by Candace Ward
“The law is the law — and a bad stove is a bad stove. How’d you like to cook on this?” — pointing with the poker to the broken lining. She opened the oven door and started to express her opinion of the oven; but she was swept into her own thoughts, thinking of what it would mean, year after year, to have that stove to wrestle with. The thought of Minnie Foster trying to bake in that oven — and the thought of her never going over to see Minnie Foster —
She was startled by hearing Mrs. Peters say:
“A person gets discouraged — and loses heart.”
The sheriff’s wife had looked from the stove to the pail of water which had been carried in from outside. The two women stood there silent, above them the footsteps of the men who were looking for evidence against the woman who had worked in that kitchen. That look of seeing into things, of seeing through a thing to something else, was in the eyes of the sheriff’s wife now. When Mrs. Hale next spoke to her, it was gently:
“Better loosen up your things, Mrs. Peters. We’ll not feel them when we go out.”
Mrs. Peters went to the back of the room to hang up the fur tippet she was wearing. A moment later she exclaimed, “Why, she was piecing a quilt,” and held up a large sewing basket piled high with quilt pieces.
Mrs. Hale spread some of the blocks out on the table.
“It’s log-cabin pattern,” she said, putting several of them together. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
They were so engaged with the quilt that they did not hear the footsteps on the stairs. Just as the stair door opened Mrs. Hale was saying:
“Do you suppose she was going to quilt it or just knot it?”
The sheriff threw up his hands.
“They wonder whether she was going to quilt it or just knot it!” he cried.
There was a laugh for the ways of women, a warming of hands over the stove, and then the county attorney said briskly:
“Well, let’s go right out to the barn and get that cleared up.”
“I don’t see as there’s anything so strange,” Mrs. Hale said resentfully, after the outside door had closed on the three men — “our taking up our time with little things while we’re waiting for them to get the evidence. I don’t see as it’s anything to laugh about.”
“Of course they’ve got awful important things on their minds,” said the sheriff’s wife apologetically.
They returned to an inspection of the block for the quilt. Mrs. Hale was looking at the fine, even sewing, and preoccupied with thoughts of the woman who had done that sewing, when she heard the sheriff’s wife say, in a queer tone:
“Why, look at this one.”
She turned to take the block held out to her.
“The sewing,” said Mrs. Peters, in a troubled way. “All the rest of them have been so nice and even — but — this one. Why, it looks as if she didn’t know what she was about!”
Their eyes met — something flashed to life, passed between them; then, as if with an effort, they seemed to pull away from each other. A moment Mrs. Hale sat there, her hands folded over that sewing which was so unlike all the rest of the sewing. Then she had pulled a knot and drawn the threads.
“Oh, what are you doing, Mrs. Hale?” asked the sheriff’s wife.
“Just pulling out a stitch or two that’s not sewed very good,” said Mrs. Hale mildly.
“I don’t think we ought to touch things,” Mrs. Peters said, a little helplessly.
“I’ll just finish up this end,” answered Mrs. Hale, still in that mild, matter-of-fact fashion.
She threaded a needle and started to replace bad sewing with good. For a little while she sewed in silence. Then, in that thin, timid voice, she heard:
“Mrs. Hale!”
“Yes, Mrs. Peters?”
“What do you suppose she was so — nervous about?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Hale, as if dismissing a thing not important enough to spend much time on. “I don’t know as she was — nervous. I sew awful queer sometimes when I’m just tired.”
She cut a thread, and out of the corner of her eye looked up at Mrs. Peters. The small, lean face of the sheriff’s wife seemed to have tightened up. Her eyes had that look of peering into something. But next moment she moved, and said in her indecisive way:
“Well, I must get those clothes wrapped. They may be through sooner than we think. I wonder where I could find a piece of paper — and string.”
“In that cupboard, maybe,” suggested Mrs. Hale, after a glance around.
One piece of the crazy sewing remained unripped. Mrs. Peter’s back turned, Martha Hale now scrutinized that piece, compared it with the dainty, accurate sewing of the other blocks. The difference was startling. Holding this block made her feel queer, as if the distracted thoughts of the woman who had perhaps turned to it to try and quiet herself were communicating themselves to her.
Mrs. Peters’ voice roused her.
“Here’s a bird-cage,” she said. “Did she have a bird, Mrs. Hale?”
“Why, I don’t know whether she did or not.” She turned to look at the cage Mrs. Peters was holding up. “I’ve not been here in so long.” She sighed. “There was a man last year selling canaries cheap — but I don’t know as she took one. Maybe she did. She used to sing real pretty herself.”
“Seems kind of funny to think of a bird here.” She half laughed — an attempt to put up a barrier. “But she must have had one — or why would she have a cage? I wonder what happened to it.”
“I suppose maybe the cat got it,” suggested Mrs. Hale, resuming her sewing.
“No; she didn’t have a cat. She’s got that feeling some people have about cats — being afraid of them. When they brought her to our house yesterday, my cat got in the room, and she was real upset and asked me to take it out.”
“My sister Bessie was like that,” laughed Mrs. Hale.
The sheriff’s wife did not reply. The silence made Mrs. Hale turn around. Mrs. Peters was examining the bird-cage.
“Look at this door,” she said slowly. “It’s broke. One hinge has been pulled apart.”
Mrs. Hale came nearer.
“Looks as if someone must have been — rough with it.”
Again their eyes met — startled, questioning, apprehensive. For a moment neither spoke nor stirred. Then Mrs. Hale, turning away, said brusquely:
“If they’re going to find any evidence, I wish they’d be about it. I don’t like this place.”
“But I’m awful glad you came with me, Mrs. Hale.” Mrs. Peters put the bird-cage on the table and sat down. “It would be lonesome for me — sitting here alone.”
“Yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” agreed Mrs. Hale, a certain very determined naturalness in her voice. She had picked up the sewing, but now it dropped in her lap, and she murmured in a different voice: “But I tell you what I do wish, Mrs. Peters. I wish I had come over sometimes when she was here. I wish — I had.”
“But of course you were awful busy, Mrs. Hale. Your house — and your children.”
“I could’ve come,” retorted Mrs. Hale shortly. “I stayed away because it weren’t cheerful — and that’s why I ought to have come. I” — she looked around — “I’ve never liked this place. Maybe because it’s down in a hollow and you don’t see the road. I don’t know what it is, but it’s a lonesome place, and always was. I wish I had come over to see Minnie Foster sometimes. I can see now — ” She did not put it into words.
“Well, you mustn’t reproach yourself,” counseled Mrs. Peters. “Somehow, we just don’t see how it is with other folks till — something comes up.”
“Not having children makes less work,” mused Mrs. Hale, after a silence, “but it makes a quiet house — and Wright out to work all day — and no company when he did come in. Did you know John Wright, Mrs. Peters?”
“Not to know him. I’ve seen him in town. They say he was a good man.
“Yes — good,” conceded John Wright’s neighbor grimly. “He didn’t drink, and kept
his word as well as most, I guess, and paid his debts. But he was a hard man, Mrs. Peters. Just to pass the time of day with him — ” She stopped, shivered a little. “Like a raw wind that gets to the bone.” Her eyes fell upon the cage on the table before her, and she added, almost bitterly: “I should think she would’ve wanted a bird!”
Suddenly she leaned forward, looking intently at the cage. “But what do you s’pose went wrong with it?”
“I don’t know,” returned Mrs. Peters; “unless it got sick and died.”
But after she said it she reached over and swung the broken door. Both women watched it as if somehow held by it.
“You didn’t know — her?” Mrs. Hale asked, a gentler note in her voice.
“Not till they brought her yesterday,” said the sheriff’s wife.
“She — come to think of it, she was kind of like a bird herself. Real sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and — fluttery. How — she — did — change.”
That held her for a long time. Finally, as if struck with a happy thought and relieved to get back to everyday things, she exclaimed:
“Tell you what, Mrs. Peters, why don’t you take the quilt in with you? It might take up her mind.”
“Why, I think that’s a real nice idea, Mrs. Hale,” agreed the sheriff’s wife, as if she too were glad to come into the atmosphere of a simple kindness. “There couldn’t possibly be any objection to that, could there? Now, just what will I take? I wonder if her patches are in here — and her things.”
They turned to the sewing basket.
“Here’s some red,” said Mrs. Hale, bringing out a roll of cloth. Underneath that was a box. “Here, maybe her scissors are in here — and her things.” She held it up. “What a pretty box! I’ll warrant that was something she had a long time ago — when she was a girl.”
She held it in her hand a moment; then, with a little sigh, opened it.
Instantly her hand went to her nose.
“Why — !”
Mrs. Peters drew nearer — then turned away.
“There’s something wrapped up in this piece of silk,” faltered Mrs. Hale.
Her hand not steady, Mrs. Hale raised the piece of silk. “Oh, Mrs. Peters!” she cried, “it’s — ”
Mrs. Peters bent closer.
“It’s the bird,” she whispered.
“But, Mrs. Peters!” cried Mrs. Hale. “Look at it! Its neck — look at its neck! It’s all — other side to.”
The sheriff’s wife again bent closer.
“Somebody wrung its neck,” said she, in a voice that was slow and deep.
And then again the eyes of the two women met — this time clung together in a look of dawning comprehension, of growing horror. Mrs. Peters looked from the dead bird to the broken door of the cage. Again their eyes met. And just then there was a sound at the outside door.
Mrs. Hale slipped the box under the quilt pieces in the basket, and sank into the chair before it. Mrs. Peters stood holding to the table. The county attorney and the sheriff came in.
“Well, ladies,” said the county attorney, as one turning from serious things to little pleasantries, “have you decided whether she was going to quilt it or knot it?”
“We think,” began the sheriff’s wife in a flurried voice, “that she was going to — knot it.”
He was too preoccupied to notice the change that came in her voice on that last.
“Well, that’s very interesting, I’m sure,” he said tolerantly. He caught sight of the cage. “Has the bird flown?”
“We think the cat got it,” said Mrs. Hale in a voice curiously even.
He was walking up and down, as if thinking something out.
“Is there a cat?” he asked absently.
Mrs. Hale shot a look up at the sheriff’s wife.
“Well, not now,” said Mrs. Peters. “They’re superstitious, you know; they leave.”
The county attorney did not heed her. “No sign at all of anyone having come in from the outside,” he said to Peters, in the manner of continuing an interrupted conversation. “Their own rope. Now let’s go upstairs again and go over it, piece by piece. It would have to have been someone who knew just the — ”
The stair door closed behind them and their voices were lost.
The two women sat motionless, not looking at each other, but as if peering into something and at the same time holding back. When they spoke now it was as if they were afraid of what they were saying, but as if they could not help saying it.
“She liked the bird,” said Martha Hale, low and slowly. “She was going to bury it in that pretty box.”
“When I was a girl,” said Mrs. Peters, under her breath, “my kitten — there was a boy took a hatchet, and before my eyes — before I could get there — She covered her face an instant. ”If they hadn’t held me back I would have” — she caught herself, looked upstairs where footsteps were heard, and finished weakly — ”hurt him.”
Then they sat without speaking or moving.
“I wonder how it would seem,” Mrs. Hale at last began, as if feeling her way over strange ground — “never to have had any children around.” Her eyes made a slow sweep of the kitchen, as if seeing what that kitchen had meant through all the years. “No, Wright wouldn’t like the bird,” she said after that — “a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed that too.” Her voice tightened.
Mrs. Peters moved easily.
“Of course we don’t know who killed the bird.”
“I knew John Wright,” was Mrs. Hale’s answer.
“It was an awful thing was done in this house that night, Mrs. Hale,” said the sheriff’s wife. “Killing a man while he slept — slipping a thing round his neck that choked the life out of him.”
Mrs. Hale’s hand went out to the bird-cage.
“His neck. Choked the life out of him.”
“We don’t know who killed him,” whispered Mrs. Peters wildly. “We don’t know.”
Mrs. Hale had not moved. “If there had been years and years of — nothing, then a bird to sing to you, it would be awful — still — after the bird was still.”
It was as if something within her not herself had spoken, and it found in Mrs. Peters something she did not know as herself.
“I know what stillness is,” she said, in a queer, monotonous voice. “When we homesteaded in Dakota, and my first baby died — after he was two years old — and me with no other then — ”
Mrs. Hale stirred.
“How soon do you suppose they’ll be through looking for the evidence?”
“I know what stillness is,” repeated Mrs. Peters, in just that same way. Then she too pulled back. “The law has got to punish crime, Mrs. Hale,” she said in her tight little way.
“I wish you’d seen Minnie Foster,” was the answer, “when she wore a white dress with blue ribbons, and stood up there in the choir and sang.”
The picture of that girl, the fact that she had lived neighbor to that girl for twenty years, and had let her die for lack of life, was suddenly more than she could bear.
“Oh, I wish I’d come over here once in a while!” she cried. “That was a crime! That was a crime! Who’s going to punish that?”
“We mustn’t take on,” said Mrs. Peters, with a frightened look toward the stairs.
“I might ‘a’ known she needed help! I tell you, it’s queer, Mrs. Peters. We live close together, and we live far apart. We all go through the same things — it’s all just a different kind of the same thing! If it weren’t — why do you and I understand? Why do we know — what we know this minute?”
She dashed her hand across her eyes. Then, seeing the jar of fruit on the table, she reached for it and choked out:
“If I was you I wouldn’t tell her her fruit was gone! Tell her it ain’t. Tell her it’s all right — all of it. Here — take this in to prove it to her! She — she may never know whether it was broke or not.”
Mrs. Peters reached out for the bottle of fruit as if she
were glad to take it — as if touching a familiar thing, having something to do, could keep her from something else. She got up, looked about for something to wrap the fruit in, took a petticoat from the pile of clothes she had brought from the front room, and nervously started winding that round the bottle.
“My!” she began, in a high, false voice, “it’s a good thing the men couldn’t hear us! Getting all stirred up over a little thing like a — dead canary.” She hurried over that. “As if that could have anything to do with — with — My, wouldn’t they laugh?”
Footsteps were heard on the stairs.
“Maybe they would,” muttered Mrs. Hale — “maybe they wouldn’t.”
“No, Peters,” said the county attorney incisively; “it’s all perfectly clear, except the reason for doing it. But you know juries when it comes to women. If there was some definite thing — something to show. Something to make a story about. A thing that would connect up with this clumsy way of doing it.”
In a covert way Mrs. Hale looked at Mrs. Peters. Mrs. Peters was looking at her. Quickly they looked away from each other. The outer door opened and Mr. Hale came in.
“I’ve got the team round now,” he said. “Pretty cold out there.”
“I’m going to stay here awhile by myself,” the county attorney suddenly announced. “You can send Frank out for me, can’t you?” he asked the sheriff. “I want to go over everything. I’m not satisfied we can’t do better.”
Again, for one brief moment, the two women’s eyes found one another.
The sheriff came up to the table.
“Did you want to see what Mrs. Peters was going to take in?”
The county attorney picked up the apron. He laughed. “Oh, I guess they’re not very dangerous things the ladies have picked out.”
Mrs. Hale’s hand was on the sewing basket in which the box was concealed. She felt that she ought to take her hand off the basket. She did not seem able to. He picked up one of the quilt blocks which she had piled on to cover the box. Her eyes felt like fire. She had a feeling that if he took up the basket she would snatch it from him.
But he did not take it up. With another little laugh, he turned away.
“No; Mrs. Peters doesn’t need supervising. For that matter, a sheriff’s wife is married to the law. Ever think of it that way, Mrs. Peters?”