CHAPTER VIII

WILLIAM KOEHLER MAKES HIS ACCUSATION FOR THE LAST TIME

DUSK was falling when David started down the mountain road. He did not walk rapidly; sometimes, in his weakness, he stumbled. Bad as his aches had been when he climbed the mountain hours before, they were worse now, and added to them was smart of soul. Every spot on his body upon which Katy had laid her hand burned; she was continually before his eyes in her kaleidoscopic motions, now running down the pike from school, now storming at him as he lay on the ground. He tried to hate her, but he could not. As he stumbled along, his feet kept time to a foolish wail, "I want her! I want her!" The glow of triumph had faded entirely; David was more morose, more sullen, more unhappy than ever. His anger with Alvin had changed to a sly intention to scheme against him until he could give him a greater punishment than a mere beating. He was not done with Alvin! His own father was a rich and powerful man; Alvin's father was a poor, half-witted thief. He thought for the first time with satisfaction of his father's wealth.

The young moon overhead, the scent of spring in the air, the gentle breeze against his cheek, all deepened his misery and loneliness. He said to himself that he had no one in the world. In spite of his vague conclusions about his father, his father was still the same. There are persons whose success depends wholly upon their relations with the human beings nearest to them. Given affection, they expand; denied it, their souls contract, their powers fail. It is a weakness of the human creature, but it is none the less real. Resentment was rapidly becoming a settled attitude of David's mind; his father was postponing dangerously that opening of his heart to his son of which he thought day and night.

David wished now that he need not go home; he wished--poor little David!--that he was dead. He would have his supper and he would go to bed, and to-morrow there would be another bitter day. He would sit in school and be conscious of Katy and Alvin and their knowing glances, and love and hate would tear him asunder once more.

Then David stood still and looked down upon his house. Even though the trees about it were thickly leafed, he could see lights in unaccustomed places. The parlor was lighted; in that room David could not remember an illumination in his lifetime. There were lights also in bedrooms--David forgot his aches of body and soul in his astonishment. He slept over the kitchen in one of the little rooms his father had provided for the day when servants should attend upon the wants of his children; except for his father's and mother's room the front of the house was never opened. Had some great stranger come to visit--but that was unthinkable! Was some one ill--but that would be no reason for the opening of the house! David did not know what to make of the strange sight. He hurried down the road, almost falling as he ran.

Then David stood still, looking stupidly at a dark wagon which stood before the gate. He knew the ownership and the purpose of that vehicle, but he could not connect it with his house. There dwelt only his father and his mother and himself, and all of them were alive and well.

A group of children lingered near by, silent, staring at the dark wagon and the brightly lighted windows. The Hartman house with its illumination was as strange a phenomenon as the Millerstown children had ever seen. To them David, still standing at his gate, put a question.

"What is the matter?"

Instantly a small, excited, feminine voice piped out an answer.

"Your father is dead."

"He was sitting in his buggy in the mountain road," another excited voice went on. "They brought him down here and carried him in."

David went into the yard and along the flag walk, and for the first time in his life entered his father's house by the wide-open front door, through which various Millerstonians were passing in and out. This was a great opportunity for Millerstown. Some one came out of the parlor, leaving the door ajar, and David saw a long dark figure lying on a low couch in the middle of the room. What there was to be known about his father's death he gathered from the conversation of those about him. He heard pitying exclamations, he felt that in a moment he would burst into cries of shock and terror. Bitterness fled, he was soft-hearted, weak, childlike. His father was gone, but there remained another person. He must find her; in her lay his refuge; she must be his stay, as he must henceforth be hers. Stumbling back through the hall toward the kitchen, he sought his mother. He was aware of the kind looks of those about him; his whole being was softened.

"Mother!" he meant to cry. "Oh, mother! mother!"

He felt her grief; he expected to find her prostrate on the old settle, or sitting by the table with her head on her arm, weeping. He would comfort her; he would be a good son to her; he truly loved her.

From the kitchen doorway he heard her voice, clear and toneless, the voice of every day. She was giving orders to the Millerstown women who had hastened in with offers of help,--to Grandmother Gaumer and Sarah Knerr and Susannah Kuhns. She indicated certain jars of canned fruit which were to be used for the funeral dinner, and planned for the setting of raised cake and the baking of "fine cake." In Cassie's plan for her life, she had prepared for this contingency; even now her iron will was not broken, nor her stern composure lost. She moved about as David had always seen her move, quiet, capable, self-centered. She shed no tear; she seemed to David to take actual pleasure in planning and contriving.

The frantic cry, already on David's lips, died silently away, his throat stiffened, he drew a long breath. For an instant he stood still in the doorway; then, with a bent and sullen head, he turned and crept back through the hall to the front stairs, which had scarcely ever been touched by his foot, and thence to his tiny room, where he knelt down by his narrow bed. How terrible was the strange figure under the black covering, with the blazing lights beating upon it, and the staring villagers stealing in to look! It seemed incredible that his father could lie still and suffer their scrutiny. He wished that he might go down and turn them out. But he did not dare to trust his voice, and besides, his mother accepted it all as though it were proper and right. Then David forgot the intruders, forgot his mother. His father was dead, of whom he had often thought unkindly, and his father was all he had in the world. He would never be able to speak to him again, never be able to lay a hand upon his shoulder as he sat reading his paper, never meet again that sudden glance of incomprehensible distress. Death worked its alchemy; now at last the poor father had his way with his son's heart.

"He was my father!" cried David. "I have no father!"

His breath choked, his heart seemed to smother him; he felt himself growing light-headed as he knelt by the low bed. He had had nothing to eat since noon; he had had since that time many things to suffer; he thought suddenly in his exhaustion that perhaps he, too, was about to die.

Presently there was a step in the hall and his heart leaped. Perhaps his mother had come, perhaps she did not wish to show her grief to these curious people. But the person outside knocked at the door and his mother would not have knocked.

"What is it?" asked David.

"It is me," said Bevy. "I brought you a little something to eat."

Bevy waited outside, plate and glass in hand. She had seen David's entrance and exit. Prompted now partly by kindness and sympathy, and partly by an altogether human and natural curiosity to see as much of the house and the bereaved family as she could, Bevy had carried him his supper. But Bevy was not rewarded, as she had hoped.

"Put it down," commanded a voice from within. "Thank you."

Bevy made another effort.

"Do you want anything, David?"

"No, thank you," said the voice again.

"Yes, well," answered Bevy and went down the front steps. If Bevy could have had her wish, her whole body would have been one great eye to take in all this magnificence of thick carpets and fine furniture.

Then, while the mother for whom he hungered made her plans for the great funeral feast, still customary in country sections, where mourners came from a long distance, and while Katy Gaumer recounted to curious Millerstown how she had found John Hartman sitting in his buggy by the roadside, David ate the raised cake and drank the milk which Bevy brought him. Then he sat down by the window and looked out into the dark foliage which on this side touched the house. It had not been John Hartman's plan to have his house grow damp in the shadow of overhanging branches, but John Hartman had long since forgotten his plans for everything.

Sitting here in the darkness, David thought of his father. The puzzle of that strange character he could not solve, but one thing became clear to his mind. He saw again that yearning gaze; he remembered from the dim, almost impenetrable mist which surrounded his childhood, caresses, laughter, the strong grasp of his father's arms. Finally he lay down on the bed and went to sleep, a solemn, comforting conclusion in his heart.

"My father loved me," whispered David. "I am sure my father loved me."

A little later David's mother opened his door softly and entering stood by his bed. She had not seen him in the kitchen; some one had told her that he had come in and had gone to his room. She saw that he was covered and that the night air did not blow upon him, and then she took the empty plate and glass and went back to the kitchen.

Alvin Koehler need not have suspected his father of having had any hand in the death of John Hartman. William Koehler was in the next village, where he had half a day's work. While he worked he plotted and planned and mumbled to himself about his wrongs. It was apoplexy which had killed John Hartman as he drove up the mountain road; Dr. Benner told of his warnings, recalled to the mind of Millerstown the scarlet flush which had for a long time reddened John Hartman's face. If he had taken the path so long avoided by him in order to confess his crime to the man he had wronged and thus begin to make his peace with God, he had set too late upon that journey, for his hour had been appointed. When William, walking heavily, with his eyes on the ground, came home from Zion Church, John Hartman lay already in the best room of his house, his earthly account closed. When he heard the news of John Hartman's death, William seemed stupefied; it was hard to believe that he understood what was said to him.

It was not necessary that any provision should be made beyond the great dinner for the entertainment of guests at the Hartman house. Nevertheless, the house was cleaned and put in order from top to bottom for its master's burying. Fluted pillow and sheet shams and lace-trimmed pillow-cases were brought forth, great feather beds were beaten into smoothness, elaborate quilts were unfolded from protective wrappings and were aired and refolded and laid at the foot of beds covered with thick white counterpanes. There was dusting and sweeping and scrubbing, and, above all, a vast amount of cooking and baking. The funeral was to be held in the morning, and afterwards there would be food at the Hartman house for all those who wished to partake.

Cassie was fitted with a black dress, various bonnets were sent out from the county seat for her to try, and over each was draped the long black veil of widowhood,--this, to Cassie, in the opinion of Millerstown, a crown of independence. Millerstown could form no judgment of Cassie's feelings. If she had, like William Koehler, any moment of stupefaction, or, like David, any wild outburst of grief, that fact was kept from a curious world.

David also was fitted with a suit of black, and together he and his mother rode in a closed carriage, sent from the county seat, down through pleasant Millerstown in the May sunshine and out to the church on the hill.

The service was long, as befitted the dignity of a man of prominence like John Hartman who had always given liberally to charitable objects, though he had become of late years an infrequent attendant at church meetings. The preacher who had heard the accusation of William Koehler was long since gone; the present pastor who lauded the Christian life of the dead man knew nothing of any charge against him. He would scarcely have known William by sight, so entirely had William separated himself from the life of the village. The preacher had a deep, moving voice, he spoke with feeling of the death of the righteous, and of the crown laid up for them in heaven. Many of the congregation wept, some in recollection of their own dead, some in sad anticipation of that which must some day befall themselves, and some in grief for John Hartman. Two men, sitting in opposite corners of the gallery, bowed their heads on the backs of the benches before them so that their tears might drop unseen. Oliver Kuhns, the elder, stayed at home from the funeral and at home from his work, and watched from the window the procession entering the church, and wept also. John Hartman was not without mourners who called him blessed!

David and his mother sat in the front pew, near the body, which had been placed before the pulpit. Upon David had settled a heavy weight of horror. He had not yet accustomed himself to the fact of his father's death. Only a few days before he had seen his father moving about, had sought to read the enigmatic expression in his eyes. But here his father lay, dead. Living he would never have suffered these stares, this weeping. Upon David, also, rested the interested, inquisitive eyes. From the gallery Katy Gaumer looked down upon him; from a seat near her Alvin Koehler stared about. The smothering desire to cry rushed over David once more; he slipped his hand inside his stiff collar as though to choke off the rising sob. Beside him rose the black pillar of his mother's crape; on the other side was the closed door of the old-fashioned pew. He was imprisoned; for him there was no escape. The service would never end; here he would be compelled to sit, forever and ever.

Then, suddenly, to the startled eyes of David and of Millerstown, there rose in the right-hand gallery the short, bent figure of a man. The preacher did not see; Millerstown sat paralyzed. They had never been really afraid of William Koehler, queer as he was, but now there was madness in his face. His eyes blazed, his cheeks were pale, he had scarcely touched food since he had heard of the death of his enemy. He had not gone to work; he had sat in his little house talking to himself, and praying that he might, after all, have some sort of revenge upon the man who had wronged him. Several weeks ago he had consulted a new detective, who, in the hope of getting a fee, or wishing to have an excuse for getting rid of him, had given him fresh encouragement. The sudden ending of his hopes was all the more cruel.

"I have something to say," he announced now in his shrill voice. "This man lying here is not a good man. I have this to say about him. He--he--"

Then poor William paused. Already, to his terror, in spite of his practicing, the words were slipping away from him. He had planned to tell the story carefully, impressing each detail upon the large congregation which would gather at the funeral. They _must_ listen to him. It would be useless to cry out suddenly the whole truth, that John Hartman was a thief--he had tried that once, and had been silenced by the preacher. The detective had said that he must get all his proofs carefully together. He had arranged them in his poor, feeble mind; he meant to speak as convincingly as the preacher himself. His eyes were fixed on the smooth gray wall beside the pulpit cupboard; the sight of it helped to keep his mind clear. There he had been working on the day when the communion set was taken.

He rubbed his damp hands down the sides of his dusty suit, and a flush came into his cheeks. He remembered clearly once more what he had to say.

"I was building up the wall," he said with great precision. "I--"

Stupidly he halted. He began to grow frightened; the unfriendly faces paralyzed his brain; the words he had planned so carefully slipped all at once away from him. He pointed at the still figure lying in front of the pulpit and burst into vehement, frantic speech.

"He stole the communion set!" he cried shrilly. "He stole it! He--"

Poor William got no further. Many persons rose. The two men in opposite corners of the gallery who had wept started toward him; one of them opened his lips, as though, like crazy William, he was about to address the congregation. The paralyzed spectators came to their senses. Hands were laid upon William. The deacons and elders of the church went toward the gallery steps, Grandfather Gaumer among them. Even Alvin in his mortification and shame had still feeling enough to go to his father's side.

"Come away, pop!" he begged. "Ach, be quiet, pop, and come away!"

"He tells me to be quiet!" cried William in the same shrill tone. "My son tells me to be quiet!"

Grandfather Gaumer laid a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Come with me, William."

But William was not to be got so quietly away. In the front pew young David had risen. Was his father not now to have a decent burying? David's face was aflame; he did not see the madness in the shivering figure and the bright eyes of William Koehler. William belonged with his son Alvin, and both were hateful.

But David had no chance to speak. The preacher foolishly held up a forbidding hand to poor William.

"You cannot say such a thing at this time and not confess that it is not true. The accused cannot answer for himself."

Poor William rubbed his hands over his eyes. He still had great respect for the authority of preachers. Besides, he saw John Hartman suddenly as a dead man, and since his trouble he had always been afraid of death. No revenge could be visited upon this deaf, impassible object, that was sure!

"Ach, I forget my mind!" wailed poor William. "I forget my mind!"

Then William could have been led unresisting away. But the preacher, stupidly insistent, held up his hand again.

"Do you confess that your accusation is not true?" said he.

William placed a hand on either side of his forehead. It seemed as though his head were bursting and he must hold it close together. There was now a murmur of speech in the congregation. This terrible scene had gone on long enough; John Hartman did not need defense from so absurd an accusation. Then the murmur ceased.

"No!" cried William. "It is not true. I took the communion set myself!"

William was now led away, a final seal put upon the pit in which his honesty and sanity lay buried. Another unforgivable offense was added to the sum of unforgivable offenses of the son of William Koehler toward young David. The confession did not help the Millerstown church to recover its beautiful silver. William's insanity, the congregation thought, was the only bar to its recovery.

John Hartman was laid in the grave which had been walled up by the mason who had taken William Koehler's place in Millerstown, and which had been lined with evergreens and life everlasting according to Millerstown's tender custom. Over him prayers were said and another hymn was sung, "Aus tiefer Noth shrei ich zu dir" (Out of the depths I cry to thee), familiar to generations of Millerstown's afflicted. Then the procession returned to John Harman's great house, whispering excitedly.

David sat in his room during the funeral dinner. David was queer; he was not expected to do as other people did. His fury with the Koehlers took his thoughts to some extent away from his grief.

That night Cassie did not sleep in the great, comfortable room at the front of the house which she had shared with her husband, but in a room even smaller than David's at the back. It contained, instead of the great walnut four-poster, with its high-piled feather bed to which she was accustomed, a little painted pine bedstead and a chaff bag; it was on the north corner of the house and was cold in winter and deprived of the breeze by the thick foliage in summer. Her husband's fortune was left to her while she lived; afterwards it was to go to David. Cassie was amply able to manage it, the investments were safe, the farmers had been in her husband's employ many years; it was not likely that anything would disturb the smooth, dull current of Cassie's life.

There was much discussion in Millerstown about whether it was safe for the community to allow William Koehler to be at large; there was some comment upon the cooking at the Hartman funeral dinner; then Millerstown turned its attention to other things. Cassie had behaved just as she might have been expected to behave. It was surprising, however, that she had let Millerstown go so thoroughly through her house.

The day after the funeral David went back to the Millerstown school. He did not glance in the direction of Katy and Alvin, though he could not help realizing that Katy's skirts did not flirt so gayly past. Katy was sorry for him, though she did not repent her treatment of him. Her dresses had suddenly dropped several inches, her flying curls were twisted up on her head, her eyes were brighter than ever. She was filled with herself and her own concerns and opinions; she grew daily more dictatorial, more lordly.

"I am going away!" said she, upon rising.

"I am going to be educated!" said she at noon.

"I can take education," said she at night. "I thank God I am not dumb!"

She and Grandmother Gaumer were increasingly busy with dressmakers' patterns and with "Lists of Articles to be provided by Students." Life was at high tide for Katy Gaumer.

Still David kept at the head of his class. In his mind a slow plan was forming. He would think of Katy no more, of that he was determined, and he would, as a means of accomplishing that end, leave Millerstown. His mother was a rich woman; he could do anything in the world he liked. He would first of all go to college. Afterwards he would study law.

In June he started late one Sunday afternoon to walk to the Sheep Stable. Overwhelmed as he had been upon that spot, he loved it too well to stay away. The heavenly prospect was part of his life's fabric and would continue to be all his days.

As he passed the Koehler house, he heard a strange sound, apparently an unending repetition of the same phrase. It was William Koehler at his prayers--Millerstown knew now for what William prayed!

"God will punish _him_!" said David with a hot, dry throat. "If there is a God"--thus said David in his foolish youth--"if there is a God, he will punish him! Oh, I wish, I wish I could see my father!"

At the Sheep Stable, as one who opens the book of the dim past, David took his pipe and cards from their hiding-place and hurled them far down the mountain-side. He even managed to smile a little sorely at himself.

It was dark when he returned to the village. He did not like to walk about in the early evenings, past the groups of Millerstonians on the doorsteps; they talked about him, and he did not like to be talked about. Now almost all Millerstown had gone to church. The pastor of the Improved New Mennonites was conducting a meeting in a neighboring village, but there was service in all the other churches. A few persons sat on their doorsteps, listening quietly to the music which filled the air,--the sound of the beautiful German hymns of the Lutherans and the Reformed, and the less classic compositions of the New Baptists. Millerstown was like a great common room on summer evenings, with the friendly sky for ceiling.

Again the young moon rode high in the heavens; again David's young blood throbbed in his veins; again the miserable, unmanly desire for the girl who would have nothing to do with him began to devour him. He bit his lips, wondering drearily where he should go and what he should do. The night had just begun; he would not be sleepy for hours. Nothing invited him to the kitchen or to the two little bedrooms to which Cassie had restricted their living. He had no books, and books would have been after all poor companions on such a night as this.

David was not an ill-looking boy; he had indeed the promise of growing handsome as he grew older; he was many times richer than any other young man of Millerstown. There were probably only two girls in the village to whom these pleasant characteristics would make no appeal. The first of these was Katy Gaumer. The second was smooth, pretty, blue-eyed Essie Hill, the daughter of the preacher of the Improved New Mennonites, who sat now demurely on her father's doorstep. Beside her David suddenly sat himself down.