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.”