Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

"Let me come in a minute," he said.

She was startled at his tone, his pale and agitated look. He left the door ajar, with a quick motion he drew her away from it, sat down on the bed, his arms round her waist as she stood before him too astonished to speak.

"Mary! Let us not go back there again till we are married! Marry me now, here--tonight, or tomorrow!... Why wait any longer--and then all the fuss about it.... Do, Mary--do this for me, please--"

He looked up at her, pleading, demanding, his eyes gleaming intensely, humble and imperious.

"Sweetheart! Why shouldn't we?... The Judge will be a witness, it will be all right, your parents won't mind very much, will they?... I hate a show wedding anyhow, a lot of people round.... And I don't want to wait any longer, Mary--I want it over and settled, and to be alone with you.... We can stay here a few days.... Do, please, Mary--"

He clasped her tighter and pressed his face against the silken folds of her skirt; drew her down beside him. Mary was thinking, so intently that though she looked straight at him she hardly saw him, did not notice that he was crumpling her dress, her gloves.

"We could send a telegram," he murmured eagerly.

"No, not a telegram, a letter," said Mary, abstractedly.

"Yes, a letter!"

She disengaged herself from his clasp, and he let her go, watching her as she went slowly over to the mirror, and smoothed her dress, set her bonnet straight, began again to draw on her gloves, all with that absent gaze.

"You will, Mary?" he breathed.

She did not answer, hardly heard.

She was thinking that this would be an end for her too of a difficult time. It had been hard for her, with her mother especially, who even now was not resigned and went about with a pale set face.... Her father wasn't happy about it either, nobody was, it wasn't a cheerful atmosphere.... They hadn't treated her very well about it. Mr. Robertson too, her pastor, who was to marry them--he had rebuffed her. None of them had smiled on her, had any joy for her....

They would be hurt, of course, her mother would be anyhow. Her mother, she knew, had intended to hold her head high, if the marriage had to be, and to have the customary wedding festivities and not let any outsider know how she felt. But perhaps she would be glad not to have to go through it. Anyhow--

She turned, met Laurence's look of eager suspense and appeal, smiled faintly.

"What an idea!... It's time to go down now--"

"Yes, but--tell me.... Tomorrow?"

He got up and put out his hands to her, grave and tender, as he met her eyes with a new look in them, a kind of timidity, a yielding look. He had not thought she would consent, it had been, he felt, a wild impulse, but behold, she was consenting. Secretly Mary was thrilled by it--it seemed reckless and adventurous to her--an elopement!

"I'll take care of you, Mary," murmured Laurence with passionate tenderness.

She smiled mistily at him.

At dinner she drank a glass of the champagne that Judge Baxter insisted on. The Judge's gaiety and flowery compliments, Laurence's adoring gaze, the novel luxury of the big restaurant and the box afterward at the play--it was like a dream. She did not recognize herself in the person going through this experience--it seemed to be happening to somebody else. That glass of golden wine--never had Mary Lowell tasted anything of the sort, never had she acted irresponsibly.... But it was delicious not to be Mary Lowell.... To let herself go, for once, to feel this abandonment and not to care whither this soft flowing tide was taking her....

* * * * *

The Judge was thunderstruck, when Laurence told him, late that night.

"The house won't be ready," he murmured feebly.

Laurence had an answer to all his objections. They would stop a few days in the city, then they would go to Mary's parents for a time. The Judge mustn't feel responsibility, nobody would blame him. They just didn't want the fuss of a wedding at home. Mary would write to her parents and it would be all right. In the end, the Judge was persuaded that, if wrong-headed, it was a romantic thing to do, and entered into it with spirit. But he had to have his part in it. A wedding-dinner, in a private room, with an avalanche of flowers. A wedding-gift to the young couple, a complete service of flat silver. And at the ceremony, in the little parlour of a minister whom Laurence had taken at hazard, the Judge, with paternal tears in his eyes, gave the bride away, and kissed her fair cheek.

XI

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.

XII

On an August afternoon, Mary walked languidly up the street to her father's house. She was bare-headed, dressed in a plain white muslin, and carried a small parasol, though the sun was hidden in a thick haze. It was about four o'clock. All day the heat had been intense, the air was thick, motionless, stifling. The greyish haze hung low and heavy, and darkened steadily.

It was as though all the heat of the summer, of all the long monotonous summer days, had been gathered up, concentrated in that one day; as if it hung there between the baked earth and the thick blanket of cloud sinking lower and lower, pressing down.

There was no feeling of space. The prairie was stagnant, torpid--nothing stirred on it, except the small ant-like motions of men. The horizons of the vast plain had disappeared....

Day follows day, each with its little occupations, orderly, monotonous, peaceful. Some little corner of the world seems a safe place to live in--shut in upon itself, shut out from disturbance--perhaps too safe. Life may grow dull and languid, sometimes, even when new pulses are stirring in it, grow faint. Long summer days, one like another, each with its weight of humid heat, pile up a burden....

Vast unbroken spaces are dangerous. Beyond that curtain of sullen mist, who knows what is brewing? Unknown forces, long gathering and brooding, strike suddenly out of darkness. That infinite monotony of the prairie breeds violence--long suppressed, breaking at last....

Mary found her mother sitting on the porch, gasping, fanning herself with a palm-leaf.

"What a day--the worst yet," moaned Mrs. Lowell. "Have a glass of lemonade, Mary? I made some for your father. It's on the dining-room table."

"Where is Father?"

Mary dropped into the hammock, panting.

"He hasn't come back yet. I wish he'd come. There's going to be a storm."

Mary lay against the cushion, her lips parted, breathing heavily.

"How pale you are! What ails you, child?" Mrs. Lowell asked with alarm.

"Nothing--the heat--"

"Don't you want the lemonade? I'll get it for you--"

"No, no--I'll go in a minute--"

But Mrs. Lowell rose with an effort, and went in. When she brought the lemonade, Mary sat up with a faint murmur of thanks, and drank it. Mrs. Lowell stood looking at her with watchful tenderness.

"There isn't anything the matter, is there? You ought to be careful, this hot weather, and not overdo, Mary."

"No, it isn't anything--"

Mrs. Lowell took the empty glass and went back to her chair.

"Laurence is over at Elmville," said Mary languidly. "I'm afraid he'll get caught in the storm. How dark it's getting."

She looked out at the low cloud that thickened momently and that now was clotting into black masses against a greenish grey. The rattle of the doctor's old buggy was heard approaching; he drove rapidly in past the house. His horse was sweating heavily and flecked with foam. They caught a glimpse of his pale face as he passed.

"Thank goodness," murmured Mrs. Lowell. "Perhaps we'd better go in."

But she remained, gazing at the clouds. A few people went by, more hurriedly than usual. It was almost dark now, a strange twilight. Mary left the hammock and came to look up at the sky. Up there were masses of cloud in tumult, but down below not a breath of air stirred.

"How queer it looks--I wish Laurence was home. He starts about this time," she said uneasily.

"Oh, he'll wait till it's over.... I wonder why your father doesn't come in...."

Mary turned and entered the house, but the doctor was not there, and she went on out into the garden. At the door of the stable she saw the horse hitched, he had not been unharnessed. Dr. Lowell stood there, looking up. She went quickly along the path to him.

"Say, Mary, this looks mighty queer. We're going to have a big wind," he called to her. "You better go in."

"Well, why don't _you_ come in? Aren't you going to unhitch?"

"I suppose so," he said with a worried glance. "Satan acted like the very deuce on the way home--"

He looked at the wooden stable doubtfully.

"I suppose I'll have to put him in there. I don't know but we're going to get a twister."

He unbuckled the tugs and pushed the buggy into the stable, and then, holding the sweating, stamping horse firmly by the halter, led him in, but did not take off the harness. He shut the stable-door and joined Mary, gazing up at the boiling black clouds, which cast greenish gleams. He looked around at his garden, kept fresh and full of blossom by his labours. The yellow of late summer had begun to shoot through its green, but it was still lovely, tall phlox blooming luxuriantly, and many-coloured asters. In the sick light, the foliage and flowers looked metallic, not a leaf moved. The doctor took Mary by the arm and they went in. Mrs. Lowell was shutting all the windows. It was hot as a furnace in the house. The cellar-door stood open.

"It's cooler down there," suggested Mrs. Lowell in a trembling voice.

"Well, we may have to," the doctor responded calmly, helping himself to lemonade.

Mary hurried to look out of the front windows. The passers-by were running now, teams went by at a gallop. Then it was as if a great sighing breath passed over, the trees waved and tossed their leaves, and then--the wind struck.

In an instant the air was full of tumult, of flying dust, leaves, branches, and darkened to night, with a roar like the sea in storm. All was blurred outside the windows, the house shook and seemed to shift on its foundations, blinds tore loose and crashed like gun-fire.

Mary felt a grasp on her arm, and saw her mother's face, white and scared. Mrs. Lowell tried to drag her away, shouted something. But she wrenched her arm loose, turned and ran upstairs. From the second-story windows she could see nothing but a wild whirl, the trees bent down and streaming, dim shapes in the visible darkness driving past. There was still another stair, narrow and steep, to the attic. She climbed up there. From the small window in the eaves she could see over the tree-tops. The house shook and trembled under her, the roar of the wind seemed to burst through the walls, but she crouched by the low window, heedless. She started at a touch on her shoulder, her father was there beside her. She made room for him at the window, and pointed out, turning to him a white face of terror.

The fury of the wind was lessening, the darkness was lifting. The outer fringe of the storm-cloud had swept them--but out there on the prairie, miles away, they could see now--

There it was, a murky green and black boiling centre in the sky, and shooting down from it, trailing over the earth, something like a long twisting finger--

An instant's vision of it. Then there came a deluge of rain, beating on the sloping roof. Through the streaming window nothing could be seen. The doctor raised Mary and led her down the stair, she clung to him without a word. On the second floor they found Mrs. Lowell, about to mount in search of them, trembling with fright.

* * * * *

"It's all over, Mother," shouted the doctor through the drumming of the rain. "We only got the edge of it."

They went down to the lower floor. Now it was perceptibly lighter. The cloud fringe sweeping like a huge broom was passing as swiftly as it had come. The rain lessened in force, the grey outside brightened. The doctor and his wife looked at one another, and both looked at Mary, who stood beside a window staring out.

"Now, Mother," said Dr. Lowell briskly, "you get me a sandwich or something, I've got to start out. Mary! help your mother, will you? You might as well fill up a basket, as quick as you can--put in anything you've got, in five minutes--don't know how long I may be--"

He was already fastening his rubber coat, his old hat jammed down on his head. Mary followed her mother, blindly obeying her quick directions in the kitchen. The basket was packed by the time the doctor came out with his medicine-chest and a big roll of surgical dressings.

"Where you going?" Mrs. Lowell then demanded.

"There'll be some damage where that thing struck," said the doctor cheerfully. "I'm going over there. Don't you sit up for me, I may be all night. You better keep Mary here, till Laurence comes for her."

But Mary was putting on an old cloak of her mother's that hung in the entry.

"I'm going with you. Laurence is over there," she said.

Mrs. Lowell started to protest, but looking at Mary's face, stopped, and went to get a scarf to tie over her hair. The doctor said nothing, but went to hitch up his horse and put a feed of grain into the back of the buggy. They started. Satan indicated his displeasure at the turn of things by rearing up in the shafts and then trying to kick the dashboard in; but the doctor gave him the whip and he decided to go.

* * * * *

The road was mud-puddles, ruts and gullies, and strewn with branches, sometime great boughs or fence-rails lay across it. Other people were on the way now. Satan passed everything going in their direction. Salutations and comments were shouted at the doctor. Then they began to meet people coming the other way; the doctor did not stop to talk, but a man called to him that Elmville had been wiped out by the cyclone.

Two miles on they came to a cluster of houses where a crowd had gathered, most of them refugees who had fled before the storm. Two houses here had been un-roofed, sheds blown away, and the place was littered with splinters, but nobody was seriously hurt. From there on they met a stream of people, nearly all the population of Elmville, including the people from the creamery who had escaped into the prairie laden with whatever goods they could carry. Then they reached the last buildings left standing by the storm--a farmhouse and barns, by some freak of the wind untouched, a mile from Elmville. These were crowded with people from the town, mostly women and children, and a few men, some of them injured. The doctor pulled up his horse and shouted an inquiry for Laurence. Oh, Captain Carlin was all right, he had been there when the storm struck, had started home but decided he couldn't make it and stopped there--he had driven back now to see what he could do, and most of the men had gone after him. Wouldn't the doctor come in? One of the men had a broken leg and there was a woman with her head hurt by a flying brick, they thought she would die. The doctor hesitated. Mary said:

"You stay, Father, I'll drive on and find Laurence."

"You drive Satan! You couldn't hold him a minute!"

"I'll drive him."

He looked at her, realized that she was quite irrational, called out that he would come back, and drove on.

The storm had come at an angle to the road, so the wreckage of the town had blown the other way, but where its buildings had stood, with the tall brick factory in their midst, the skyline was now absolutely empty.

They came on Laurence's horse, tied to a fallen tree, and then Laurence himself came running toward them, out of a group of men who were lifting timbers. Mary was out of the buggy and in his arms in a moment, sobbing on his shoulder, clinging to him wildly, the rain falling on her bare head. She hid her face against his wet coat, not to see the desolation around her. But then after a little she raised her head and looked over his shoulder, her eyes full of the terror of death that had passed so near, that had threatened to strike to her heart....

A rubbish-heap, in which men were frantically digging for the wounded and dead, was all that was left of the town. A heap of splintered boards and bricks, with pitiful odds and ends of household furniture mixed in. Not a wall was standing, not one brick left on another, all was levelled to the earth.

The wind had roared away across the prairie and there, somewhere in the midst of vast spaces, it would vanish. Over beyond, now, near the horizon, a rift had opened in the grey clouds, and through it was visible a long belt of blue sky--serene, limpid, smiling.