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.