Eleanor tried to answer. The words would not come from her lips. She nodded. There again she had to shut the door of memory; for, when we break the news, it isn't the news we break; it's the news breaks us.
After what seemed an interminable quiet, Mrs. Williams was asking through dry tearless sobs:
"What does it all mean? Have we not given our whole lives to God? How could this thing happen—to an innocent child? There isn't any justice or right in this whole world."
"We must not be quiescent any more, Mrs. Williams. We must fight. We have such a habit of letting things go, and things let go—go wrong. It isn't God's fault at all: it's us—us humans: it's our fault. Every one of us ought to have been ready to die to prevent crime; and we've been letting things go. We mustn't be quiescent any more. We must fight wrongs and evils. And much more;" the girl in tears, the little woman fevered, red-eyed, gazing with glazed look into dark spaces, kneading her clasped hands together. Once the door opened and the shawled head of the old half-breed woman poked in.
"Ford?" Calamity asked.
"Go 'way, Calamity," whispered Eleanor.
She saw the little woman rise slowly.
"He is murdered," Mrs. Williams said, "he is murdered just as truly as if Moyese had cut his throat with his own hand." It was not for months after, that Eleanor recalled the look on Calamity's face as the Indian woman heard those frenzied words. Then Mrs. Williams broke in uncontrollable sobbing. "Leave me! Go out—all of you. Leave me alone!"
Eleanor shut the door and led the dazed Indian children from the outer hall. In the Library, opposite the Mission Parlor, she found old Calamity sitting on the floor with the shawl over her head. The half-breed woman sat peering through the shawl as Eleanor lighted the hanging lamp. No Indian will mention the name of the dead. She fastened her eyes on Eleanor, snakily, sinister, never shifting her glance.
"What is it, Calamity?"