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.