CHAPTER XIX
THE SQUIRE AND DAVID TAKE A JOURNEY BY NIGHT
On Saturday evening David returned to Millerstown and for the second time in his life entered his father's house—his house now—by the front door. There were friendly lights here and there; the squire, who had met him at the train, slipped a kindly hand under his arm as they ascended the steps and crossed the porch. To the squire the Hartmans were queer, unhuman. But David looked worn and miserable; perhaps they suffered more than one thought. In his first confusion after the disappearance of the communion service, John Hartman had behaved so strangely toward his old friend that the squire had avoided him as a burnt child avoids the fire. But that was long ago, and here was this boy come home to his mother's funeral. The squire patted David's shoulder as they entered the door.
David glanced with a shiver toward the room upon the left where he had caught the first glimpse of the bed upon which his father lay. But the door was closed; Cassie had not been moved from the catafalque upon which she died.
From the dim end of the long hall, a short figure advanced to meet the two men. It was not Katy, who had resigned her place, but Bevy, who had come to stay until the funeral was over. Bevy shook hands with David solemnly, looking up at him with awe, as the owner of farms and orchards and this great house and unreckoned bank stock. She had spread his supper in the kitchen, and the squire sat with him while he ate. Then the two men went upstairs together.
In Cassie's room a light burned faintly. The squire turned it higher and then looked at David.
"Shall I go down, David?"
"No," said David.
The squire crossed the room slowly and laid back the cover from Cassie's face; then both men stood still, looking first at the figure on the bed, then at each other. Cassie had always been beautiful, but now an unearthly loveliness lighted her face. Her dark hair was braided high on her head; her broad forehead with its beautifully arched brows seemed to shed an actual radiance. David had never observed his mother's beauty, but now, in the last few months, he had wakened to aspects to which he had been blind. He had seen beautiful women; he could compare them with his mother as she lay before him. He looked at her hands, still shapely in spite of the hard toil of her life, folded now across her quiet breast; he noted the shape of her forehead; he saw the smile with which she seemed to be contemplating some secret and lovely thing.
Upon the squire the sight of Cassie made a deep impression. Tears came into his eyes, and he shook his head as though before him lay an unfathomable mystery. He felt about her as he might have felt about some young person cut off in youth. Here was extraordinary promise, here was pitiful blight. The squire had observed human nature in many unusual and pathetic situations, here was the most pathetic of all. The Hartmans could not be understood.
Then the squire, glancing at David, went out and closed the door and left him with his mother.