The local building genius repainted the aged house after bay window and
gingerbread had been stripped from its otherwise dignified facade;
replaced broken slates on the roof, mended the great fat chimneys,
matched the traces of pale bluish-green that remained on the window
shutters, filled in the sashes with small, square panes, instituted
modern plumbing, drainage, sewage, and electric lights--all of which was
emergency work and not too difficult as the city improvements had now
been extended as far as the village a mile to the eastward. But it was
expensive.
At first Clive had decided to leave the interior to Athalie, but he
finally made up his mind to restore the place on its original lines
with the exception of her mother's room. This room he recognised from
her frequent description of it; and he locked it, pocketed the key,
and turned loose his men.
All that they did was to plaster where it was needed, re-kalsomine all
walls and ceilings, scrape, clean, mend, and re-enamel the ancient
woodwork. Trim, casings, wainscot, and stairs were restored to their
original design and finish; dark hardwood floors replaced the painted
boards which had rotted; wherever a scrap of early wall-paper remained
he matched it as closely as possible, having an expert from New York
to do the business; and the fixtures he chose were simple and graceful
and reflected the period as nearly as electric light fixtures can
simulate an era of candle-sticks and tallow dips.
He was tremendously tempted to go ahead, so fascinating had the work
become to him, but he realised that it was not fair to Athalie. All
that he could reasonably do he had done; the place was clean and
fresh, and restored to its original condition outside and in, except
for the modern necessities of lighting, heating, plumbing, and running
water in pantry, laundry, kitchen, and bathrooms. Two of the latter
had replaced two clothes-presses; the ancient cellar had been cemented
and whitewashed, and heavily stocked with furnace and kitchen coal and
kindling.
Also there were fire-dogs for the three fine old-fashioned fireplaces
in the house which had been disinterred from under bricked-in and
plastered surfaces where only the aged mantel shelves and a hole for a
stove pipe revealed their probable presence.
The carpets were too ragged and soiled to retain; the furniture too
awful. But he replaced the latter, leaving its disposition and the
pleasure of choosing new furniture and new floor coverings to Athalie.
Hers also was to be the pleasure of re-stocking the house with linen;
of selecting upholstery and curtains and the requisites for pantry,
kitchen, and dining-room.
Once she told him what she had meant to do with the bar. And he took
the liberty of doing it, turning the place into a charming
sun-parlour, where, in a stone basin, gold-fish swam and a forest of
feathery and flowering semi-tropical plants spread a fretwork of blue
shadows over the cool stone floor.