Woman Without Love?/Chapter 8
Chapter VIII
The home of Yekial Meigs, about ten miles out from Fort Wayne, Indiana, was a squat, rambling house that somehow gave one the impression it was kneeling.
When Mary Blaine saw it for the first time, she thought: "It has dug its way deep down into the soil. Perhaps someday it will disappear completely and go on and on burrowing like a mole in the vast black caverns of the earth."
She remembered an odd Chinese story she had read about an inverted house. Instead of being built upward, it was built downward several stories into the ground. So closely associated was it with the soil, in time it had taken root like a great tree and its tortuous halls spread out in all directions like tendrils. Mary wondered if this house, too, had taken root. She hoped so. It was good to live in a house that was alive. She hated the damp musty smell of dead rooms. The death-vault quietude. She wanted a house that smiled, that sang, a house whose halls echoed with laughter.
As the carriage came to a stop before the door, Yekial held out his hand in a sweeping gesture.
"This is my house," he said proudly, "and I own those broad fields almost as far off as the eye can see. Of course you can't measure distance here with any degree of exactitude because the country is too level, like a vast plate. However I imagine you'll never be hungry. If you like corn you can eat it by the ton. As for wheat there is enough for so much bread you need never sink to the level of eating cake."
He laughed good-naturedly at his own feeble wit but Mary did not mind. She gazed at the place wistfully. This house represented peace and rest.
Momentarily she was in a romantic mood, a sentimentalist. But it was an alien state to her. Mary usually wanted change, glamour, noise, excitement. She had been happy on her father's farm and there she had not longed for the rush and bustle of the city, for the simple reason that she had never known city life. Now it was changed. She had been caught in the whirl of pleasure, of night-life and bartered love. There was no going back to farm standards and being satisfied. She was fooling herself without being cognizant of it.
The interior of the house was roomy and spacious. The furniture was old-fashioned but the chairs were comfortable. The fireplace was a marvelous affair and she wished it were winter or at least autumn so that she could sit and warm herself in a fire's friendly glow. She sighed as she realized that she must wait. This was August. No fire could be friendly in such heat. Yekial Meigs was all excited.
"I want you to see the upstairs rooms," he said. "I think you'll find them fairly comfortable."
He led the way up a broad staircase to the floor above. The house was only two stories high and the ceiling of the upper floor was low. But the windows were large and they looked out upert a broad sweep of country so flat that there was an enor möus amount of sky in view. Although the building was not high it gave the feeling of height because everything else was so level.
In the centre of the room was a huge bed of dark mahogany.
"It belonged to my grandmother," Yekial said, "and is still sturdy and strong."
"It's big enough to give a party in," said Mary.
"Perhaps grandma did at times," he said drolly, "she had the reputation of being a very gallant lady. She was married three times and had fourteen children."
"And were they all born in that bed?"
"All but one."
"What detained the one?"
"He was born far off in the wheatfields," explained Yekial, "and of all the children he loved the soil the best. He fairly worshipped it. Under his able hands crops grew even where the soil was barren. It was marvelous the way the earth responded to his efforts."
He spoke with enthusiasm. Not till that moment had his voice been so animated.
"You seem to like speaking of that particular boy," she commented.
"Yes," said he slowly, "because later he was my father. He taught me to love farm-life. I have never lived in a city. He gave me a good education. But after I had graduated I returned to the soil. Once I read in some book a quotation which I have never forgotten. 'Speak to the earth, if you wish a friend.' No truer word was ever spoken. The soil has been the only close friend I have ever had. It has been kind to me. For years until you came here, I have lived alone yet never have I been lonesome. I've done all my own cooking. Of course I've employed men to help in the fields. I've had to. I could never manage such a vast place alone, but these men at sundown have returned to their own houses. None of them have dwelt with me."
She looked at him, surprised. She had not imagined he could grow so eloquent. Here was a new Yekial Meigs, but it was a Yekial Meigs whom folks seldom beheld. He spoke usually in monosyllables.
Mary went over and sat on the bed. Yekial walked across the room and stood beside her.
"You're beautiful," he said. "I wonder if I may kiss you now."
"If you want to," she whispered. "There isn't anybody about, and we are home."
"In that case," he said rather huskily, "there is no need for hurry."
"None whatever," she said simply.
Abruptly he caught her to him, his lips were pressed to hers, his arms were about her in a grip that almost hurt. But she did not care. She clung to him with all her strength. What matter that he was huge and ugly?
It was several hours before they went downstairs again. Mary's face was flushed as she set about preparing a meal. It was the first time in years that she had tried her hand at cooking. As she worked about the pots and pans, she sang snatches of song.
Meanwhile Yekial Meigs hovered about. He was much satisfied with everything. He had not made a mistake. Mary Blaine was a jewel. With her always beside him he would have eyes for no other woman. What pleased him most was that he had not had to marry her. He was utterly free, yet no bridegroom could have been happier.
As the days wore on Mary gradually adjusted herself to farm conditions. It was like a swing back to her childhood. The novelty appealed to her. It was funny, this working and slaving like an honest woman. It was virtually slavery because there was a tremendous amount of work to be done and she had no one to help her. Yekial considered that all household tasks were the work of women. He contented himself with the care of the cattle and the fields. And he did his work well for all his crops gave evidence of being bounteous.
The house was large. Upstairs there were five sleeping rooms. Mary swept and cleaned them every day. She wanted the house to look spick and span and besides she didn't like sitting around doing nothing. When she did stop work for a few moments she grew restless. She was not used to silence. It did not bring peace to her soul. Noise, noise, that was music to her. The noise of cities, the tramp of heavy shoes through halls, and men. Fortunately she had a great deal of work to do and she slept from sheer weariness when she went to bed.
Frequently Yekial Meigs liked to sit on the veranda in the cool of the evenings, smoking his pipe and gazing off thoughtfully over the green of the country. When there was moonlight it was possible to see for miles in every direction. The immensity was awe-inspiring. It was as though they were the last two dwellers on the threshold of life.
As a rule Mary made excuses so that she would not have to remain on the veranda with him. The quietude did something to her. It made her melancholy, yet too there was a strange fascination about it.
Often she wondered why she had come with Yekial to the farm. Of course it was only a passing whim but why did she remain? She was not exactly happy. Yet the thought of fleeing from the house never once entered her mind. In a way she was interested in Yekial. His very immensity attracted her. If only he wouldn't sit for such long periods without speaking. He was an interesting conversationalist when he cared to exert himself but he only did so at rare intervals.
It was odd, in a way, not to have a procession of men, an endless parade of lovers marching toward her. All the rank and file had vanished. The footsteps had faded away in the distance. Now there was nothing but lowing herds, acres of Mieat and corn and nights of savage wooing with a lover who ofttimes was incoherent with passion, and generally reeking of the stable and the soil.