"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."