Three days later a pall hung over Sabbath Valley. The coroner's inquest
had brought in a verdict of murder, and the day of the hearing had been
set. Mark Carter was to be tried for murder--was wanted for
murder as Elder Harricutt put it. It was out now and everybody knew it
but Mrs. Carter, who went serenely on her way getting her regular
letters from Mark postmarked New York and telling of little happenings
that were vague but pleasant and sounded so like Mark, so comforting
and son like. So strangely tender and comforting and more in detail
than Mark's letters had been wont to be. She thought to herself that he
was growing up at last.
He spoke of a time when he and she would have a
nice home together somewhere, some new place where he would get into
business and make a lot of money. Would she like that? And once he told
her he was afraid he hadn't been a very good son to her, but sometime
he would try to make it up to her, and she cried over that letter for
sheer joy. But all the rest of the town knew that Mark was suspected of
murder, and most of them thought he had run away and nobody could find
him. The county papers hinted that there were to be strange revelations
when the time of the trial came, but nothing definite seemed to come
out from day to day more than had been said at first, and there was a
strange lack of any mention of Mark in connection with it after the
first day.
Lynn Severn went about the house quiet and white, her face looking like
an angel's prayer, one continual petition, but she was sweet and
patient, and ready to do anything for anybody. Work seemed to be her
only respite from the gnawing horror of her thoughts. To know that the
whole village believed that Mark, her life long playmate, had been
guilty of a crime so heinous was so appalling that sometimes she just
stood at the window and laughed out into the sunshine at the crazy idea
of it. It simply could not be. Mark, who had always been so gentle and
tender for every living thing, so chivalrous, so ready to help! To
think of Mark killing anyone! And yet, they might have needed killing.
At least, of course she didn't mean that, but there were circumstances
under which she could imagine almost anyone doing a deed--well what was
the use, there was no way to excuse or explain a thing she didn't
understand, and she could just do nothing but not believe any of it
until she knew. She would trust in God, and yes, she would trust in
Mark as she always had done, at least until she had his own word that
he was not trustable. That haughty withdrawing of himself on Sunday
night and his "I am not worthy" meant nothing to her now when it came
trailing across her consciousness. It only seemed one more proof of his
tender conscience, his care for her reputation. He had known then what
they were saying about him, he must have known the day before that
there was something that put him in a position so that he felt it was
not good for her reputation to be his friend. He had withdrawn to
protect her. That was the way she explained it to her heart, while yet
beneath it all was the deep down hurt that he had not trusted her, and
let her be his friend in trouble as well as when all was well.