Part 3

Juliet's charming brown head was buried so deep in the pillows that only its back with the masses of waving, half-rumpled hair was visible. But up from the depths came a smothered question:

"The photograph?"

Anthony's face lightened as if the sun had struck it, but he kept his voice quiet. "Borrowed—it's my old friend Dennison's. I never even saw the girl—though I ought to beg her pardon for the use I have made of her face. She's married now, and lives abroad somewhere. Will you forgive me?"

He was standing over her, leaning down so that his cheek touched the rumpled hair. "How is it, Juliet? Could you live in the little home—with love—and me?"

It was a long time before he got any answer. But at last a flushed, wet, radiant face came into view, an arm was reached out, and as with an inarticulate, deep note of joy he drew her up into his embrace, a voice, half tears, half laughter, cried:

"Oh, Tony—you dear, bad, darling, insolent boy! I did think I could do without you—but I can't. And—oh, Tony"—she was sobbing in his arms now, while he regarded the top of her head with laughing, exultant eyes—"I'm so glad—so glad—so glad—there isn't any Eleanor Langham! Oh, how I hated her!"

"Did you, sweetheart?" he answered, laughing aloud now. Then bending, with his lips close to hers—"well, to tell the truth—to tell the honest truth, little girl—so did I!"

VII.—AN ARGUMENT WITHOUT LOGIC

"I don't like it," repeated Mr. Horatio Marcy, obstinately, and shook his head for the fifth time. "I've not a word to say against Anthony, my dear—not a word. He's a fine fellow and comes of a good family, and I respect him and the start he has made since things went to pieces, but—"

Juliet waited, her eyes downcast, her cheeks very much flushed, her mouth in lines of mutiny.

"But—" her father continued, settling back in his chair with an air of decision, "you will certainly make the mistake of your life if you think you can be happy in the sort of existence he offers you. You're not used to it. You've not been brought up to it. You can spend more money in a forenoon than he can earn in a twelve-month. You don't know how to adapt yourself to life on a basis of rigid economy. I—"

"You don't forbid it, sir?"

"Forbid it?—no. A man can't forbid a twenty-four year old woman to do as she pleases. But I advise you—I warn you—I ask you seriously to consider what it all means. You are used to very many habits of living which will be entirely beyond Anthony's means for many years to come. You are fond of travel—of dress—of social—"

"Father dear," said his daughter, interrupting him gently by a change of tactics. She came to him and sat upon the arm of his chair, and rested her cheek lightly upon the top of his thick, iron-gray locks.—"Let's drop all this for the present. Let's not discuss it. I want you to do me a particular favour before we say another word about it. Come with me down to see the house. It's only three hours away. We can go after breakfast to-morrow and be back for dinner at seven. It's all I ask. My arguments are all there. Please!—Please!"

So it came about that at eleven o'clock on a certain morning in August, Mr. Horatio Marcy discovered himself to be eyeing with critical, reluctant gaze a quaintly attractive, low-spreading white house among trees and vines. He became aware at the same time of a sudden close clasp on his arm.

"Here it is," said a low voice in his ear. "Does it look habitable?"

"Very pretty, very pretty, my dear," Mr. Marcy admitted. No sane man could do otherwise. The little house might have been placed very comfortably between the walls of the dining-room at the Marcy country house, but there was an indefinable, undeniable air of gracious hospitality and homelikeness about its aspect, and its surroundings gave it an appearance of being ample for the accommodation of any two people not anxious to get away from each other.

Juliet produced an antique door-key of a clumsy pattern, and opened the door into the living-room. She ran across to the windows and threw them open, then turned to see what expression might be at the moment illumining Mr. Marcy's face. He was glancing about him with curious eyes, which rested finally upon the portrait of a courtly gentleman in ruffles and flowing hair, hanging above the fireplace. He adjusted a pair of eyeglasses and gave the portrait the honour of his serious attention.

"That is an ancestor," Juliet explained. "Doesn't he give distinction to the room? And isn't the room—well—just a little bit distinguished-looking itself, in spite of its simplicity?—because of it, perhaps. The tables and most of the chairs are what Anthony found left in the old Kentucky homestead after the sale last year, and bought in with—the last of his money." Her eyes were very bright, but her voice was quiet.

Mr. Marcy looked at the furniture in question, stared at the walls, then at the rug on the polished floor. The rug held his attention for two long minutes, then he glanced sharply at his daughter.

"The colourings of that rug are very good, don't you think?" she asked with composure. "It will last until Anthony can afford a better one."

Mr. Marcy turned significantly toward the door of the dining-room, and Juliet led him through. He surveyed the room in silence, laying a hand upon a chair back; then looked suddenly down at the chair and brought his eyeglasses to bear upon it.

"The furniture was made by a country cabinet-maker who charged country prices for doing it. Tony rubbed in a very thin stain and rubbed the wood in oil afterward till it got this soft polish."

The visitor looked incredulous, but he accepted the explanation with a polite though exceedingly slight smile. Then he was taken to inspect the kitchen. From here he was led through the pantry back to the living-room, and so upstairs. He looked, still silently, in at the door of each room, exquisite in its dainty readiness for occupancy. As he studied the blue-and-white room his daughter observed that he retained less of the air of the connoisseur than he had elsewhere exhibited. She had shown him this place last with artful intent. No room in his own homes of luxury could appeal to him with more of beauty than was visible here.

When Mr. Marcy reached the living-room again he found himself placed gently but insistently in the easiest chair the room afforded, close by an open window through which floated all the soft odours of country air blowing lightly across apple orchards and gardens of old-fashioned flowers. His daughter, bringing from the ingle seat a plump cushion, dropped upon it at his feet. But instead of beginning any sort of argument she laid her arm upon his knee, and her head down upon her arm, and became as still as a kitten who has composed itself for sleep. Only through the contact of the warm young arm, her father could feel that she was alive and waiting for his speech.

When he spoke at last it was with grave quiet, in a gentler tone than that which he had used the day before in his own library.

"You helped Anthony furnish this house?"

"Yes, father."

"Do you mind telling me how much you had at your disposal?"

"Five hundred dollars." Juliet maintained her position without moving, and her face was out of sight.

"Did this include the repairs upon the place?"

"Yes—but you know wages are low just now and lumber is cheap. Having no roof to the porch made it inexpensive. The painting Anthony helped at himself. He worked every minute of his two weeks' vacation on whatever would cost most to hire done."

"Anthony worked at painting the house?" There was astonishment in Mr. Marcy's voice. He had known the Robesons of Kentucky all his life. He had never seen one of them lift his hand to do manual labour. There had been no need.

"Yes," said Juliet, and the cheek which rested against her father's knee began to grow warm.

"You have obtained a somewhat extraordinary effect of harmony and comfort inside the house," Mr. Marcy pursued. "It is difficult to understand just how you brought it about with so small an expenditure of money."

It was quite impossible now for Juliet to keep her head down. She looked up eagerly, but she still managed to speak quietly.

"It is effect, father, and it is art—not money. The paper on the wall cost twenty-five cents a roll, but it is the right paper for the place, and the wrong paper at ten times that sum wouldn't give the room such a background of soft restfulness. Then, you see, the old white woodwork is in very good style, and the green walls bring it out. The old floor was easily dressed to give that beautiful waxed finish. They told me how to do that at the best decorator's in Boston. The rug fits the colourings very well. Anthony's old furniture would give any such room dignity. The portrait lends the finishing touch, I think. You see, when you analyse it all there's nothing in the least wonderful. But it looks like a home—doesn't it? And when the little things are in which grow in a home—the photographs, a bowl of sweet-williams from the garden, the lovely old copper lamp you gave me on my birthday—can't you think how dear it will all be?"

Mr. Marcy glanced down keenly into his daughter's face.

"There are a great many things of your own at home which would naturally come into your married home," he said.

Juliet coloured richly. "Yes," she answered with steady eyes, "but except for the lamp, and the photographs, and a few such very little things, I should not bring them. Anthony is poor, but he is very proud. I couldn't hurt him by furnishing his home with the overflow of mine. Besides—I don't need those things. I don't want them. All I want out of the old home is—your love—your blessing, dear!"

The sharp eyes meeting hers softened suddenly. Juliet drew herself to her knees, and leaning forward across her father's lap, reached both arms up and flung them about his neck. He held her close, her head upon his shoulder, and all at once he found the slender figure in his arms shaken with feeling. Juliet was not crying, but she was drawing long, deep breaths like a child who tries to control itself.

"You need have no doubt of either of those things, my little girl," said her father in her ear. "Both are ready. It is only your happiness I want. I distrust the power of any poor man to give it to you. That is all. Since I have seen this house the question looks less doubtful to me—I admit that gladly. But I still am anxious for the future. Even in this attractive place there must be monotony, drudgery, lack of many things you have always had and felt you must have. You have never learned to do without them. I understand that Robeson will not accept them at my hand, nor at yours. I don't know that I think the less of him for that—but—you will have to learn self-denial. I want you to be very sure that you can do it, and that it will be worth while."

There was a little silence, then Juliet gently drew herself away and rose to her feet. She stood looking down at the imposing figure of the elderly man in the chair, and there was something in her face he had never seen there before.

"There's just one thing about it, sir," she said. "I can't possibly spare Anthony Robeson out of my life. I tried to do it, and I know. I would rather live it out in this little home—with him—than share the most promising future with any other man. But there's this you must remember: A man who was brought up to do nothing but ride fine horses, and shoot, and dance, must have something in him to go to work and advance, and earn enough to buy even such a home as this, in five years. He has a future of his own."

Mr. Marcy looked thoughtful. "Yes, that may be true," he said. "I rather think it is."

"And, father—" she bent to lay a roseleaf cheek against his own—"you began with mother in a poorer home than this, and were so happy! Don't I know that?"

"Yes, yes, dear," he sighed. "That's true, too. But we were both poor—had always been so. It was an advance for us—not a coming down."

"It's no coming down for me." There was spirit and fire in the girl's eyes now. "Just to wear less costly clothes—to walk instead of drive—to live on simpler food—what are those things? Look at these," she pointed to the rows of books in the bookcases which lined two walls of the room. "I'm marrying a man of refinement, of family, of the sort of blood that tells. He's an educated man—he loves the things those books stand for. He's good and strong and fine—and if I'm not safe with him I'll never be safe with anybody. But besides all that—I—I love him with all there is of me. Oh—are you satisfied now?"

Blushing furiously she turned away. Her father got to his feet, stood looking after her a moment with something very tender coming into his eyes, then took a step toward her and gathered her into his arms.

VIII.—ON ACCOUNT OF THE TEA-KETTLE

"This is the nineteenth day of August," observed Anthony Robeson. "We finished furnishing the house for my future bride on the third day of the month. Over two weeks have gone by since then. The place must need dusting."

He glanced casually at the figure in white which sat just above him upon the step of the great porch at the back of the Marcy country house. It was past twilight, the moon was not yet up, and only the glow from a distant shaded lamp at the other end of the porch served to give him a hint as to the expression upon his companion's face.

"I'm beginning to lie awake nights," he continued, "trying to remember just how my little home looks. I can't recall whether we set the tea-kettle on the stove or left it in the tin-closet. Can you think?"

"You put it on the stove yourself," said Juliet. "You would have filled it if Auntie Dingley hadn't told you it would rust."

Anthony swerved about upon the heavy oriental rug, which covered the steps, until his back rested against the column; he clasped his arms about one knee, and inclined his head at the precise angle which would enable him to study continuously the shadowy outlines of the face above him, shot across with a ruby ray from the lamp. "I wish I could recollect," he pursued, "whether I left the porch awning up or down. It has rained three times in the two weeks. It ought not to be down."

"I'm sure it isn't," Juliet assured him. There was a hint of laughter in her voice.

"It was rather absurd to put up that awning at all, I suppose. But when you can't afford a roof to your piazza, and compromise on an awning instead, you naturally want to see how it is going to look, and you rush it up. Besides, I think there was a strong impression on my mind that only a few days intervened before our occupancy of the place. It shows how misled one can be."

There was no reply to this observation, made in a depressed tone. After a minute Anthony went on.

"These cares of the householder—they absorb me. I'm always wondering if the lawn needs mowing, and if the new roof leaks. I get anxious about the blinds—do any of them work loose and swing around and bang their lives out in the night? Have the neighbours' chickens rooted up that row of hollyhock seeds? Then those books I placed on the shelves so hurriedly. Are any of them by chance upside down? Is Volume I. elbowed by Volume II. or by Volume VIII.? And I can't get away to see. Coming up here every Saturday night and tearing back every Sunday midnight takes all my time."

"You might spend next Sunday in the new house."

"Alone?"

"Of course. You have so many cares they would keep you from getting lonely."

Anthony made no immediate answer to this suggestion, beyond laughing up at his companion in the dim light for an instant, then growing immediately sober again. But presently he began upon a new aspect of the subject.

"Juliet, are we to be married in church?"

"Tony!—I don't know."

"But what do you think?"

"I—don't think."

"What! Do you mean that?"

"No-o."

"Of course you don't. Well—what about it?"

"I don't know."

"Are we to have a big wedding?"

"Do you want one?"

"I—but that's not the question. Do you want a big wedding?"

She hesitated an instant. Then she answered softly, but with decision: "No."

Anthony drew a long breath. "Thank the Lord!" he said devoutly.

"Why?" she asked in some surprise.

"I've never exactly understood why the boys I've been best man for were so miserable over the prospect of a show wedding—but I know now. A runaway marriage appeals to me now as it never did before. I want to be married—tremendously—but I want to get it over."

A soft laugh answered him. "We'll get it over."

Anthony sat up suddenly. "Will we?" he asked with eagerness. "When?"

"I didn't say 'when'!"

"Juliet—when are you going to say it?"

"Why, Tony—dear—"

"That's right—put in the 'dear,'" he murmured. "I've heard mighty few of 'em yet, and they sound great to me—"

"We've been engaged only two weeks—"

"And two days—"

"And the little house isn't spoiling, even though you're not sure about the tea-kettle and the awning. I—you don't want to hurry things—"

"Don't I!"—rebelliously.

"If I'm very good and say 'Christmas'—"

"'Christmas!'—Great Cæsar!"

"But, Tony—"

"Now see here—" he leaned forward and stared up at her, without touching her—he was as yet allowed few of the lover's favours and prized them the more for that—"do you think our case is just like other people's? Here I've been waiting for you all my days—waiting and waiting, and tortured all the time by suspense. Then I lived that month of July with my heart in my mouth—you'll never know what you put me through those days, talking and jollying about 'Eleanor Langham,' and never for one instant, until just that last day, giving me the smallest pinch of hope that it was anything to you except just what it pretended to be. Then—I've been a long time without a home—and the little house—sweetheart—it looks like Heaven to me. Must I stay outside till Christmas—when everything's all ready? Confound it—I don't want to play the pathetic string, and the Lord knows I'm happy as a fellow can be who's got the desire of his life. But—"

A warm hand came gently upon his hair, and for joy at the touch he fell silent. Once he turned his head and put his lips against the white sleeve as it fell near, and looked up an instant with eyes whose expression the person above him felt rather than saw through the subdued light. By and by she took up the conversation.

"So you are rejoiced that I don't want a great wedding?"

"Immensely relieved."

"What would you like best?"

"I don't dare tell you."

"You may."

"Tell me what you would like, Julie."

"Of course father would say the town house, even if it were a small affair. Auntie Dingley would probably agree to having it here—if that were what you—we—wanted—that is—"

Anthony looked up quickly. "Even at Christmas?"

"Why—yes. We could come back. People do that sometimes."

"Yes. Must we do what other people do?"

"Would you rather not?"

"Ten thousand times. It seems to me that the biggest mistake people make is the way they do this thing. Juliet—think of the little house. We made it—you made it. For years, without doubt, it's to hold us and our experiences. Do you know I'd like to give it this one to begin with?—I'm holding my breath!"

Plainly she was holding hers. Her head was turned away—he could just see her profile outlined against the ruby light. And at the moment there were footsteps inside a long French window near at hand which lay open into the library. Mr. Horatio Marcy came out and stood still just behind them.