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. Lowelldemanded 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 powerfulwrists 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 saywith 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. Butsheneedn'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.