A jury of her peers by Susan Glaspell. When Martha Hale opened the storm
door and got a cut of the north wind, she ran back for her
big woolen scarf. As she hurriedly wound that round her head, her eye
made a scandalized sweep of her kitchen. It was no ordinary thing that called
her away. It was probably further from ordinary than anything that had ever happened
in Dixon County. But what her eye took in was that her kitchen was
in no shape for leaving her bread already for mixing, half the flower sifted
and half unsifted. She hated to see things half done, but she had
been at that when the team from town stopped to get mister Hale, and
then the sheriff came running in to say his wife wished missus Hale would come
too, adding with a grin that he guessed she was getting scary and wanted
another woman along. So she had dropped everything right where it was. Martha
now came her husband's impatient voice, don't keep folks waiting out here in the
cold. She again opened the storm door, and this time joined the three
men and the one woman waiting for her in the big two seated buggy.
After she had the robes tucked round her, she took another look at the
woman who sat beside her on the back seat. She had met Missus Peters
the year before at the county fair, and the thing she remembered about her
was that she didn't seem like a sheriff's wife. She was small and thin
and didn't have a strong voice. Missus Gorman, sheriff's wife before Gorman went
out and Peters came in, had a voice that somehow seemed to be backing
up the law with every word. But if Missus Peters didn't look like a
sheriff's wife, Peters made it up in looking like a sheriff. He was,
to a dot, the kind of man who could get himself elected sheriff,
a heavy man with a big voice, who was particularly funial with the
Laura, abiding as if to make it plain that he knew the difference between
criminals and non criminals. And right there it came into Missus Hale's mind with
a stab that this man who was so pleasant and lively with all of them,
was going to the rights now as a sheriff. The country's not very
pleasant this time of year. Missus Peters at last ventured as if she felt
they ought to be talking as well as the men. Missus Hale scarcely finished
her reply, for they had gone up a little hill and could see the
right place now, and seeing it did not make her feel like talking.
It looked very lonesome this cold March morning. It had always been a lonesome
looking place. It was down in a hollow, and the poplar trees around
it were lonesome looking trees. The men were looking at it and talking about
what had happened. The County Attorney was bending to one side of the buggy
and kept looking steadily at the place as they drew up to it. I'm
glad you came with me, Missus Peters, said nervously, as the two
women were about to follow the men in through the kitchen door. Even after
she had her foot on the doorstep her hand on the knob, Martha Hale
had a moment of feeling she could not cross that threshold and the reason it
seemed she couldn't cross it now was simply because she hadn't crossed it before.
Time and time again, it had been in her mind. I ought to
go over and see Minnie Foster. She still thought of her as Minnie Foster,
though for twenty years she had been Missus Wright. And then there was
always something to do, and Minnie Foster would go from her mind. But
now she could come. The men went over to the stove. The women
stood close together by the door. Young Henderson, the county attorney, turned
around and said, come up to the fire, ladies. Missus Peters took
a step forward and stopped. I'm not cold, she said, And so
the two women stood by the door at first, not even so much as
looking around the kitchen. The men talked for a minute about what a good
thing it was the sheriff had sent his deputy out that morning to make a
fire for them. And then Sheriff Peters stepped back from the stove, unbuttoned
his outer coat, and leaned his hands on the kitchen table in a way
that seemed to mark the beginning of official business. Now, mister Hale,
he said, in a sort of semi official voice, before we move things
about, you, tell mister Henderson just what it was you saw when you
came here yesterday morning. The county attorney was looking around the kitchen. By
the way, he said, has anything been moved? He turned to the
sheriff. Are things just as you left them yesterday? Peters looked from cupboard
to sink, from that to a small worn rocker a little to one side
of the g table. It's just the same. Somebody should have been here
yesterday, said the county attorney. Oh, yesterday, returned the sheriff,
with a little gesture, as of yesterday having been more than he could bear
to think of when I had to send Frank to Morris Center for that man
who went crazy. Let me tell you I had my hands full yesterday.
I knew you could get back from Omaha by to day, George, And
as long as I went over everything here myself, well, mister Hale,
said the county attorney, in a way of letting what was past and gone
go. Tell us just what happened when you came here yesterday morning. Missus
Hale, still leaning against the door, had that sinking feeling of the mother
whose child is about to speak a piece. Lewis often wandered along and got
things mixed up in a story. He hoped he would tell this straightened,
plain and not say unnecessary things that would just make things harder for Minnie Foster.
He didn't begin at once, and she noticed that he looked queer,
as if standing in that kitchen and having to tell what he had seen there
yesterday morning made him almost sick. Yes, mister Hale, the county attorney
reminded, Harry and I had started a town with a load of potatoes.
Missus Hale's husband began. Harry was Missus Hale's oldest boy. He wasn't with
them now for the very good reason that those potatoes never got to town yesterday,
and he was taking them this morning, so he hadn't been home when
the sheriff stopped to say he wanted mister Hale to come over to the right
place and tell the county attorney his story there where he could point it all
out with all Missus Hale's other emotions came the fear now that maybe Harry wasn't
dressed warm enough. They hadn't any of them realized how that north wind did
bite we come along this road. Hale was going on with a motion of
his hand to the road over which they had just come. And as we
got inside of the house, I says to Harry, I'm going to see
if I can't get John Wright take a telephone, you see, he explained
to Henderson. Unless I can get somebody to go in with me, they
won't come out on this branch road except for a price I can't pay.
I'd spoken to write about it once before, but he put me off,
saying folks talk too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet.
Guess you know about how much he talked himself. But I thought maybe
if I went to the house and talked about it before his wife and said
all the women folks like the telephones, and that in this lonesome stretch of
road, it would be a good thing. Well, I said to Harry
that that was what I was going to say, though I said at the
same time that I didn't know as what his wife wanted made much difference to
John. Now there he was saying things he didn't need to say. Missus
Hale tried to catch her husband's eye, but fortunately the county attorney interrupted with
let's talk about that a little later, mister Hale. I do want to
talk about that, but I'm very anxious now to get along to just what
happened when you got here. When he began this time, it was very
deliberately and carefully. I didn't see or hear anything. I knocked at the
door, and still it was all quiet inside. I knew they must be
up. It was past eight o'clock, so I knocked again louder, and
I thought I heard somebody say come in. I wasn't sure. I'm not
sure yet, but I opened the door this door, jerking a hand toward
the door by which the two women stood, and there in that rocker,
pointing to it, sat Missus Wright. Every one in the kitchen looked at
the rocker. It came into missus Hale's mind that that rocker didn't look in
the least like Minnie Foster, the mini Foster of twenty years before. It
was a dingy read with wooden rungs up the back, and the middle rung
was gone, and the chair sagged to one side. How did she look?
The county attorney was inquiring, Well, said Hale, she looked queer.
How do you mean queer? As he asked it, he took out
a notebook and pencil. Missus Hale did not like the sight of that pencil.
She kept her eye fixed on her husband, as if to keep him
from saying unnecessary things that would go into that note book and make trouble.
Hale did speak guardedly, as if the pencil had affected him too, well,
as if she didn't know what she was going to do next, and
kind of done up. How did she seem to feel about your coming?
Why? I don't think she minded one way or other. She didn't pay
much of I said, how do missus right? It's cold, ain't it?
And she said is it? And went on pleating at her apron Well.
I was surprised she didn't ask me to come up to the stove or
to sit down, but just sat there, not even looking at me.
And so I said, I want to see John, and then she laughed.
I guessed you would call it a laugh. I thought of Harry and
the team outside. So I said, a little sharp, can I see
John? No? Says she kind of dull, like, ain't ye home?
Says I. Then she looked at me, Yes, says she.
He's home. Then why can't I see him? I asked her, out
of patience with her now, because he's dead, says she just as quiet
and dull and fell to pleat in her apron dead says I like you do
when you can't take in what you've heard. She just nodded her head,
not getting a bit excited, but rocking back and forth. Why where is
he says, I. Not knowing what to say, she just pointed upstairs
like this, pointing to the room above. I got up with the idea
of going up there myself. By this time I didn't know what to do.
I walked from there to hear. Then I says, why what did
he die of? He died of a rope around his neck, says she,
and just went on pleating at her apron. Hale stopped speaking and stood
staring at the rocker, as if he were still seeing the woman who had
sat there the morning before. Nobody spoke. It was as if everyone was
seeing the woman who had sat there the morning before. And what did you
do? Then? The attorney at last broke the silence. I went out
and called Harry. I thought I might need help. I got Harry in
and we went upstairs. His voice fell almost to a whisper. There he
was lying over the I think I'd rather have you go into that upstairs,
the county attorney interrupted, Where you can point it all out, Just go
on now with the rest of the story. Well, my first thought was
to get that rope off. It looked he stopped his face twitching. But
Harry, he went up to him, and he said, no, he's
dead, all right, and we'd better not touch anything. So we went
downstairs. She was still sitting that same way. Has anybody been notified?
I asked, No, says she, unconcerned. Who did this, missus
Wright, said Harry. He said it business like, and she stopped pleating
at her apron. I don't know, she says. You don't know,
says Harry. Weren't you sleeping in the bed with him, yes, says
she. But I was on the inside. Somebody slipped a rope round his
neck and strangled him, and you didn't wake up, says Harry. I
didn't wake up, she said after him. We may have looked as if
we didn't see how that could be. For after a minute, she said,
I sleep sound. Harry was going to ask her more questions, but
I said, maybe that weren't our business. Maybe we ought to let her
tell her story first to the coroner or the sheriff. So Harry went as
fast as he could over to high road, the River's place, where there's
a telephone, And what did she do when she knew you had gone for
the coroner? The attorney got his pencil in his hand, all ready for
writing. She moved from that chair to this one over here. Hale pointed
to a small chair in the corner and just sat there with her hands held
together and looking down. I got a feeling that I ought to make some
conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to
put in a telephone. And at that she started to laugh. And then
she stopped and looked at me, scared at the sound of a moving pencil.
The man who was telling the story looked up. I dunno, maybe
it wasn't scared, he hastened. I wouldn't like to say it was.
Soon Harry got back, and then doctor Lloyd came and knew mister Peters,
And so I guess that's all I know that you don't. He said that
last with relief, and moved a little, as if relaxing. Everyone moved
a little. The County attorney walked toward the stair door. I guess we
go upstairs first, then out to the barn and around there. He paused
and looked around the kitchen. You're convinced there was nothing important here, he
asked the sheriff, Nothing that would point to any motive. The sheriff,
too, looked all around as if to reconvince himself. Nothing here but kitchen
things, he said, with a little laugh, for the insignificance of kitchen
things. The county attorney was looking at the cupboard, a peculiar, ungainly
structure, half closet and half cupboard, the upper part of it being built
in the wall, and the lower part just the old fashioned kitchen cupboard,
as if its queerness attracted him. He got a chair and opened the upper
part and looked in. After a moment he drew his hand away. Sticky,
here's a nice mess, he said, resentfully. The two women had
drawn nearer, and now the Sheriff's wife spoke, Oh her fruit, she
said, looking to missus Hale for sympathetic understanding. She turned back to the
county Attorney and explained she worried about that when it turned so cold last night.
She said, the fire would go out and her jars might burst.
Missus Peter's husband broke into a laugh, Well can you beat the woman held
for murder? And worrying about her preserves. The young attorney set his lips.
I guess before we are through with her, she may have something more
serious than preserves to worry about. Oh well, said missus Hale's husband,
with good natured superiority. Women are used to worrying over trifles. The two
women moved a little closer together. Neither of them spoke. The county attorney
seemed suddenly to remember his manners and think of his future. And yet said
he, with the gallantry of a young politician, for all their worries,
what would we do without the ladies? The women did not speak, did
not unbend. He went to the sink and began washing his hands. He
turned to wipe them on the roller towel. Welled it for a cleaner place.
Dirty towels. Not much of a housekeeper, would you say, ladies.
He kicked his foot against some dirty pans under the sink. There's a
great deal of work to be done on a farm, said missus Hale,
stiffly, to be sure, and yet, with a little bow to her
I know there are some Dixon County farm houses that do not have such roller
towels. He gave it a pull to expose its full length again. Those
towels get dirty orful quick. Men's hands aren't aways as clean as they might
be. Ah loyal to your sex, I see, he laughed. He
stopped and gave her a keen look. But you and missus Wright were neighbors.
I suppose you were friends too. Martha Hale shook her head. I've
seen little enough of her of late years. I've not been in this house
it's more than a year. And why was that you didn't like her?
I liked her well enough, she replied with spirit. Farmer's wives have their
hands full, mister Henderson, and then she looked around the kitchen. Yes,
he encouraged, it never seemed a very cheerful place, said she,
more to herself than to him. No, he agreed, I don't think
any one would call it cheerful. I shouldn't say she had the home making
instinct. Well I don't know as right had either. She muttered, You
mean they didn't get on very well? He was quick to ask. No,
I don't mean anything, she answered with decision. As she turned a
little away from him. She added, but I don't think a place would
be any the cheerfuller for John Wright's be in it. I'd like to talk
to you about that a little later, Missus Hale, he said, I'm
anxious to get the lay of things upstairs now. He moved toward the stair
door, followed by the two men. I suppose anything Missus Peters does will
be all right, the sheriff inquired. She was to take some clothes in
for her, you know, and a few little things we left in such
a hurry yesterday. The county attorney looked at the two women they were leaving
there alone among the kitchen things. Yes, Missus Peters, he said,
his glance resting on the woman who was not Missus Peters, the big farmer
woman who stood behind the sheriff's wife. Of course, Missus Peters is one
of us, he said, in a manner of intrusting responsibility. And keep
your eye out, Missus Peters, for anything that might be of use.
No telling you. Women might come upon a clue to the motive, and
that's the thing we need. Mister Hale rubbed face, after the fashion of
a showman getting ready for a pleasantry. But would the women know a clue
if they did come upon it? He said, And having delivered himself of
this, he followed the others through the stair door. The women stood motionless
and silent, listening to the footsteps, first upon the stairs, then in
the room above them. Then, as if releasing herself from something strange,
missus Hale began to arrange the dirty pans under the sink, which the county
attorney's disdainful push at the foot had deranged. I'd hate to have men coming
into my kitchen, she said, testily, snooping round and criticizing. Of
course, it's no more than her duty, said the sheriff's wife, in
her manner of timid acquiescence. Duty's all right, replied missus Hale bluffly.
But I guess that deputy sheriff that come out to make the fire might have
got a little of this on. She gave the roller towel a pull.
Wish had thought of that sooner. Seems mean to talk about her for not
having things slicked up when she had to come away in such a hurry.
She looked around the kitchen. Suddenly it was not slicked up. Her eye
was held by a bucket of sugar on a low shelf. The cover was
off the wooden bucket and beside it was a paper bag half full. Missus
Hale moved toward it. She was putting this in there, she said to
herself. Slowly. She thought of the flower in her kitchen at home,
half sifted, half not sifted. She had been interrupted and had left things
half done. What had interrupted Minnie Foster? Why had that work been left
half done? She made a move as if to finish it. Unfinished things
always bothered her. And then she glanced round and saw that Missus Peters was
watching her, and she didn't want Missus Peters to get that feeling. She
had got work begun and then for some reason not finished. It's a shame
about her fruit, she said, and walked toward the cupboard that the County
Attorney had opened, and got on the chair, murmuring, I wonder if
it's all gone. It was a sorry enough looking sight. But here's one
that's all right, she said at last, she held it toward the light.
Missus cherries too. She looked again. I declare I believe that's the
only one. With a sigh, she got down from the chair, went
to the sink and wiped off the bottle. She'll feel awful bad after all,
her hard work in the hot weather. I remember the afternoon I put
up my cherries last summer. She set the bottle on a table, and,
with another sigh, started to sit down in the rocker. But she
did not sit down. Something kept her from sitting down in that chair.
She straightened, stepped back, and half turned away, stood looking at it.
Seeing the woman who had sat there pleating at her apron, The thin
voice of the sheriff's wife broke in upon her. I must be getting those
things from the front room closet. She opened the door into the other room,
started in, stepped back. You coming with me, Missus Hale,
she asked, nervously. You you could help me get them. They were
soon back. The stark coldness of that shut up room was not a thing
to linger in my said Missus Peters, dropping the things on the table and
hurrying to the stove. Missus Hale stood examining the clothes the woman who was
being detained in town had said she wanted right. Was close, she exclaimed,
holding up a shabby black skirt that bore the marks of much making over.
I think maybe that's why she kept so much to herself. I suppose
she felt she couldn't do her part, and then you don't enjoy things when
you feel shabby. She used to wear pretty clothes and be lively when she
was Minnie Foster, one of the town girls, singing in the choir.
But that, oh, that was twenty years ago. With a carefulness in
which there was something tender, she folded the shabby clothes and piled them at
one corner of the table. She looked up at Missus Peters, and there
was something in the other woman's look that irritated her. She don't care,
she said to herself, much difference it makes to her whether Minnie Foster had
pretty clothes when she was a girl. Then she looked again, and she
wasn't so sure. In fact, she hadn't at any time been perfectly sure
about Missus Peters. She had that shrinking manner, and yet her eyes looked
as if they could see a long way into things. This all you was
to take, in, asked Missus Hale, No, said the sheriff's wife.
She said she wanted an apron funny thing to want. She ventured in
her nervous little way, For there's not much to get you dirty in jail.
Goodness knows but I suppose just to make her feel more natural if you're
used to wearing an apron. She said, they were in the bottom drawer
of this cupboard. Yes, here they are, And then her little shawl
that always hung on the stair door. She took the small gray shawl from
behind the door leading up stairs and stood a minute looking at it. Suddenly
missus Hale took a quick step toward the other woman, Missus Peters. Yes,
missus Hale, do you think she did it? A frightened look blurred
the other thing in missus Peters's eyes. Oh I don't know, she said,
in a voice that seemed to shrink away from the subject. Well I
don't think she did, affirmed missus Hale, stoutly asking for an apron and
her little shawl, worrying about her fruit. Mister Peters says footsteps were heard
in the room above. She stopped, looked up, and then went on
in a lowered voice. Mister Peters says, it looks bad for her.
Mister Henderson is awful sarcastic in a speech, and he's going to make fun
of her, saying she didn't wake up for a moment. Missus Hale had
no answer. Then, well, I guess John Wright didn't wake up when
they were slipping that rope under his neck. She muttered, No, it's
strange, breathed missus Peters. So I think it was such a funny way
to kill a man. She began to laugh. At sound of the laugh
abruptly stopped. That's just what mister Hale said, said Missus Hale, in
a resolutely natural voice. There was a gun in the house, he says.
That's what he can't understand. Mister Henderson said coming out, though what
was needed for the case was a motive, something to show anger or sudden
feeling. Well, I don't see any signs of anger around here, said
missus Hale. I don't. She stopped. It was as if her mind
tripped on something. Her eye was caught by a dish towel in the middle
of the kitchen table. Slowly she moved toward the table, One half of
it was wiped clean, the other half messy. Her eyes made a slow,
almost unwilling turn to the bucket of sugar and the half empty bag beside
it. Things begun and not finished. After a moment, she stepped back
and said, in that manner of releasing herself. Wonder how they're finding things
upstairs. I hope she had it a little more redd up up there,
you know, she paused, and feeling gathered. It seems kind of sneaking,
locking her up in town and coming out here to get her own house
to turn against her. But missus Hale said the sheriff's wife. The law
is the law, I suppose tis, answered missus Hale. Shortly she turned
to the stove, saying something about that fire not being much to brag of.
She worked with it for a minute, and when she straightened up,
she said aggressively, the law is the law, and a bad stove is
a bad stove. How do 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 in 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 Missus Peters say a person gets discouraged and loses heart. The sheriff's
wife had looked from the stove to the sink, 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 missus Hale next spoke to her, it was
gently, better loosen up your things, Missus Peters, will not feel them
when we go out. Missus 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. Missus Hale spread some of the blocks on a table.
It's low cabin patten, she said, putting several of them together. Pretty,
isn't it. They were so engaged with a quilt that they did not
hear the footsteps on the stairs. Just as the stair door opened, Missus
Hale was saying, do you suppose she was going to quilt it? Or
just not it. The sheriff threw up his hands. They wonder whether she
was going to quilt it or just not it. 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,
missus Hale said, resentfully, after the outside door had closed on. The
three men are 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.
Missus 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 Missus 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. Her 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. Missus 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, missus Hale,
asked the sheriff's wife startled, just pulling out a stitch or two that's
not sewed very good, said missus Hale, mildly. I don't think we
ought to touch things, Missus Peters said, a little helplessly. I'll just
finish up this end, answered missus 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 missus Hale. Yes, Missus Peters, what
do you suppose she was so nervous about? Oh? I don't know,
said missus Hale, as if dismissing a thing not important enough to spend much
time on. I don't know. As she was nervous. I sow awful
queer sometimes when I'm just tired. She cut a thread, and out of
the corner of her eye, looked up at Missus 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 thin, 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, may be, suggested
missus Hale. After a glance around, one piece of the crazy sewing remained
unripped. Missus 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. Missus Peter's voice roused her. Here's a bird,
she said. Did she have a bird? Missus Hale? Why? I
don't know whether she did or not. She turned to look at the cage.
Missus Peters was holding up. I've not been here in so long,
she sighed. There was a man round last year selling canary's cheap, but
I don't know as she took one. Maybe she did. She used to
sing real pretty herself. Missus Peters looked around the kitchen. 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 Missus 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 missus Hale. The
sheriff's wife did not reply. The silence made missus Hale turn round. Missus
Peters was examining the bird cage. Look at this door, she said,
slowly. It's broke. One hinge has been pulled apart. Missus Hale came
nearer, looks as if some one must have been rough with it. Again,
their eyes met, startled, questioning, apprehensive. For a moment,
neither spoke nor stirred. Then missus Hale, turning away, said briskly,
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,
missus Hale. Missus 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 missus Hale, a certain 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, Missus Peters, I wish I had come over here sometimes when
she was here, I wish I had. But of course you were awful
busy, missus Hale, your house and your children. I could have come,
retorted missus 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 Minny Foster.
Sometimes I can see now she did not put it into words. Well,
you mustn't reproach yourself, counseled Missus Peters. Sometimes we just don't see how
it is with other folks till something comes up. Not having children makes less
work, mused Missus Hale after a silence, But it makes a quiet house.
And write out to work all day and no company. When he did
come in. Did you know John Wright? Missus 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, Missus 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 eye fell upon the cage on
the table before her, and she added, almost bitterly, I should think
she would have wanted a bird. Suddenly, she leaned forward, looking intently
at the cage. But what do you suppose went wrong with it? I
don't know, returned missus Peters, unless it got sick and died. But
after she said it, she reached over and swung the broken door. Both
women watched, as if somehow held by it. You didn't know her,
missus 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 every every day things, she exclaimed, Tell you what,
missus 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,
missus 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 other things. They turned to
the sewing basket. Here's some red, said missus 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, missus Peters drew nearer, then turned away. There's something wrapped
up in this piece of silk, faltered missus Hale. This isn't her scissors,
said Missus Peters in a shrinking voice. Her hand not steady. Missus
Hale raised the piece of silk. Oh, Missus Peters, she cried,
it's Missus Peters bent closer. It's the bird, she whispered. But Missus
Peters, cried missus Hale, look at it. It's neck, Look at
its neck. It's all other side too. She held the box away from
her, the sheriff's wife again benting 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. Missus 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. Missus Hale slipped the box under the
quilt pieces in the basket and sank into the chair before it. Missus Peters
stood holding the table. The county Attorney and the sheriff came in from outside.
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 not it? We think, began the Sheriff's wife, in a flurried
voice, that she was going to not 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
bird cage. Has the bird? We think the cat got it, said
Missus Hale, in a voice curiously even He was walking up and down,
as if thinking something out. Is there a cat? He asked absently,
Missus Hale shot a look up at the sheriff's wife. Well not now,
said Missus Peters. They're superstitious, you know. They leave. She sank
into her chair. 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 Missus 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 up stairs, where footsteps were heard, and
finished weakly hurt him. Then they sat without speaking or moving. I wonder
how it would seem. Missus 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 right wouldn't like the bird, she said,
after that, a thing that sang she used to sing. He killed
that too. Her voice tightened. Missus Peters moved uneasily. Of course,
we don't know who killed the bird. I knew John Wright, was missus
Hale's answer. It was an awful thing was done in this house that night,
missus 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. Missus
Hale's hand went out to the bird cage. We don't know who killed him,
whispered missus Peters wildly. We don't know. Missus 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 Missus 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 missus Hale stirred, how soon do you
suppose they'll be through looking for the evidence. I know what stillness is,
repeated Missus Peters in just that same way. Then she too pulled back.
The law has got to punish crime, Missus 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 a
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. Who's
going to punish that? We mustn't take on, said Missus Peters with a
frightened look toward the stairs. I might have known she needed help. I
tell you it's queer, Missus Peters. We lived 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 see 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. She turned away. Missus 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 a 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 Why wouldn't they
laugh? Footsteps were heard on the stairs. Maybe they would, muttered missus
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, something that would connect up
with this clumsy way of doing it in a covert way. Missus Hale looked
at missus Peters. Missus Peters was looking at her. Quickly, they looked
away from each other. The outer door opened and mister Hale came in.
I've got the team round now, he said, pretty cold out there.
I'm going to stay here a while 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
Missus 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. Missus 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 mabel 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, saying, no, Missus Peters doesn't need
supervising for that matter, A sheriff's wife is married to the law. Ever
think of it that way, Missus Peters. Missus Peters was standing beside the
table. Missus Hale shot a look up at her, but she could not
see her face. Missus Peters had turned away. When she spoke, her
voice was muffled. Not just that way, she said, married to the
law, chuckled. Missus Peters husband He moved toward the door into the front
room and said to the county Attorney, I just want you to come in
here a minute, George. We ought to take a look at these windows.
Oh windows, said the county attorney, scoffingly. We'll be right out,
mister Hale, said the sheriff to the farmer, who was still waiting
by the door. Hale went to look after the horses. The sheriff followed
the county attorney into the other room again for one final moment, the two
women were alone in that kitchen. Martha Hale sprang up her hands tight together,
looking at that other woman with whom it rested. At first, she
could not see her eyes, for the Sheriff's wife had not turned back since
she had turned away at that suggestion of being married to the law. But
now Missus Hale made her turn back. Her eyes made her turn back slowly,
unwillingly. Missus Peters turned her head until her eyes met the eyes of
the other woman. There was a moment when they held each other in a
steady, burning look in which there was no evasion or flinching. Then Martha
Hale's eyes pointed the way to the basket in which was hidden the thing that
would make certain the conviction of the other woman, that woman who was not
there, and yet who had been there with them all through that hour.
For a moment Missus Peters did not move, and then she did it with
a rush forward. She threw back the quilt pieces, got the box,
tried to put it in her hand bag. It was too big. Desperately
she opened it, started to take the bird out, but there she broke.
She could not touch the bird. She stood there, helpless, foolish.
There was the sound of a knob turning in the inner door. Martha
Hale snatched the box from the sheriff's wife and got it in the pocket of
her big coat, just as the sheriff and the county attorney came back into
the kitchen. Well, Henry said the county attorney facetiously. At least we
found out that she was not going to quilt it. She was going to
what is it you call it, ladies, Missus Hale's hand was against the
pocket of her coat. We call it not it, mister Henderson. End
of a Jury of her Peers by Susan Glaspell