I had no friend in England, and more and more my husband's special work was engrossing him. When we were together I felt tongue-tied. He had tried to be gentle with me; but I was strange in this world of his, and lonely and sensitive. I had dreamed so much of this world, and now that I was in it, it was false and petty. I longed for the United States, for my Northwest, for my hills and wide, far plains. I wanted to meet somebody from Madison who smiled like a friend.
One day Tom looked at me searchingly, and said I must be ill.
I confessed to a little homesickness. Tom became very attentive. He took me sightseeing. We lunched at the quaint inn where Dickens found his inspiration for “Pickwick Papers” and where the literary lights of London foregathered and still foregather for luncheon. We sat in one of the cozy little stalls—just Tom and I.
Suddenly it swept over me that life had gone all wrong. Here was a dream come true, and no joy in my heart. Tom asked me for my thoughts. I told him, quite frankly, I was thinking of home. I was thinking of mother in her cotton house dress with her knitted shawl around her shoulders, of father in his jeans and high boots tramping over the range with the men; I saw the cow and the pigs and the chickens, the smelly corral and the water hole, the twins trying to rub each other's face in the mud. And I was thinking—Tom would n't fit into my world, and I could not belong to his. That was the second time I heard Tom swear. He wanted to know what kind of a snob I thought he was. He'd be as much at home with dad on the ranch as he was in London. “The fault is with you,” he said. “You 're not adaptable, and you don't try to be.”
Tom did n't understand. He never did. In all the years together, which he made so rich and happy, Tom never understood how hard and bitter a school was that first year of my married life. But Tom did try to give me a good time in London. He took me to interesting places and we were entertained by a number of people, mostly ponderous and stupid. Tom did not suggest that we entertain in our turn. I think he felt I was not ready for it, although even in after years, when we talked frankly about many things, he would never admit this.
I shall never forget my first week-end party in England. I was not well, and Tom, manlike, felt sure the change, a trip down to Essex and new people, would do me good. The thought of the country and a visit with some good simple country folk appealed to me too, so I packed the bags and met Tom at Victoria Station at eleven o'clock. Alas! It is a far cry from a Montana ranch to a gentleman's estate in England! My vision of a quiet visit “down on a farm” vanished the minute we stepped off the train. Liveried coachmen collected our baggage. They seemed to be discussing something; then I heard Tom say: “I guess that 's all. I 'll wire back for the rest of it.”
We were led to a handsome cart drawn by a fine tandem team, and Tom and I were alone for a minute.
“My God, Mary!” he burst out, “didn't you bring any clothes for us?”
“I certainly have,” I retorted, sure I was in the right this time. “Your nightshirt and my nightgown; your toilet articles and mine; a change of underclothes; a clean shirt and two collars for you, and my new striped silk waist.”
I shall never forget Tom's expression.