of his faith was a constant striving toward sanctification, toward a state in which it was not possible to sin, to know the very grace of God. It distressed him to realize how far short of this ideal he had fallen. No, not fallen … stumbled, slid … one downward step at a time.
As he stared at the trickle of water in front of him he began to reach a new understanding of the questions that plagued him, although it was not knowledge that he particularly welcomed. There was no sudden rush, just a slow dawning, and the kernel of it lay in what he had said to Martha: “The badness is always there, in everybody, and you have to struggle not to let it out, and not to act on it.” There was no denying of evil, no final shutting of it away. It would lie there forever, like the destructive potential of the river in spate, ready to roil up and rush over its constrictive banks, and all you could do was build on as high a ground as you could find and hope that your foundations held against the torrent. And that was enough. He knew what he had to do. It was a lesson that he had needed to learn, and it was only his own stubbornness that had made it such a difficult one.
III
Surprisingly, there was little in the newspaper about Spicer’s testimony, although they had given over the entire front page to the trial. Apparently he had described his efforts to apprehend the accused in a factual and low-key way, and it was reported in the same manner. A great deal of the space was again given to a gruesome description of the dead body and the bravery of the constables who had attended the scene. There were also a couple of paragraphs about the accused, and an account of the way in which he seemed to sit quietly one moment, his head down, as if he weren’t listening; the next he would be slavering at the mouth, his eyes rolling, his whole body shaking. It was obvious that he was criminally insane, the editor of the paper wrote, but he had taken the life of an innocent woman, and so must pay the price.
The court agreed and the magistrate set the date of execution for a month’s time.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Spicer said as they rode the circuit together. “If everyone agrees that he’s insane, then how can he be held accountable for his crime? I find this very troubling.”
“As do I,” Lewis replied. “All I can say in response is that now you’re beginning to understand that life is never straightforward. Often there is no clear right or wrong, and our duty is to think hard and long before we pronounce any kind of definitive judgment.”
“With the Bible as our authority?”
Lewis hesitated. “I prefer to think that my conscience is the final arbiter.”
“I wish it were easier.”
“If it was easier, we wouldn’t have to think so hard, would we?”
It was an excellent point that emerged, and Lewis decided to use it as the basis for his next sermon. He was a little disappointed when his words seemed to go over the congregation’s heads somewhat, for he could see the puzzled looks on their faces. This was not what they wanted from a preacher, this measured approach that put the onus on their own judgment and called upon self-discipline and reason to guide their days. They wanted fire and brimstone, the threat that if they trespassed they would burn in eternal hell, but that if they followed the rules of their faith, they would go to their reward in a heavenly paradise. Suddenly, Lewis felt very old, and very tired.
At the end of the service he stood by the door to say a word to each of the congregation, and for a moment he was taken aback when a girl stopped before him to speak. It was not the reaction that had so long plagued him when he saw someone who looked like Sarah. This girl did not have chestnut hair or grey eyes; her hair was a dull yellow paired with eyes of a washed-out blue; she did not carry herself in a sprightly way, but rather slouched as she walked along. What she did have was a little green book that was leaching dye onto her palms.
“May I see this?” he asked, and she handed it to him. This one was the Book of Acts, not Proverbs, but the size and the binding were the same. He leafed through it, paying special attention to the front fly-leaf, but there was no sloping inscription written there.
“Read it well, and understand,” was all he said when he handed it back to her. It reminded him that he had one still-unanswered question.
“Morgan, do you remember the meeting at Gatrey’s farm? The day you found the Lord?”
“Of course I do. It was the most momentous day of my life.”
“Just after the first hymn was sung, you asked me if I had seen Rachel Jessup. Do you remember? You wanted to give her one of those books.”
“Yes. The Proverbs. I gave it to her.”
“You did?” He looked at the boy with astonishment.
“Yes. What’s the matter?”
“Then how did Simms’s handwriting get into it?”
Spicer blushed. “I asked him to write the inscription for me. I didn’t write well enough to do it myself. I still don’t, but I’m getting better. He threw in a Lord’s Prayer pin as a bonus. Why are you asking all this now?”
“Because I couldn’t figure out why Simms would have written in the book. He didn’t write anything in any of the others. Just that one. It’s been puzzling me.”
“He didn’t know. Who I was giving it to, I mean.”
“Of course.” And yet the handwriting was the thing that had finally convinced him that Simms was the murderer. How odd, he thought. He had missed so many clues, yet the one that had led him to the culprit had turned out to be no clue at all.
IV
The roads were dry, the weather sunny and bright, and Moses and Nancy were ready to head west.
Minta had been delighted that they were to be married at her house, or at least in one side of it, and although it was a quiet affair as weddings go, she and Betsy spent long hours preparing the breakfast. Betsy kept trying to shoo her away, as it was by now evident that Minta had another child on the way. This one seemed not to be taking the same toll on her as Henry had, and she was cheerful and full of energy, her face aglow from the new life inside her.
Lewis chose to speak of the bond between man and wife, and the partnership that comes with a strong marriage, and he made Betsy blush when he praised her for her support and faithfulness over the years. He thought Moses had chosen well, and said so. Nancy seemed a very sensible girl, her parents both hard-working people who in turn appeared pleased with their daughter’s choice. Already he could see that the young couple were acting as a team, their eyes firmly fixed on the goal of owning their own farm.
“You hate to see them go off so far away,” Nancy’s father said. “But I can understand it. It’s a new country they’re building. The future is in their hands, not ours anymore. I just hope they do a better job of it than we did.”
Nancy’s cheeks coloured prettily when he pronounced Moses and she united, then Martha made everyone laugh by applauding loudly. It was a propitious way to start a marriage, he thought.
And then, too soon, it was the next day and the new couple was making ready to leave. Moses had acquired an old wagon and mended the wheels on it. He had built a frame over part of it and covered it with a piece of canvas.
“That should keep things dry if it starts raining again,”
