Summer lay hot and heavy on the prairie. Grass and trees were at their
fullest, most intense green. They were full of sap, luxuriant--the
heat had not begun to crisp them. But it hung like a blanket over the
town. People sweltered and panted as they went about their business
in the streets, where the slow creaking watering-cart could not keep
down the dust. When dusk came they sat out on their porches, fanning
themselves and fighting mosquitos. It was not the custom to go away in
summer, nobody thought of it. Life went on just the same, only at a
more languid pace. In the yards facing the street roses were blooming
and drooping.
At Judge Baxter's house all was long since in order. The outside had
been repainted a clear white with bright green blinds, kept shut now
all day against the heat, with the shutters open to admit any breath
of air. Inside the half-light softened the newness of everything, the
medley of bright colours which the Judge had got together. At night,
shaded lamps toned down the glitter.
Mary was constantly about the house, keeping it immaculate--she was
slow, methodical and thorough. But with the Judge's housekeeper to do
the work in the hot kitchen, she felt that she was living in pampered
luxury. It was not what she had expected for the beginning of her
married life. Sometimes she vaguely regretted that things were not
harder, more strenuous for her. There were long hours that seemed
vacant, with all she could do. Laurence was working hard. Three times a
week he drove over to Elmville and spent the afternoon at the creamery.
The rest of the time he was busy at the Judge's office, he worked at
night too over his law-books or papers. He did not mind the heat, he
was in radiant health and spirits.
There was not much social life in the town except for the boys and
girls. Older people were supposed to stay at home. Married women were
out of the game, they had their houses and children to attend to, and
for relaxation, the church or gossip with a neighbour. The men had
their business and an occasional visit to Chicago; they met in the bar
of the tavern or the barbershop, or at the lodge, if they were Masons.
There was no general meeting-place, no restaurant or park. Very seldom
did any citizen take a meal outside his own home. The Opera-house did
not often open. There were a few dances, for the youth; older people
did not go, even as chaperones, nor were they wanted at the straw-rides
or picnics, nor in the front parlours where the girls received their
beaux. Once married, a person retired into private life, so far as
amusement was concerned. Anything else would have been scandalous.
Mary did not feel these restrictions. She was, if not wholly content,
at least for the moment satisfied; it was a pause. If not radiance,
there was some sort of subdued glow about her, something that softened
and lightened her look and manner. She was silent as ever, not more
expressive, even more slow. Sometimes alone, she would give way to a
dreamy languor.
She never had been very social, and now she was less so. She saw few
people, paid few visits. Friends of her own age she had none--she had
always felt herself older than other girls. She went regularly to
church and kept up the activities connected with it, and so constantly
saw the minister. But here had come a distinct break; she had not
talked with him at any length, or except about church-matters, since
her marriage. She did not mean this break to be permanent; she knew
that some time she would want to talk to him again, but just now she
did not, and he did not seek her, even for an ordinary pastoral visit.
Each day she went in to see her parents, five minutes' walk up the
street, or one of them came to see her. They were quite reconciled now,
though there had been sore scenes at first, after her return. Mrs.
Lowell had wept bitterly, and told Mary that she was a selfish girl,
who never thought of any one but herself, a bad daughter who didn't
care how much she hurt her mother and father. At this Mary had cried
too, not with sobs and gaspings, but just big slow tears rolling down
her cheeks, as she sat looking unutterably injured. When she spoke, in
answer to her mother's long complaint, it was only to say gently;
"But Mother, you know you never pretended to like Laurence or my
marrying him, so why should I think you cared about the wedding? It
wasn't as if you'd been pleased, and liked it. Everybody could see you
didn't like it, so I thought the sooner it was over the better."
"Who says I don't like Laurence?" Mrs. Lowell demanded hotly. "Don't
you see it was just the way to make the whole town believe it, running
off that way! A pretty position it puts me in, and your father--as if
you couldn't be married at home, like other girls! As if we would have
prevented you, if you were set on it! We would have given you as nice a
wedding as any girl ever had here--"
Then another burst of tears, at the end of which they found themselves
in one another's arms. Endearments were rare between them, but it was
with great relief to both that they now kissed and made it up, for they
did love one another. From that time it was understood that Mrs. Lowell
was very fond of her son-in-law. Woe to the person who should dare say
a word to the contrary or against him! He was now fully received into
the family; his status was fixed for all time. The doctor had not made
any scene; had welcomed them both warmly, as if nothing had happened.
Indeed, Mary thought he was pleased. They had stayed for two weeks
there, till the Judge's house was ready; a satisfaction to Mrs. Lowell,
as effectually giving the lie to any report that there was trouble in
her family. And she had done her utmost, after the first day, to make
things pleasant. By the end of the visit, Laurence was calling her
"Mother," and paying her compliments; every one was in good humour, the
house gayer than it had ever been; and Mrs. Lowell was nearly in love
with the scion of Irish bog-trotters.
So Mary had no more defending of Laurence to do. It was understood
that she was happy, that her husband was full of promise and
well-befriended, and that everybody was satisfied.
The Judge insisted that Laurence must help exercise his horses, so
often, when work and the heat of the day were over, Laurence drove
the trotters out over the prairie, with Mary in the buggy beside him.
He handled the spirited horses with ease, and she felt perfectly safe
with him. He would talk to her at length of his day's doings, of
anything that came into his head, and she listened, not saying much.
Sometimes he wanted her to talk, and she found she had nothing to say.
Her inexpressiveness often bothered him, sometimes made him angry. He
needed response and was impatient if he didn't get it, in all things.
He was ardent and tumultuous in his love, constantly wanting expression
of love from her. He was demanding, impetuous, imperious in his
desire. He could not have patience, he could not woo any longer, he
must possess--all, to the uttermost, without reserve. His experience
of women had not taught him to understand a nature like hers--less
emotional than his own, really more sensual. His whole idea of women in
general, of Mary in particular was opposed to this understanding--he
would have reversed the judgment, and so would Mary. He thought Mary
cold to love, and her coldness often made him brusque and overbearing.
Yet he was very happy. He loved to be with her, to talk to her even
when she did not answer, to look at her. He was proud of her beauty;
liked to drive with her through the town or to walk with her on his
arm; liked the admiring glances that followed her. He held his head
high; consciousness of power, confidence in himself and his destiny,
were strong in him. He felt that he could control the forces about him,
as his powerful wrists controlled the horses, and drive them at his
will, along the road he chose.
Several times a week he saw Nora, the companion of his childhood, for
she was working now in the creamery at Elmville. He had not met her
that Sunday on the river road, for then he was in Chicago with Mary,
and had forgotten all about Nora. But he had remembered her afterwards,
and as she had lost her place in the store because she was not quick
at figures, he had found a place for her at the creamery. He meant to
look out for poor little Nora, had a desire to be kind to her. He had
a quick sympathy for the weak and helpless, always; he was full of
generous impulses, would kindle at any tale of distress or injustice
and was ready to help. Part of his feeling for "the under dog" came
by nature; part perhaps from his own circumstances in the years of
sensitive youth.
A deep mark had been left upon him by these early hardships--he hated
and feared poverty. He was ambitious in a worldly and social way, he
wanted to count among men, he wanted power; and he was determined to
be rich. His power was to be beneficent, his riches were to benefit
others. Though he liked display and luxury, he liked better the feeling
that he could be a mainstay and rock of refuge to those weaker than
himself. He would be great, powerful, and generous.
These ambitions and dreams came out clearly as he talked to Mary. But
she did not echo them, only listened gravely. She did not sympathize
with Laurence's desire for worldly things, and she knew he would not
sympathize with her indifference to them. When she expressed anything
of the kind he would say with irritation that she knew nothing of the
world and had better get some experience before she despised it. So
after a few attempts, she gave up trying to talk to him about it. The
time hadn't come, she felt, Laurence's spiritual eyes were not opened,
he was bound to earthly vanities. Perhaps he would have to experience
these things before he could despise them, see their nothingness. But
_she_ needn't, she felt serenely that no experience would change her
point of view. She loved Laurence, but she nourished in her heart
an ideal to which he did not correspond. A militant saint--that was
her ideal. Not a man struggling for the goods of this world, but one
who could put his feet upon them and whose vision was far beyond. A
look of infinite remoteness would come into her eyes sometimes and
she would fall into abstraction; and Laurence, when this happened in
his presence, would resent it instinctively and drag her out of it by
making love to her or quarrelling with her, or both at once.
But they had many happy hours together in the long drowsy twilights,
many times of troubled exquisite sweetness in the dusk or the dark of
still summer nights. Their youthful tenderness was stronger than any
division of feeling; a deep unconscious bond was forming between them.
* * * * *
Sometimes in the evenings, the heat and mosquitos would drive them
indoors. Then in the dim light Mary would sit down at the piano. She
did not play very well, her fingers were strong rather than skilful,
but she sang old ballads in her husky contralto, for Laurence and Judge
Baxter.
The Judge had a sentimental passion for these songs, and as he sat and
listened, pulling slowly at his cigar, he was happy, he had a feeling
of home. His bare bachelor existence had been cushioned, or he would
have said, glorified by the tender touch of a woman. He had a chivalric
affection for Mary, he admired her intensely. He and Laurence would sit
with their eyes fixed upon her as she sang, on the clear outline of her
cheek, her thick knot of burnished hair, her young figure, strong and
stately, in the light flowing gown of white muslin. She sang "Ye banks
and braes of bonnie Doon," and "Oh, tell me if all those endearing
young charms," and other old-world songs. The two men listened raptly,
the glowing tips of their cigars gathering thick cones of ashes. In
the intervals of the song, a chorus of night-insects could be heard
outside, shrilling in the grass and heavy-leaved trees. Or sometimes
the low rumbling of thunder heralded an approaching storm.