Chapter IX
Mary did not really like it on the farm but nevertheless weeks rolled by and she continued to remain there. She had stumbled into a rut and lacked the energy to attempt to get out. She was neither entirely happy nor entirely miserable. The soil was not in sympathy with her. Yekial Meigs loved it. It had been his cradle. It would be his grave. And in the short span between it had given him life, wealth and all the contentment he possessed.
After the first ardor of his desire for Mary wore off, his manner abruptly changed. He ceased entering into long conversations. He had won her. She belonged to him. It was no longer necessary to woo her. Now he could give all his time to his fields.
At night he usually went to sleep at once. This did not please Mary. She wanted love. Night after night she walked about the rooms. Even the fact that she was utterly fired when she went to bed did not bring her sleep. She longed for the beloved sounds of the city. It was an age since she had heard laughter.
Day after day she sat at the dinner table and studied him moodily. He ate ravenously, huge slices of bread without butter. It did not matter what he ate as long as he filled himself with food. He was like a great beast with his sense of taste deadened. Anything that could be chewed satisfied him. As a rule he came to the table without washing, covered with the earth of the fields. He seldom shaved and his beard cropped out in uneven, straggly patches. She shuddered as she gazed upon him. Had she been an utter fool to become a drudge for such a man?
No longer did he bother telling her she was beautiful, nor did he make any attempt to keep her from pain.
He grew niggardly with his money. He scarcely ever gave her a penny. When she wished to go into Fort Wayne shopping he usually vetoed the suggestion. Her clothes were good enough. He was not in favor of buying fancy things for the table. They didn't need new curtains. He was even saving in regard to lamps. He was willing to keep only one, a dim one burning at night. Too much illumination, he claimed, was bad for the eyes. A low light also saved kerosene.
In time Mary grew to detest him. Yet he fascinated her. He was so utterly brutal, so utterly savage.
She vowed time and time again that she would leave him and yet when winter came she was still with him.
That was a particularly cold winter. The wind tore down over the plains in icy blasts. It beat against the strong walls of the house as though intent on tearing it down. It rattled the doors and crashed icy fists against the window panes. On the hearth huge logs burned merrily. At last Mary was able to sit in a great chair before the open fire and gaze wistfully into the flames. It was easy to dream when one concentrated on the glowing embers. Castles could be built easily of chimney-smoke. What matter if they quickly vanished? Nothing in life was lasting. Nothing was real. All was illusion. And men continued to exist simply because they were charmed by shadows.
Mary smiled thoughtfully as she gazed into the flames. For this she had come to Fort Wayne, to sit before the open fire. At last her mission was accomplished. But in this house, she had not found the comfort she had anticipated. It was just a house. It was not a home. And there was little warmth before the fireplace. Though the fire blazed merrily, for her there were only ashes on the hearth.
Yekial dozed in the evenings for awhile before the hearth. He never talked. Occasionally he smoked a pipe of vile tobacco. All hunched up in his chair, he looked like a formless animal. His face in the fireglow was uglier than ever. And outside the house the wind whipped itself into frenzy, frustrated trying to get in.
The wind was mad. It shrieked and wailed. It implored the cold fingers of the moon to come down and help to tear this obstinate house apart. The commotion made the place drearier and more forlorn than ever. And Mary Blaine murmured inaudibly: "There is no sound more melancholy than the sobbing of the wind."
Then a great blizzard came down from the North. For days they were cut off from everything. Not a soul passed their door. It was all Yekial could do to fight his way to the barns to feed the animals. It was like living in the heart of an icy desert with only great winds for company.
The world was deserted. Yet pandemonium existed. The shrieking of the weird cold blasts almost drove her frantic. Something of the elemental discord entered her soul. She walked through all the empty rooms. She swept the floors. She made beds in the spare rooms that had not been slept in.
By morning of the second day the storm abated, the wind died down but it still remained cloudy. As Mary gazed out of her bedroom window, the white country and the white sky seemed to merge into one mass. It was like living on the inner side of a huge white globe. With the passing of the winds a stillness descended over the house that was more deafening than the voice of the storm. She hated silence. Silence made her think of the whispering halls in the sinister house of John Rott. There is nothing to fear in shouting, a voice that the whole world may hear, but a murmuring menace is a horror.
She tried to communicate her feelings to Yekial but he was impatient.
"Don't be a fed!" he said.44What's the matter? Are you still a child?"
"Perhaps," she said dully. "Se few of us ever attain maturity. We prate about our knowledge and after all what do we ever know? Measured by the wisdom of the universe we never succeed in growing mentally beyond infancy."
"I do not care for psychology," he grumbled. "I leave that to professors who cannot gain a living in any other way. It is all bunk. A contented man could be contented anywhere."
"Platitudes," said she, "are equally as obnoxious as psychology. Anyway you may as well know the truth. This loneliness is killing me."
"I find it rather pleasant."
"Our viewpoints are different. To keep from growing mad, I've got to go to Fort Wayne. I'll stop at a hotel for a day or two to get my nerves back into shape."
"Why?" he asked curtly. "Have you not been well-treated here?"
"Don't use that tone of voice to me," she cried hysterically. "You make me feel as though I'm a patient in an asylum. I've simply got to get away from this hellish farm."
At that his anger flamed up so terrifically that he almost foamed at the mouth. His face grew red with fury. This woman had dared to curse his farm. To him it was blasphemy. He loved the broad sweeping acres, the house in which he had been born. His life had been a saga of the soil, somewhat drab in spots, ofttimes rising to a lofty pinnacle.
There was frequently a beauty about it that was lyrical. There was music in the fields. The soil had always been kind to him. Not one year had his crops failed. Because of the treasures of the soil he was a rich man. He need never work again unless he wished to. But he remained in the fields. He remained true to the mistress that had been so fertile for him. And this woman had dared to cast curses on the soil!
So great was his fury he was inarticulate. Mary Blaine stood staring at him. His wrath amused her. At least it was an interlude in that awful stillness. She openly sneered at him as he towered over her, shaking with rage.
In despair he struck out with the open palm of his hand, catching her flush on the mouth and sending her in a heap to the floor. Dazed, she rose to her feet. Blood was trickling from her lips but she was smiling. She felt no resentment for the blow, only interest. She liked him best when he was like an animal. In a moment, his mood changed. He sank down in a chair and started to sob. His great bulk shook with grief.
"Mary, forgive me," he implored.
"For Christ's sake, don't be weak!" she said. "I hate a man that grovels. I'm not angry. You have been a fool, but mentally you are still a child. I do not war with children."
For a while he continued to sob. It was more than she could tolerate. She went upstairs and bathed her bleeding lips. Then she stretched out upon the bed. At last Yekial Meigs came up the stairs. He entered the room like a whipped dog. "Can you forgive me?" he begged.
She laughed wantonly.
"What does it matter?" she asked.
He gathered her in his arms. For the rest of that day Mary Blaine had no cause for complaint. She was no longer lonesome.