XXII

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.

She had written him a little note, not too intimate, just as a sister

might have written, expressing her deep trust, and her sincere desire to

stand by and help in any time of need. In it she begged him to think her

worthy of sharing his trouble as he used to share his happiness, and to

know always that she was his friend whatever came. She had read it over

and over to be sure she was not overstepping her womanly right to say

these things, and had prayed about it a great deal. But when it came to

sending it she did not know his New York address. He had been strangely

silent during the last few months and had not written her. She did not

want to ask his mother. So she planned to find it out through Billy. But

Billy did not come. It had been two days since Billy had been around,

or was it three? She was standing at the window looking down the road

toward the Saxon cottage and wondering if she wanted to go down and hunt

for Billy when she saw Miss Saxon coming up the street and turning in at

the gate, and her face looked wan and crumpled like an old rose that had

been crushed and left on the parlor floor all night.

She turned from the window and hurried down:

“Miss Marilyn,” Aunt Saxon greeted her with a gush of tears, “I don't

know what to do. Billy's away! He hasn't been home for three days and

three nights! His bed ain't been touched. He never did that before

except that last time when he stayed out to help Mark Carter that time

on the mountain with that sick man, and I can't think what's the matter.

I went to Miz Carter's, but she ain't seen him, and she says Mark's up

to his business in New York, so Billy can't be with him, and I just know

he's kilt, Miss Marilyn. I just know he's kilt. I dreamt of a shroud

night before last and I can't help thinkin' he's _kilt!_” and the tears

poured down the tired little face pitifully.

Marilyn drew her tenderly into the house and made her sit down by the

cool window, brought a palm leaf fan and a footstool, and told Naomi to

make some iced orangeade. Then she called her mother and went and sat

down by the poor little creature who now that somebody else was going

to do something about it had subsided into her chair with relief born of

exhaustion. She had not slept for three nights and two of those days she

had washed all day.

“Now, Miss Saxon, dear, you're not to worry,” said the girl taking the

fan and waving it gently back and forth, touching the work-worn hand

tenderly with her other hand, “Billy is not dead, I'm sure! Oh, I'm

quite sure! I think somehow it would be hard to kill Billy. He has ways

of keeping alive that most of us don't enjoy. He is strong and young

and sharp as a needle. No one can put anything over on Billy, and I

have somehow a feeling, Miss Saxon that Billy is off somewhere doing

something very important for somebody. He is that way you know. He does

nice unusual things that nobody else would think of doing, and I just

expect you'll find out some day that Billy has been doing one of those.

There's that man on the mountain, for instance. He might be still very

sick, and it would be just like Billy to stay and see to him. Maybe

there isn't anybody else around to do it, and now that Mark has gone

he would feel responsible about it. Of course he ought to have told you

before he went, but he wouldn't likely have expected to stay long,

and then boys don't think. They don't realize how hard it is not to

understand--!”

“Thas'so, Miss Marilyn,” sniffed Miss Saxon, “He don't hardly ever

think. But he mighta phomed.”

“Well, it isn't likely they have phones on the mountain, and you haven't

any, have you? How could he?”

“He mighta phomed to you.”

“Yes, he might, but you know how boys are, he wouldn't want to bother

anybody. And if the man was in a lonely cabin somewhere he couldn't get

to a phone.”

“Thas'so too. Oh, Miss Marilyn, you always do think up comfort. You're

just like your ma and pa. But Billy, he's been so kinda peaked lately,

so sorta gentle, and then again sorta crazy like, just like his mother

useta be 'fore her husband left her. I couldn't help worryin'.”

“Well, now, Miss Saxon, I'll inquire around all I can without rousing

any suspicion. You know Billy would hate that.”

“Oh, I know he would,” flushed the little woman nervously.

“So I'll just ask the boys if they know where he is and where they saw

him last, and don't you worry. I'll tell them I have a message for him

you know, and you just stop crying and rest easy and don't tell a soul

yet till I look around. Here comes mother. She'll help you better than I

can.”

Mrs. Severn in a cool white dimity came quietly into the room, bringing

a restful calm with her, and while Lynn was out on her errand of mercy

she slipped a strong arm around the other woman's waist and had her down

on her knees in the alcove behind the curtains, and had committed the

whole matter to a loving Heavenly Father, Billy and the tired little

Aunt, and all the little details of life that harrow so on a burdened

soul; and somehow when they rose the day was cooler, and life looked

more possible to poor Aunt Saxon.

Presently came Lynn, brightly. She had seen the boys. They had met Billy

in Economy day before yesterday. He had said he had a job, he didn't

know how long it would last, and he might not be able to come to base

ball practice. He told them who to put in his place till he got back.

“There, now, Miss Saxon, you go home and lie down and take a good sleep.

You've put this whole thing in the hands of the Lord, now don't take

it out again. Just trust Him. Billy'll come back safe and sound, and

there'll be some good reason for it,” said Mrs. Severn. And Aunt Saxon,

smiling wistfully, shyly apologetic for her foolishness, greatly cheered

and comforted, went. But Lynn went up to her little white room and

prayed earnestly, adding Billy to her prayer for Mark. Where was Billy

Gaston?

When Miss Saxon went home she found a letter in the letter box out by

the gate addressed to Billy. This set her heart to palpitating again

and she almost lost her faith in prayer and took to her own worries once

more. But she carried the letter in and held it up to the window, trying

her best to make out anything written therein. She justified this to her

conscience by saying that it might give a clue to Billy's whereabouts.

Billy never got letters. Maybe, it might be from his long lost father,

though they had all reason to believe him dead. Or maybe--Oh, what if

Albert Gaston had come back and kidnapped Billy! The thought was too

awful. She dropped right down in the kitchen where she stood by the old

patchwork rocking chair that always stood handy in the window when she

wanted to peel potatoes, and prayed: “Oh, God, don't let it be! Don't

bring that bad man back to this world again! Take care of my Billy and

bring him back to me, Amen!” Over and over again she prayed, and it

seemed to comfort her. Then she rose, and put the tea kettle on and

carefully steamed open the letter. She had not lost all hope when she

took time to steam it open in place of tearing it, for she was still

worse afraid that Billy might return and scold her for meddling with

his precious letter, then she was afraid he would not return. While the

steam was gathering she tried to justify herself in Billy's eyes for

opening it at all. After her prayer it seemed a sort of desecration. So

the kettle had almost boiled away before she mustered courage to hold

the envelope over the steam, and while she did this she noticed for the

first time significantly that the postmark was New York. Perhaps it was

from Mark. Then Billy was not with Mark! But perhaps the letter would

tell.

So she opened the flap very carefully, and pulled out the single sheet

of paper, stepping nearer the window to read it in the late afternoon

light. It read: “Dear Kid, shut your mouth and saw wood. Buddy.” That

was all.

Aunt Saxon lifted frightened eyes and stared at the lilac bush outside

the window, the water spout where Billy often shinned up and down, the

old apple tree that he would climb before he was large enough to be

trusted, and then she read the letter again. But it meant nothing to

her. It seemed a horrible riddle. She took a pencil and a scrap of paper

and quickly transcribed the mysterious words, omitting not even the

punctuation, and then hurriedly returned the letter to its envelope,

clapped the flap down and held it tight. When it was dry she put the

letter up in plain sight on the top of the old secretary where Billy

could find it at once when he came in. She was taking no chances on

Billy finding her opening his mail. It never had happened before,

because Billy never had had a letter before, except notices about base

ball and athletic association, but she meant it never should happen.

She knew instinctively that if it ever did she would lose Billy, if not

immediately, then surely eventually, for Billy resented above all things

interference. Then Aunt Saxon sat down to study the transcription. But

after a long and thorough perusal she folded it carefully and pinned

it in her bosom. But she went more cheerily down to the market to get

something for supper. Billy might come any time now. His letter was

here, and he would surely come home to get his letter.

Down at the store she met Marilyn, who told her she looked better

already, and the poor soul, never able to hold her tongue, had to tell

the girl about the letter.

“He's had a letter,” she said brightening, “about a job I guess. It was

there when I got back. It's sawing wood. The letter doesn't have any

head. It just says about sawing wood. I 'spose that's where he is, but

he ought to have let me know. He was afraid I'd make a fuss about it, I

always do. I'm afraid of those big saws they use. He's so careless. But

he was set on a grown-up job. I couldn't get him to paste labels on cans

at the factory, he said it was too much of a kid game.”

“Oh,” said Marilyn, wondering, “Sawing wood. Well, that's where he is

of course, and it's good healthy work. I wouldn't worry. Billy is pretty

careful I think. He'll take care of himself.”

But to herself on the way home she said: “How queer for Billy to go off

sawing wood just now! It doesn't seem like him. They can't be so

hard up. There must be something behind it all. I hope I didn't start

anything asking him to stick by Mark! Oh, _where_ is Mark?”

That afternoon Marilyn took a horseback ride, and touched all the points

she knew where there might be likely to be woodsawing going on, but no

Billy was on the job anywhere.

As she rode home through Economy she saw Mrs. Fenner scuttling down a

side street from the jail, and hurrying into her own side gate like a

little frightened lizard.

Marilyn came back home heart sick and sad, and took refuge in the

church and her bells. At least she could call to Billy across the hills

somewhere by playing the songs he loved the best. And perhaps their

echoes would somehow cross the miles to Mark too, by that strange

mysterious power that spirit can reach to spirit across space or years

or even estrangement, and draw the thoughts irresistibly. So she sat at

the organ and played her heart out, ringing all the old sweet songs that

Mark used to love when the bells first were new and she was learning to

play them; Highland Laddie, Bonnie Bonnie Warld, Mavourneen, Kentucky

Home, songs that she had kept fresh in her heart and sometimes played

for Billy now and then. And then the old hymns. Did they echo far enough

to reach him where he had gone, Mark sitting alone in his inferno? Billy

holding his breath and trying to find a way out of his? Did they hear

those bells calling?

“Oh, God our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come!

Our refuge from the stormy blast,

And our eternal home!”

The soul of the girl in the little dusky church went up in a prayer with

the bells.

“Before the hills in order stood,

Or earth received her frame,

From everlasting Thou art God!

A thousand years the same!”

Every mortal in the village knew the words, and in kitchens now,

preparing savory suppers, or down in the mills and factories, or out on

the street coming home, they were humming them, or repeating them over

in their hearts. The bells did not ring the melody alone. The message

was well known and came to every heart. Mark and Billy knew them too.

Perhaps by telepathy the tune would travel to their minds and bring

their words along:

“Under the shadow of Thy wings

Thy saints have dwelt secure,

Sufficient is Thine arm alone,

And Thy defense is sure!”

The bells ceased ringing and the vibration slowly died away, hill

answering to hill, in waves of softly fading sound, while the people

went to their suppers with a light of blessing and uplift on their

faces. But in the darkened church, Marilyn, with her fingers on the keys

and her face down upon her hands was praying, praying that God would

shelter Mark and Billy.