing her. He had placed her just where the waning light from the western sky fell full on her face; his own was in the shadow. He was watching her unmercifully—she felt that, and desperately turned her face aside, burying in a friendly pillow the cheek which was colouring under his gaze.

"Is the headache so bad?" he asked softly. "I never knew Juliet Marcy to have a headache before. Poor little girl—dear little girl—who has worked so hard to please her old friend." He leaned forward and she felt his hand upon her hair. The tenderness in his voice and touch were carrying away all her defences. But he went on without giving her respite.

"Do you think she will be happy here, chum? Will it take the place of the old life for a few years, till I can give her more? She'll have nothing here, you know, outside of this little home, but my love. That wouldn't be enough for any ordinary woman, would it?"

She was not looking at him, but she could see him as plainly as if she were. Always she had thought him the strongest, best fellow she knew. He had been her devoted friend so long; she had not realised in the least until lately how it was going to seem to get on without him. But she knew now.

She felt a dreadful choking in her throat again. It seemed to be closely connected with another peculiar sensation, as if her heart had turned into a lump of lead. In another minute she knew that she should break down, which would be humiliating beyond words. She started up from her cushions with a fierce attempt to keep a grip upon herself.

"I know you're very happy," she breathed, "and I'm very glad. But really I—I'm not at all sentimental to-night. I'm afraid a headache does not make one sympathetic."

But she could not get past him; Anthony's stalwart figure barred the way. His strong hands put her gently back among the cushions. She turned her head away, fighting hard for that thing she could not keep—her self-control.

"Is it really a headache?" asked the low voice in her ear. "Just a headache? Not by any chance—a heartache, Juliet?"

"Anthony Robeson!" she cried, but guardedly, lest the open window betray her. "What do you mean? You say very strange things. Why should I have a heartache? Because you are marrying the girl you love? How often have I begged you to go and find her? Do you think I would have done all this for her—and you—if I had cared?"

She tried to look defiantly into his eyes—those fine eyes of his which were watching her so intently—tried to meet them steadily with her own lovely, tear-stained ones—and failed. Swiftly an intense colour dyed her cheeks, and she dropped her head like a guilty child.

"Of course I care—that is, in a way," she was somehow forced to admit before the bar of his silence. "Why shouldn't I hate to lose the friend who used to carry my books to school, and fought the other boys for my sake, and has been a brother to me all these years? Of course I do. And when I am tired I cry for nothing—just nothing. I—"

It was certainly a brave attempt at eloquence, but perhaps it was not wonderfully convincing. At all events it did not keep Anthony from taking possession of one of her hands and interrupting her with a most irrelevant speech.

"Juliet, do you remember telling me that you should expect a man who loved you to carry your likeness always with him? And you asked me for hers—and I had to own I had left it behind. Yet I had one with me then—it is always with me—and that was why I forgot the other. Look."

He drew out a little silver case, and Juliet, reluctantly releasing one eye from the shelter of the friendly sofa pillow, saw with a start her own face look smiling back at her. It was a little picture of her girlish self which she had given him long ago when he went away to college.

"No," he said quickly, as he recognised the indignant question which instantly showed in her eyes, "I'm not disloyal to Eleanor Langham. Because—dear—there is no such person."

With a little cry she flung herself away from him among the pillows, hiding her face from sight. There was a moment's silence while Anthony Robeson, his own face growing pale with the immensity of the stakes for which he played, made his last venture.

"The little home is only for you, Juliet. If you won't share it with me it shall be closed and sold. Perhaps it was an audacious thing to do—it has come over me a great many times that it was too audacious ever to be forgiven. But I couldn't help the hope that if you should make the home yourself you might come to feel that life with a man who had his way to make could be borne after all—if you loved him enough. It all depended on that. As I said, I didn't mean to be presumptuous, but it was a desperate chance with me, dear. I couldn't give you up, and I thought perhaps—just perhaps—you cared—more than you knew. Anyhow—I loved you so—I had to risk it."