"I can't understand it," said he again and again. "One cannot believe it. There wasn't any motive. He couldn't have wanted to steal it—such a thing would be entirely impossible. He was already rich; he was always well-behaved from his childhood up."
David did not answer. His face was in the shadow, only his tightly clasped hands were illuminated by the bright moonlight. His mind was confused, he could not yet coördinate his impressions. There was Katy Gaumer's story, there was Koehler's terrible accusation; here was this damning proof of both. He felt again that rising, protesting pride in his father, he felt a sickening unwillingness to go on with this investigation, which seemed to mean in his first confusion only an intolerable humbling of himself before Alvin Koehler, the effeminate, the smiling, the son of a madman and a thief. Poor David groaned.
At once the squire rose with a troubled sigh.
"We'd better put these things back and drive in a few nails to hold the wainscoting. We'll surely meet some one if we carry them into town and then the cat would be out of the bag."
David agreed with a nod.
"And here is this paper!" The squire started. Perhaps they were nearer an explanation than they thought. "Put it in your pocket, David."
David thrust the paper into his pocket with a sort of sob. The squire laid the precious vessels back on the rough floor of the little pit and put the wainscoting in place. A few light taps with a hammer and all was smooth once more as it had been for fifteen years. Then he led the way into the dim church.
"Come, David!"
David did not answer. He had sat down once more on the low bench. His thoughts had passed beyond himself; he sat once more beside his father's body here in the church. He experienced again that paralyzing horror of death, the passionate desire to shield his poor father from the curious eyes of Millerstown, his rage at the wild, dusty figure in the gallery. He remembered William Koehler as he had seen him later in the corner of the poorhouse garden, waving his arms, struggling like some frantic creature striving to break the bonds which held him. He saw the face of Alvin, empty, dissatisfied, vain. He remembered the little house, its poverty, its meanness. He remembered how he had called upon God to prove Himself to him by punishing Alvin Koehler's father. David was proud no more.
"Come, David!" urged the squire again, returning; and this time David followed him, through the church, out into the warm June night. Cinder was being dumped at the furnace, the sky flushed suddenly a rosy red, then the glow faded, leaving only the silvery moonlight. It was only nine o'clock; pleasant sounds rose from the village, the laughter of children, the voice of some one singing. Millerstown was going on in its quiet, happy way. At Grandfather Gaumer's all was dark; the house stood somberly among its pine trees; the garden still breathed forth its lovely odors. The two men proceeded into the little office of the squire, and there the squire lit his lamp and both sat down.