A WOMAN OF FORTY-FIVE

We have an Astonishing Woman in this community.  She acts in a way that no one expects, and while we are intensely interested in everything she does, and desire to know about it to the uttermost detail, we are inclined to speak of her in bated breath.

Some Woman to Talk About in a country neighbourhood is a kind of public necessity.  She fills one of the stated functions like the town assessor, or the president of the Dorcas Society; and if ever the office falls vacant we have immediate resort to one of those silent elections at which we choose our town celebrities.  There are usually several candidates, and the campaign is accompanied by much heated argument and exemplification.  We have our staunch party men and our irresponsible independents on whom you can never put your finger; and if we are sometimes a little vague in our discussion of principles and issues we share with our national political leaders an intense interest in personalities.  Prominent citizens “come out” for this candidate or that, we “spring surprises,” and launch new booms, and often, at the last moment, we are taken off our feet by the circulation of comebacks.  I take a pardonable pride, however, in saying, to the credit of our democratic institutions that most of the candidates elected are chosen strictly upon merit.

I shall never forget the afternoon, now more than a year ago, that Harriet came up the road bearing the news which, beyond a doubt, placed the present incumbent in office; and has served to keep her there, despite the efforts in certain quarters, which shall be nameless, to use that pernicious instrument of radicalism, the recall.

I can always tell when Harriet brings important news.  She has a slightly quicker step, carries her head a little more firmly, and when she speaks impresses her message upon me with a lowered voice.  When Harriet looks at me severely and drops down an octave I prepare for the worst.

“David,” she said, “Mary Starkweather has gone to live in the barn!”

“In the barn!”

“In the barn.”

I don’t know quite why it is, but I dislike being surprised, and do my best to cover it up, and, besides, I have always liked Mary Starkweather.  So I remarked, as casually as I could: 

“Why not?  It’s a perfectly good barn.”

“David Grayson!”

“Well, it is.  It’s a better building to-day than many of the people of this town live in.  Why shouldn’t Mary Starkweather live in the barn if she wants to?  It’s her barn.”

“But, David—­there are her children—­and her husband!”

“There always are, when anybody wants to live in a barn.”

“I shall not talk with you any more,” said Harriet, “until you can be serious.”

I had my punishment, as I richly deserved to have, in the gnawing of unsatisfied curiosity, which is almost as distressing as a troubled conscience.