When an abstract principle became entangled in daily life, it lost its clarity and became compromised and weakened. Honor did not understand how this could happen, and yet it had: the Haymakers had demonstrated how easy it was to justify stepping back from principles and doing nothing. Now that she was a member of this family, she was expected to take on their history and step back as well.
Honor left the barn at dusk to walk across the yard to the house, her eyes wide and dry, her throat stopped with a feeling as if she had swallowed a ball and it had got stuck there. She felt so confused by the gap between what she thought and what was expected of her that she could not speak. Perhaps it was better not to, until she was more sure of what she wanted to say. That way her words could not be twisted and flung back at her. Silence was a powerful tool at Meeting, clearing the way to God. Perhaps now it would allow Honor to be heard.
The Haymakers did not know what to make of her silence. When Honor came back from the barn, Judith and Jack questioned her about being out all night, the smell of horse on her evidence that Donovan must be involved. When she did not speak to confirm or deny this, they took her silence for guilt. Jack raged; Judith threatened to have Honor disowned by the community, though even she knew there were no grounds for doing such a thing. Besides, their anger was intertwined with guilt over the death of the runaway.
Eventually that anger was replaced with defensive embarrassment, for they took her silence to be a judgment on them. Jack and Judith continued to defend their actions, or non-actions, their frustration increasing when they could not tell if their words had any effect on Honor. She gave them her attention whenever they spoke, looked them directly in the eye, then simply did not respond, but went back to her milking or washing or hoeing or sewing.
With her sister-in-law, however, Honor’s relationship improved. Perhaps Dorcas felt she did not have to compete any longer. She could talk as much as she liked, and did, often responding on Honor’s behalf, and calling her “sister”: “I think Honor would like more cherry pie”; “Honor and I will do the milking this evening, won’t we, sister?”; “I’m sure Honor is willing to quilt the central panel at the frolic, won’t thee, sister?” Honor let Dorcas speak for her; it was easier.
The Haymakers began to treat her as if she could not talk. They stopped asking her questions or expecting her to take part in conversations. When a new family arrived to settle in Faithwell, Jack introduced Honor by saying, “My wife has extended the silence of Meeting into her whole life.” She became the mute in the community, smiling and ducking her head when anyone said something that required a response. Jack still turned to her at night, but did not try to give her pleasure, taking only his own. As her belly grew between them, taking on the hard roundness of a pumpkin, he reached for her less and less.
In a way, she was mute. Her throat was so tight it was difficult to swallow, though she forced herself to eat, for the baby’s sake. She had always been quiet, but never completely silent. Now it became a relief not to speak. Her words could no longer be misunderstood-though now her silence was. And because she did not have to form thoughts into words for others, after a time Honor could stop thinking, and just be. For the first time since she was a girl she could sit in Meeting and not try to harness her impressions into thoughts she might speak aloud. Now she simply watched the sun cross the quiet room, catching dust motes kicked up by shifting Friends. She listened to the insects outside, and learned to distinguish between the chirping of the cricket, the sawing of the grasshopper, the ticking of the beetle, the buzzing of the cicada. She leaned into any breezes that passed from one window to another. She closed her eyes and breathed in the clover in the field next to the Meeting House, the first crop of hay left drying, the honeysuckle that grew around the door. Closing her mouth seemed to heighten her senses. It was a different sensation from the sinking-down feeling she’d had in past Meetings, but she began to think that it was as meaningful. God makes His presence felt in many ways, she thought.
After a time, her silence became less awkward, and Honor could sit at meals or on the porch or at Meeting and feel more content than she had when she spoke. In some profound way she knew that though it was not a conscious decision, she had stopped herself from speaking. She did not ask herself why, but accepted the silence as a gift.
Honor’s silence upset not only the Haymakers, but the wider community as well. It seemed even Quakers, with their silent Meetings and tolerance of difference, did not like the judgment of silence.
Adam Cox drew her aside after one First Day Meeting. “I will walk thee back to the farm,” he declared, leading her away from the Haymakers as Abigail watched over the head of their baby, a son they had named Elias. “I want to ask why thee has chosen to be silent, but I know thee will not answer,” he said as they made their way along the track. The mud had dried into hard, sharp ruts that made walking almost as tricky as when the mud was wet. “Jack said thee was upset by the death of the Negro. So were we all.” Caleb Wilson had organized a Meeting of Remembrance for the runaway, but no one had spoken, for no one knew him, not even his name. “But that should not make thee shun thy family and thy community.”
Honor of course said nothing.
“Judith has asked me to speak with thee,” he continued, “for she thinks perhaps thee will listen to someone from thy past. The Elders see thy silence as an act of aggression. They have asked me to tell thee that it is only because thee carries a child that they have not asked thee to leave the community. But thee must begin to speak after the baby is born or else leave the child with the Haymakers and go from Faithwell.”
Honor drew in her breath. Even though she had witnessed the severity of Bridport Friends with Samuel, she had hoped she would not meet with the same treatment.
“I have reminded them that thee has had a difficult year, losing thy sister and Samuel, leaving England when perhaps thee should have stayed. Not everyone is suited to such change, though it is sometimes only after it has happened that this is discovered.” Adam paused. “Thee must understand, Honor, that America is a young country. We look forward, not back. We do not dwell on misfortune, but move on-as I have with Abigail and I had hoped thee would with Jack. It is seen as poor form to linger over the bad things that have happened. Thee would do well to accept what thee has with the Haymakers. They are good people.”
Adam had not said anything about slavery, or principles being upheld or abandoned. He looked at her, clearly hoping Honor would respond. Instead she studied the wildflowers along the track: Joe-Pye weed, ragged sailors, queen of the prairie. She had been in Ohio a year now, and knew their American names.
The following Sixth Day, with the Haymakers’ agreement, Adam asked her to help at the Oberlin store. Perhaps they thought serving customers would force her to speak. Instead Honor demonstrated how little words were needed for a transaction. With smiles and nods and hand signals she could make herself understood. Few customers questioned her muteness. Plenty of people were afflicted in one way or another.
During the afternoon Mrs. Reed came in to have some scissors sharpened. She watched Honor nod and gesture with other customers; then she nodded herself. “Words ain’t everything,” she commented to the room, taking off her spectacles and polishing them on her sleeve. “Get you in trouble, more likely’n not. Maybe I be quiet one day too.” She seemed tickled by the thought.