Mrs. Carn's been here all morning
and--"
It was at this moment that Mrs. Carn, her eyelids red from weeping, an
old bumpy, red worsted shawl over her head, came nervously into the
room; and, without so much as even a nod to any of us, edged quicky out
of the front door.
"Well--" began my father, his clear, scrutinizing eyes fixed on Darton.
"A-nother sign," expostulated Mr. Darton, "of what ye might call the
smallness of human van-ity. We must forgive 'er. Ye see Selma was
gettin' so upset with her rancorous gossipin'--perhaps I should have
been more careful--but it was a question of Selma and--"
"Quite right, Darton," my father nodded to him. "I'm going up for a
moment."
I had walked to the front window with its starched, lacy curtain; and
stood still, looking out in a puzzled maze at the strangeness of the
morning's happenings, a certain sense of disconsolateness stealing over
me. Beyond the row of dark, spare trees I could see a gaunt figure in a
black skirt and a bumpy red shawl moving along the road; and the picture
of her, scurrying away, remained, as such apparently unimportant figures
often will, sharply engraven on my mind. As I recall it in late years,
I often wonder how my father could have mistaken the lying, rancorous
woman of Con Darton's description for this stern-lipped creature, who
had gone by wordlessly, shutting the door gently behind her, a door that
she was never to re-open.
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