"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.