The Indifference of Juliet. Grace S. Richmond

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.

VIII.—On Account of the Tea-Kettle

       Table of Contents

      “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.”

      A soft laugh answered him. “We’ll get it over.”

      Anthony sat up suddenly. “Will we?” he asked with eagerness. “When?”

      “I didn’t say ‘when’!”

      “Juliet—when are you going to say it?”

      “Why, Tony—dear——”