Part 10

“Free him! Free him!” the crowd shouted. Amid all the clamor Walda Kellar stood motionless, with her eyes fixed upon the far bluffs, and Hans Peter sat with head drooped so that his face could not be seen. While the crowd was threatening to become a mob, it was not noticed that the school-master had crossed the fields, pushed his way to the stocks, and ascended two steps.

“Men and women of Zanah, if ye turn a deaf ear to Walda Kellar, let me offer myself as the one upon whom to inflict the punishment ye deem fitting because the Bible upon which I put much patient work hath disappeared.” Gerson Brandt’s voice was low, but it had a determined ring in it as he spoke to the colonists. He had removed his hat, and those who looked upon his face marvelled that the gentle school-master could be so threatening in mien and gesture.

“Since the Sacred Book disappeared while it was in my custody, I am responsible for it. If any one is to be put into the stocks, it is I, that served you all as your elder—I, to whom you have intrusted the training of your boys. This day’s work shall long be a reproach to Zanah, for ye have stood by while the simple one hath been made to suffer. Even though he may have been guilty of the offence imputed to him, the penalty is greater than his deed hath merited.”

The uproar that followed this speech caused the Herr Doktor to tremble as he leaned upon his cane.

“Surely no one in all Zanah would see Gerson Brandt put into the stocks,” said Mother Werther, taking her place beside Adolph Schneider. “For shame, brethren and sisters of Zanah! Give Hans Peter his liberty.”

“We demand the release of the simple one,” said the vineyard workers. “Let him go! Let him go!”

“Gerson Brandt, thine offer to take Hans Peter’s place in the stocks is an insult to thy high office as an elder of Zanah,” said the Herr Doktor. “I will accede to the wishes of the people. Thou canst liberate the village fool.”

Adolph Schneider turned to go into the inn, and Stephen Everett, who had been watching the strange scene from the corner of the porch, went out into the square to offer aid to Gerson Brandt. The school-master had acted quickly, and before Everett reached the stocks Hans Peter’s feet were free. Everett loosed the simple one’s hands and raised him to an upright position. Hans Peter was so stiff that he fell upon the rude platform.

“He is exhausted. I will take him into the inn,” said Everett, addressing Walda, who was leaning over the prostrate form of Hans Peter.

“I know that thou wilt minister to him, and that thou wilt restore his senses. See, he hath swooned!”

“I will take care of him. You can trust me to see that he is made comfortable,” Everett promised.

“Yea, I always trust thee, Stephen.”

The man and woman bending over the form of the simple one looked into each other’s eyes for a second. Then Everett lifted Hans Peter in his arms, carried him down the steps, and, passing through the crowd, disappeared within the door of the inn.

Standing upon the platform of the stocks, Walda looked after them until the inn-door had closed. Turning, she beheld Gerson Brandt staring at her with terror in his eyes. He was ghastly pale, and his thin nostrils were widely dilated with the quickness of his breathing.

“Art thou ill, Gerson Brandt?” she asked.

“Nay, I have my usual health. Just now, fear clutcheth at my heart.”

“Fear, Gerson Brandt? Thou wert ever brave. What is it that thou couldst fear?”

“A shadow was cast over me. It hath passed.”

Gerson Brandt stooped to pick up his hat, and motioned to Walda to pass down the steps before him. As Walda walked through the square the people bowed before her, in token of their recognition that she was, indeed, the prophetess, for it was whispered that the stranger from the outside world had given his word to Adolph Schneider that he would pay twice the value of the Bible on condition that Hans Peter should not be further punished.

XIV

Everett counted the days until the _Untersuchung_. Only ten intervened. In less than a fortnight Walda would be cut off from all communication with him. She would have entered into her duties as the leader of the colony. She would be the prophetess—the inspired one. He tried to imagine himself looking on during the quaint ceremony of the _Untersuchung_, and he had to face the knowledge that he could not stand by while the girl passed forever beyond his reach. Even while he dared vaguely to plan some way by which he could win her for himself, he had a few misgivings concerning her unfitness for his world, which he knew she would find strange and cruel. He told himself that he could protect her, that he could make her happy, and that he could help her to become adjusted to a different sphere. With the unreason of the lover he imagined how they would live for each other, aloof from all the ordinary demands of every-day existence. He knew that she loved the few books that had been open to her in Zanah, and he dreamed of the days when he would guide her into a broader knowledge, when he would help her to acquire the sort of an education suited to her unusual mind. He was confident that her artistic nature would develop in a congenial atmosphere. It would be his pride to cultivate her glorious voice, and to teach her to understand the painter’s art, which Zanah held sinful. His thoughts travelled over the same circle again and again, but always he came back to the idea that he must act quickly if he would save her from bondage to the colony—if he would awaken her to the meaning of his love.

He was thankful for the opportunity her daily prayers at the tomb of Marta Bachmann gave him to meet her, but the next night after he had walked with her to the little cemetery he had seen her cross the bridge accompanied by no less a person than Mother Schneider herself. He had been compelled to pace restlessly back and forth among the trees, keeping out of sight lest his presence might be discovered.

On the third night he watched for Walda at the point where the road reached the shore of the lake. It was late, and he had almost given up hope of seeing her when she came slowly towards him. For an hour he had been reconnoitring the whole distance between the lake and the cemetery. And now, when he beheld her, he felt as if he must claim her by the right of his love for her. His better judgment, however, told him that he must be circumspect in his wooing. One impetuous word might put her on her guard. The touch of his hand had given her a prescience of danger, for, according to her belief, love was the greatest danger that could beset her path. When Walda saw him she appeared surprised at the chance encounter. It was evident she had no suspicion that he had deliberately waylaid her.

“It is good that I should meet thee here, Stephen,” she said, “for my heart is so full of joy I feel as if I must share my gladness with some one.”

“What has happened to make you so happy?” Everett asked. He saw that there was a radiance in her face, and that her eyes shone with an unusual brilliance.

“There hath been no outward experience different from those that come to me every day,” she said. “But, Stephen, my heart is lifted up exceedingly. I feel in me a new strength. My spirit dwelleth in dreams.”

“Dreams, Walda? What are your dreams like?”

“They are misty—formless. It is as if a light were just breaking over the darkness of my soul. I feel the whisperings of a divine knowledge; a marvellous power hath been given to me. Stephen, I know the inspiration is coming to me. All my doubts are vanishing. I feel very near to God.”

She was transfigured with the intensity of her emotions. In her exaltation of spirit she was so aloof from Everett that he stood dumb before her.

“Stephen, hast thou nothing to say? Dost thou not rejoice with me?”

“I am glad to know that you are happy, Walda; but being just a man of the world, I am selfish enough to feel unreconciled to your separation from me. Walda, I crave a little part of your thoughts. I want to share your joy. And now I behold you carried so far away from me that I cannot even comprehend the transformation which is taking place in you. Is it prayer that is raising your spirit above the earth?”

“It is not prayer alone that hath made me behold new glories, Stephen, for through all my years spent in Zanah I have prayed unceasingly. Thou hast helped to open mine eyes; thou hast been the messenger that hath turned my face to the light. Verily, it is written that the Lord doth choose mysterious ways by which to work his will.”

For a moment Everett felt he was, indeed, a hypocrite. He was not an egotist, but his hopes, which a moment before had been cast down by the girl’s extraordinary rapture, now rose, for he perceived that he had, indeed, gained an influence over her.

“I want to talk to you, Walda,” Everett said, after he had thought for a moment. “Come with me down to the shore of the lake, where there is a log that makes a comfortable seat.”

Walda hesitated.

“Nay, Stephen, I must hasten to Marta Bachmann’s grave.”

“Don’t you think that sometimes it may be better to talk with the living than to pray with the dead?” Everett asked. “I thought you were interested in my welfare. Don’t you know that a few words from you may change my whole life?”

“If I could lead thee towards heaven it would be my duty to speak with thee.”

“Well, you can lead me to heaven.”

Everett parted the low branches of the trees so that Walda could pass through, and as she stepped into the little path to the water’s edge one of her long, fair braids caught upon a twig. She turned her face backward as she felt the sharp pull, and Everett, thanking his stars for a lucky fate that appeared to be attending him on this particular evening, disengaged the shining hair. He pretended to be very clumsy, and his head was brought close to Walda’s. The slightest trace of embarrassment showed itself in the manner of the prophetess of Zanah as she smoothed the braid and adjusted her cap. She walked forward rather hastily, and Everett pointed out the log, at one end of which the limbs made a graceful back for the rustic seat.

“Let me help you over these stones,” said Everett, and, taking her hand, he led her to the log. He placed her comfortably, and, standing beside her, told her to look at the wavering shadows in the water.

“All is peace here, Stephen,” the girl said, looking up at him. “In Zanah there is rest for the weary spirit. Couldst thou not be contented here always?”

“If we could always be together as we are now, Walda, it seems to me I could never wish for anything more.”

He seated himself upon the log quite close to her, and, leaning with his elbow on his knee, studied every feature of her beautiful face. In his heart was a tumultuous longing to make her know that he loved her, but her presence overcame him with a feeling that she was too holy to be disturbed by the knowledge of his passion. Walda said, presently:

“It is strange that when I am with thee neither the past nor the future harasses me. I am satisfied with the present; it is as if thou didst encompass my soul with the fortress of thy strength. To-night all my fears about the future are gone. I am happy, Stephen—strangely happy.”

She leaned back against the gnarled limbs of the old tree, and turned her face towards the lake.

“Walda, has your religion never taught you that only in the union of a man’s soul and a woman’s soul can there be perfect knowledge of life?”

She thought a moment, and then answered:

“Nay, Stephen, there is naught in the Bible which teacheth that the prophets needed any but divine aid. In no place in the Bible were two souls united in receiving the inspiration of God. Yet it hath seemed to me that thou wert somehow joined to me in my inspiration. Instead of separating me from thee, the knowledge that is coming to me maketh me feel dependent upon thee.”

Stephen touched her hand, and she drew it away to hide it in the folds of her blue cotton gown.

“You don’t mind having me near you, do you, Walda?” he asked.

“Nay, Stephen; it hath seemed lately that I craved thy presence too much.”

Everett felt his pulses quicken.

“I know that thou hast been sent to me by divine dispensation,” she continued. “But since the spirit of prophecy hath begun to come to me, thou dost stir my heart. I know that I must withdraw from association with thee and with my people. To-night there cometh over me a vague alarm. I am happy near thee, and yet I fear this peace may vanish.”

“You cannot deny me the privilege of speaking to you in these few days before the _Untersuchung_,” Everett answered. He gently took the hand Walda had hidden in her gown, and, holding it in a firm clasp, said:

“I have a mind never to let you go from me, Walda. I need you all my life. I cannot look forward to the years out there in the world without you.”

“Dost thou mean, Stephen, that thou wouldst stay here in Zanah serving the Lord with the men of the colony? Stay for the good of thy soul?”

Everett pictured himself attired in colony garb and meekly accepting the orders of Adolph Schneider and Karl Weisel; but, holding Walda’s hand, the absurdity of such a position became every second less apparent to him. He felt that no sacrifice could be too great if it kept him near to the prophetess of Zanah.

“Do you want me to stay, Walda?” he asked.

“Yea, Stephen, even if I might not speak to thee, it would cheer me to look upon thy face. I have thought much of thy going away, and I have felt that Zanah will be dreary without thee. Sometimes I have feared lest I might be tempted to carry thine image in my heart. It is gratitude that maketh thee thus inhabit my thoughts.”

“It is not your gratitude that I want, Walda,” Stephen said. “No, you cannot take away your hand. I want to hold it while I talk to you. In these few weeks in Zanah I have come to know that you will be always the one woman who can command all my reverence, my respect, and my allegiance. You have taught me that I have lived too much for self; you have aroused in me an impulse to make more of my opportunities. You have become my good angel. I cannot go back to the world, and to a lazy, careless existence. I have forsaken my old idols, Walda.”

“Thou hast builded thee a new altar, Stephen. And now thou wilt not profane it.”

It was the prophetess, not the woman, who spoke. Walda had forgotten all the vague alarm. She was looking upon Stephen as a new disciple of Zanah whom she was glad to welcome into the fold.

“Yes, I have a new altar upon which I am willing to sacrifice all my old habits, my previous interests,” he confessed. “To it I bring the incense of love and service and loyalty. Before it I feel my own unworthiness. Walda, I am but an ordinary man, one who has been content to live for the day. Since I came to Zanah, my future years have a new meaning.”

“When a man turneth his footsteps towards heaven, then, indeed, the future is glorified. Henceforth thou wilt press onward towards the gates of heaven.”

“But, Walda, I may find the gates closed, after all. Don’t you know it is you who hold the key?”

“Nay, thou art almost blasphemous. I can only point the way.”

They sat there silent for a few minutes. The twilight was gathering. The shadows of evening closed out Zanah and all the earth. A soft wind rippled the lake, which broke in tiny waves at their feet.

“Walda, you who are so wise in the knowledge of things that pertain to heaven are ignorant of many of the fundamental principles of life here upon earth. Cannot you understand that at this very moment I am like a wayfarer standing at the gate of paradise?”

Involuntarily he tightened the clasp of his hand, and love, sleeping in the heart of the woman, was suddenly disturbed.

Walda drew her hand away, and, rising to her feet, looked at Everett with fear in her face.

“To-night thou dost speak in parables, Stephen,” she said. “To-night thou dost cause me to tremble before thee. Let me go to the grave of Marta Bachmann, where I can pray until my spirit is soothed.”

Everett stood before her as if he would block her path. He uncovered her head, and gazed at her with all the passionate longing of a strong nature. He would have put out his arms to draw her close to him, but her sweetness and innocence made him ashamed of the impulse. She was in his power, but he saw that her momentary fear had passed away, for, with her eyes raised to the stars that had appeared above the horizon, she was praying. The man’s mood changed instantly. He could have knelt before her to kiss the hem of her gown.

“Walda, I ask your forgiveness for showing to-night that I am almost unworthy of your trust in me,” he said. “Turn your face to me now, and tell me that you will go away thinking of me as one who would hold you so sacred that he would sacrifice his heart’s desire if in so doing he could assure you of the fulfilment of life’s best promises.”

Walda had folded her hands upon her breast. Having thus made the sign of Zanah, which was believed to ward off all earthly influences, she said:

“Verily, Stephen, thou hast put unrest in my heart, yet even now I feel an abiding faith in thee.”

“I shall try to be worthy of your faith, Walda.”

While they stood close together the curfew-bell sounded from the village belfry. It brought back to earth the man and woman who lingered thus just outside the walls of paradise.

“Good-night, Stephen. God be with thee.”

Walda had again become the prophetess of Zanah. She passed him in the narrow path from which he had stepped aside, and he let her go without a word. She walked a few paces only, her face still uplifted to the sky and her hands still folded across her breast. Then she paused to look backward at the man whose parables had in them a meaning which she had never found in the words of Holy Writ.

And being a woman, as well as a prophetess, she saw that Everett was good to look upon.

XV

It was a rainy day in Zanah. Early in the morning, when Everett looked out of the diamond-paned window of his bedroom, he saw that the trees and vines in the garden were dripping. The night-wind had beaten off many of the leaves, which had grown yellow in the long drought and the dying summer. The distant bluffs were hidden behind a curtain of mist. Two village “mothers” passed, their shawls drawn over their heads and their feet dragging slowly in their clumsy, wooden shoes. Everett dressed quickly, for his room was dark, and the silence of the village oppressed him. When he went out to his breakfast in the long, bare dining-room, Mother Werther served him in silence. He wondered at her unusual taciturnity, and he tried to start a cheerful conversation. She replied to him in monosyllables. The entrance of a boy whom he remembered seeing at the learning-school temporarily diverted Mother Werther from her unpleasant thoughts.

“This is my son Johann,” she said, pushing the lad forward.

The boy hung his head, and Everett inquired why Johann was never at home.

“It is not wise that he should be kept at the _gasthaus_,” Mother Werther explained, as she fixed a place for Johann at the distant end of the table.

“Does some unusual occurrence bring him here to-day?” Everett inquired, with a show of interest.

“It is the Day of Warning, and families hold communion before they go to the meeting-house,” Mother Werther explained. “It is the last Sabbath before the _Untersuchung_, and we make ready for the annual accounting of our faults and follies.”

The woman’s words brought uppermost in his mind the thought that had harassed him in the hours of the night. The time of Walda’s ordination as prophetess was very near. He rose from the table. He heard the rain falling upon the slate roof of the side porch upon which the dining-room opened. Lifting the heavy latch, he pushed the door slightly ajar. The downpour was steady.

“Does your prophetess take any special part in to-day’s ceremonies?” Everett asked, because he felt that he must contrive to see Walda.

“Nay, she will be present at the meeting, that is all,” said Mother Werther, bustling out into the back kitchen.

Everett sauntered into the office, which was occupied by Hans Peter. The simple one had placed upon the mantel-shelf above the fireplace half a dozen of his marked gourds, and he was studying them intently. He did not pay any attention to Everett, who stepped up beside him.

“Are you preparing for the Day of Warning and the _Untersuchung_, Hans Peter?” Everett asked.

The village fool shook his head.

“Thou forgettest that Hans Peter is one whom the Lord hath forgotten,” he said. “The Almighty taketh no account of the sayings and doings of the simple one.”

The simple one took into his hand a gourd which bore but one or two deep cuts dried into its hardened surface.

“This Hans Peter had in his pocket on the day that he carried the carpet-bag of the stranger,” he said.

“What do the marks stand for, Hans Peter? I hope they do not mean anything uncomplimentary.”

The simple one said that he did not understand, and Everett explained.

“This meaneth that the stranger in Zanah bringeth trouble,” the village fool answered.

Everett paced up and down the sanded floor for a few moments.

“You are not a prophet, Hans Peter,” he said, stopping to pull the village fool’s ear. “Have I done any harm in Zanah?”

“Thou hast sown some seeds of discord.”

“Cannot you forgive me for the Bible episode? You know I have done my best to make amends. You will not always blame me for your suffering in the stocks, I hope.”

The simple one put the gourd he had been examining into one of his deep pockets.

“Thou knowest the stocks were but the penalty of mine own deed,” he said. “There are other things that even a fool can see and hear. Thou hast a soft voice when thou speakest to the prophetess of Zanah. Thine eyes watch her always when she is near thee.”

Hans Peter folded his arms in imitation of Everett and stared at him with unblinking eyes.

“You are observant, Hans Peter. As I have often told you, every day I am more and more convinced you are the wisest man in Zanah.” Everett flicked the ashes from the cigar he was smoking and smiled down at the queer little figure. “What conclusions do you draw from your two discoveries?”

“It seemeth that thine actions are like Joseph Hoff’s, and the people of Zanah say that he hath earthly love in his heart.”

“If my memory serves me right, it was you who aided Joseph Hoff to send messages to the one he loves,” said Everett.

“She was not a prophetess,” the fool declared.

Hans Peter had selected a second gourd from the shelf, and had fled from the room before Everett could sound him on the subject of acting as errand-boy.

Still the rain poured down. Everett chafed under his enforced inactivity, for he felt that every hour meant much to him. Presently, because he had nothing better to do, he took down from its place beside Hans Peter’s gourds the old tinder-box, and lighted the wood that was piled in the fireplace. He lounged upon the settle and idly watched the flames creep along the logs. His thoughts flew out to Walda. He wondered what she was doing. He felt a disgust for the fanaticism of the colony, and he tried to think of some way of claiming the woman he loved. He was ready to carry her off without any ado, but he knew that as long as her father lived he could not persuade her to go away. Although he had not yet made her realize she loved him, he would not harbor the thought that he could lose her—and yet his suit appeared hopeless.

His reflections were disturbed by the voice of Mother Werther raised in indignant remonstrance. She was in the next room, and he heard her say:

“Diedrich, thou dost vex me much lately. And now thou dost tell me thou likest to gaze through the car-windows to behold the women of the world as they pass by Zanah.”

“They are comely,” the innkeeper answered, in his laconic fashion.