Martha Goodwin was single, and well along into the thin years. She
lived with her married sister in Whilomville. She performed nearly all
the house-work in exchange for the privilege of existence. Every one
tacitly recognized her labor as a form of penance for the early end of
her betrothed, who had died of small-pox, which he had not caught from
her.
But despite the strenuous and unceasing workaday of her life, she was
a woman of great mind. She had adamantine opinions upon the situation
in Armenia, the condition of women in China, the flirtation between
Mrs. Minster of Niagara Avenue and young Griscom, the conflict in the
Bible class of the Baptist Sunday-school, the duty of the United
States towards the Cuban insurgents, and many other colossal matters.
Her fullest experience of violence was gained on an occasion when she
had seen a hound clubbed, but in the plan which she had made for the
reform of the world she advocated drastic measures. For instance, she
contended that all the Turks should be pushed into the sea and
drowned, and that Mrs. Minster and young Griscom should be hanged side
by side on twin gallows. In fact, this woman of peace, who had seen
only peace, argued constantly for a creed of illimitable ferocity. She
was invulnerable on these questions, because eventually she overrode
all opponents with a sniff. This sniff was an active force. It was to
her antagonists like a bang over the head, and none was known to
recover from this expression of exalted contempt. It left them
windless and conquered. They never again came forward as candidates
for suppression. And Martha walked her kitchen with a stern brow, an
invincible being like Napoleon.
Nevertheless her acquaintances, from the pain of their defeats, had
been long in secret revolt. It was in no wise a conspiracy, because
they did not care to state their open rebellion, but nevertheless it
was understood that any woman who could not coincide with one of
Martha's contentions was entitled to the support of others in the
small circle. It amounted to an arrangement by which all were required
to disbelieve any theory for which Martha fought. This, however, did
not prevent them from speaking of her mind with profound respect.
Two people bore the brunt of her ability. Her sister Kate was visibly
afraid of her, while Carrie Dungen sailed across from her kitchen to
sit respectfully at Martha's feet and learn the business of the world.
To be sure, afterwards, under another sun, she always laughed at
Martha and pretended to deride her ideas, but in the presence of the
sovereign she always remained silent or admiring. Kate, the sister,
was of no consequence at all. Her principal delusion was that she did
all the work in the up-stairs rooms of the house, while Martha did it
down-stairs. The truth was seen only by the husband, who treated
Martha with a kindness that was half banter, half deference. Martha
herself had no suspicion that she was the only pillar of the domestic
edifice. The situation was without definitions. Martha made
definitions, but she devoted them entirely to the Armenians and
Griscom and the Chinese and other subjects. Her dreams, which in early
days had been of love of meadows and the shade of trees, of the face
of a man, were now involved otherwise, and they were companioned in
the kitchen curiously, Cuba, the hot-water kettle, Armenia, the
washing of the dishes, and the whole thing being jumbled. In regard to
social misdemeanors, she who was simply the mausoleum of a dead
passion was probably the most savage critic in town. This unknown
woman, hidden in a kitchen as in a well, was sure to have a
considerable effect of the one kind or the other in the life of the
town. Every time it moved a yard, she had personally contributed an
inch. She could hammer so stoutly upon the door of a proposition that
it would break from its hinges and fall upon her, but at any rate it
moved. She was an engine, and the fact that she did not know that she
was an engine contributed largely to the effect. One reason that she
was formidable was that she did not even imagine that she was
formidable. She remained a weak, innocent, and pig-headed creature,
who alone would defy the universe if she thought the universe merited
this proceeding.
One day Carrie Dungen came across from her kitchen with speed. She had
a great deal of grist. "Oh," she cried, "Henry Johnson got away from
where they was keeping him, and came to town last night, and scared
everybody almost to death."
Martha was shining a dish-pan, polishing madly. No reasonable person
could see cause for this operation, because the pan already glistened
like silver. "Well!" she ejaculated. She imparted to the word a deep
meaning. "This, my prophecy, has come to pass." It was a habit.
The overplus of information was choking Carrie. Before she could go on
she was obliged to struggle for a moment. "And, oh, little Sadie
Winter is awful sick, and they say Jake Winter was around this morning
trying to get Doctor Trescott arrested. And poor old Mrs. Farragut
sprained her ankle in trying to climb a fence. And there's a crowd
around the jail all the time. They put Henry in jail because they
didn't know what else to do with him, I guess. They say he is
perfectly terrible."
Martha finally released the dish-pan and confronted the headlong
speaker. "Well!" she said again, poising a great brown rag. Kate had
heard the excited new-comer, and drifted down from the novel in her
room. She was a shivery little woman. Her shoulder-blades seemed to be
two panes of ice, for she was constantly shrugging and shrugging.
"Serves him right if he was to lose all his patients," she said
suddenly, in blood-thirsty tones. She snipped her words out as if her
lips were scissors.
"Well, he's likely to," shouted Carrie Dungen. "Don't a lot of people
say that they won't have him any more? If you're sick and nervous,
Doctor Trescott would scare the life out of you, wouldn't he? He would
me. I'd keep thinking."
Martha, stalking to and fro, sometimes surveyed the two other women
with a contemplative frown.