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.