She insisted warmly that she would. (Anything which gave her a firmer hold here, made the home more definitely hers.... Of course, when Glen married the young savage and brought him here, the gentlewoman must go; it would be an intolerable situation. But meanwhile, the deeper she could drive her roots, the better. And she had been aware, lately, of a growing hope.... He came less often and there was a restraint in Glen’s manner when she spoke of him....)
“The first thing,” Glen was glowing with her excited interest, “will be to take all this awful wall paper off and put on something perfectly plain.”
“Well, I’d have the perfectly plain in the parlor and dining room,” Miss Ada offered, “but don’t you think you’d like some quaint little flowered patterns in the bedrooms?”
“Of course! And rag rugs and patchwork-quilts, and rush-bottomed chairs? I’ve noticed pictures in the back of magazines”—even the hectic weekly was not above running opulent advertisements—“and I read a home decoration article at the library one evening! And little dotted-muslin curtains! I could make them myself!”
“And I could help you,” Miss Ada purred.
“And we’ll take up all the carpets, and paint the floors—I can paint the floors! I’ve read about how you do it, and it will be fun!” The infrequent color was climbing in her clear cheeks.
It was fun, all of it. She flung herself into it with all the energy which she had meant for her new responsibilities at the mill, and for being in love with Luke, and she rose at five and stayed up until midnight many nights, and flew up the hill at noon for a precious half hour. Slowly, very slowly, the old house crawled out of its skin of ugliness and became simple and charming. The two women worked tirelessly; Miss Ada hurried home from school to sew on curtains and covers and valances, and Glen performed the more robust tasks of painting and polishing, of hammering and tacking.
The oppressive wall papers were covered over with a cool gray with a faint glint of gold in it, downstairs, and with prim little patterns of blue and purple rosebuds and humming birds and weeping-willow trees upstairs; the fat magenta and mustard colored flowers in the carpets went away forever to bloom in Phemie’s delighted cabin, and the floors, discovered to be surprisingly smooth and well laid, took their coats of serene hues successfully; the windows looked at once demure and arch between their dotted-muslin ruffles. The golden oak, sold to Phemie’s friends and neighbors, brought enough to replace it with a few satisfying old walnut and cherry things. There were no museum pieces, but they were honest in line and color, and with fresh upholstering in flowered chintz and hours of polishing took on an air of stable worth. These, together with Miss Ada’s beautiful old sofa carved in great bunches of grapes, her own dear father’s armchair, which she now brought down from her chamber, a gate-legged table and a prim rocker and a stern old bookcase and writing desk in one, furnished the house sparingly, almost austerely, but very restfully.
“And now and then, as we feel we can afford it, we will add things,” Miss Ada said.
Janice Jennings, who had taken her grandmother to Florida and brought her back again for a final fortnight at the Bella Vista, stared at it in gasping astonishment. Her bright mouth fell open as always in moments of mystification. “It knocks me for a goal!” she admitted freely. “It was the well-known world’s most horrible interior, and now it’s a darb! I’ve got to hand it to you, girls!” She beamed on Glen and Miss Ada in turn, and her bright little eyes roved consideringly over the cool and quiet interior. “Now, you need an honest-to-God old clock in the middle of the mantelpiece, and a Dresden China shepherd and his sweetie saying—‘Oh, you kid!’ from each end, and you’ll be all set, and I’ve seen the very things in that old cellar shop on Main Street.”