“Come in,” said the voice after a pause, and Carmel obeyed.
“Right in the parlor,” the voice directed.
Carmel turned through the folding doors to the right, and there, on the haircloth sofa, sat a stout, motherly woman in state. She wore her black silk with the air common to Gibeon when it wears its black silk. It was evident Mrs. Churchill had laid aside her household concerns in deference to the event, and, according to precedent, awaited the visits of condolence and curiosity of which it was the duty, as well as the pleasure, of her neighbors to pay.
“Find a chair and set,” said Mrs. Churchill, scrutinizing Carmel. “You’re the young woman that Nupley left the paper to, hain’t you?”
“Yes,” said Carmel, “and I’ve come to ask about your husband—if the subject isn’t too painful.”
“Painful! Laws! ’Twouldn’t matter how painful ’twas. Folks is entitled to know, hain’t they? Him bein’ a public character. Was you thinkin’ of havin’ a piece in the paper?”
“If you will permit,” said Carmel.
In spite of the attitude of state, in spite of something very like pride in being a center of interest and a dispenser of news, Carmel liked Mrs. Churchill. Her face was the face of a woman who had been a faithful helpmeet to her husband; of a woman who would be summoned by neighbors in illness or distress. Motherliness, greatness of heart, were written on those large features; and a fine kindliness, clouded by present sorrow, shone in her wise eyes. Carmel had encountered women of like mold. No village in America but is the better, more livable, for the presence and ready helpfulness of this splendid sisterhood.
“Please tell me about it,” said Carmel.
“It was like this,” said Mrs. Churchill, taking on the air of a narrator of important events. “The sheriff and me was sittin’ on the porch, talkin’ as pleasant as could be and nothin’ to give a body warnin’. We was kind of arguin’ like about my oldest’s shoes and the way he runs through a pair in less’n a month. The sheriff he was holdin’ it was right and proper boys should wear out shoes, and I was sayin’ it was a sin and a shame sich poor leather was got off on the public. Well, just there the sheriff he got up and says he was goin’ to pump himself a cold drink, and he went into the house, and I could hear the pump squeakin’, but no thought of anythin’. He didn’t come back, and he didn’t come back, so I got up, thinkin’ to myself, what in tunket’s he up to now and kind of wonderin’ if mebby he’d fell in a fit or suthin’.” Carmel took note that Mrs. Churchill talked without the air of punctuation marks. “I went out to the back door and looked, and the’ wa’n’t hide or hair of him in sight. I hollered, but he didn’t answer....” Mrs. Churchill closed her eyes and two great tears oozed between the tightly shut lids and poised on the uplands of her chubby cheeks. “And that’s all I know,” she said in a dull voice. “He hain’t never come back.”