Part 13

“It would be foolish for me to offer thee solace for thine aching heart, for I know that thou, who art the prophetess of Zanah, no longer cravest human sympathy. Forgive me for forgetting that thou art no longer the colony maiden over whom I have felt a care all these years. Yet thy tears are no more sacred to me now than they were in thine earliest childhood, Walda. Thy griefs were always felt by me.” Gerson Brandt leaned forward as if he would read what was in Walda’s heart, and he paled with a formless fear.

“Thy tears distress me,” he said, presently, “and yet I know that it is but natural thou shouldst feel awe-stricken and oppressed with a weight of responsibility, now that thou art so near to thy consecration.”

“Speak not so. Thy words smite me,” exclaimed Walda, turning towards him and blushing scarlet as she met his eyes. “I am not worthy to be the prophetess. I—I—I am sorely troubled.” She put her face upon her arms and sobbed.

“To them whom the Lord maketh most strong He revealeth weakness,” the school-master replied.

“I shall need much strength,” said Walda, controlling herself with an effort.

“Yea, that is true,” agreed Gerson Brandt. “My prayers will help to support thee, for thou art always in my mind. Much have I rejoiced to know that thou hast escaped all danger from earthly love. Ah, now that thou hast safely passed thy period of probation nothing can befall thee.”

“Gerson Brandt, tell me what would have happened if I had found an earthly love?” asked Walda, turning to him with an intensity of interest that was but lightly disguised.

“Why wouldst thou waste time talking of such an unprofitable subject now at this holy season? It is a sacrilege to link the name of the prophetess of Zanah with an earthly love.”

The school-master was looking far away as he answered, and he did not see that his words caused the girl to clasp her hands tightly and to bite her full, red lips.

“Tell me, is human love such a wicked thing, after all? Thou didst once speak to me as if thou hadst known it, and thou canst tell me whether it hath in it something of the divine quality. If I had loved, wouldst thou have condemned me as severely as would those of the colonists who live like the cattle on the fields, feeling none of the mystery and the glory of life?”

“If thou hadst loved any man I should have sorrowed more than all the colony, for I have longed to see thee spared the pangs and pains that love brings.”

“Doth love never bring happiness?”

“The woman who loveth must suffer much,” declared Gerson Brandt.

“But women are glad to suffer for love.”

In Walda’s eyes shone the light of a new-born courage, and Gerson Brandt, catching some of the spirit that had taken possession of her, answered:

“Walda, it passeth understanding that thou shouldst speak thus of love now, when thou hast gone forever beyond the reach of temptation. Thy mood doth confound me.”

He went near to her, and, standing before her, studied her face.

“In thine eyes I behold a mystery,” he said, presently, with a tremor in his voice. “Thou hast lost the essence of childhood that lingered with thee until—was it yesterday or to-day that thou didst lose it?”

“The world hath been different to me since the sun set yesterday.” Walda spoke the words softly, and Gerson Brandt beheld in her face a radiance which made him ashamed of the vague suspicions that had sent a chill to his heart.

“Verily, the spirit of prophecy hath descended upon thee. Thou hast come into the full possession of the divine gift.” He drew away from her, and looked at her in awe.

“Nay, nay,” Walda faltered; “thou art deceived.”

Her gaze wandered past him as she spoke, and she saw, ascending the hill, six of the village mothers. Gerson Brandt, following her glance, said: “This is the day when thy vigil beginneth. The watchers are coming for thee.”

Walda’s face paled.

“I had forgotten that the time had come,” she exclaimed. “I am not ready for it. I am unworthy.”

“It is the hour of our last talk together,” Gerson Brandt announced, in a solemn tone. “Thy misgivings are only human.” He raised his hands above her bowed head and gave her his blessing. He could not trust himself to look at her again. Passing by her he entered the school-house, closing the door tightly behind him, lest he might be tempted to look back.

Walda submissively followed the women, who led the way to the little room that opened out of the bare auditorium of the meeting-house. It was here that she had spent many hours of study among the elders’ books, but its appearance was slightly changed. In one corner stood a cot covered with white blankets of the finest weave that came from the looms of Zanah. In the centre was a reading-desk, upon which a large Bible lay open. Six chairs were ranged along the wall just outside the door that led into the interior of the meeting-house.

“Thou wilt find nothing to distract thy thoughts here,” said Mother Kaufmann, glancing into the room.

“We will take good care that thou art not disturbed,” asserted Mother Schneider.

Walda gave no sign that she heard. Crossing the threshold she closed the door, shutting out the six women. She threw herself upon the bed, and gave way to a paroxysm of weeping. The realization that she had missed her opportunity to confess her love for Everett at first frightened her, for she knew it was now too late to speak before going to the _Untersuchung_. Zanah guarded a prophetess so carefully that when once the door of the sanctuary in which Marta Bachmann had fasted and prayed closed upon one supposed to be inspired, no word could be spoken. She lay awake far into the night. When the day had faded, a single candle had been put upon her reading-desk by Mother Kaufmann, who scanned her face with the inquisitive look of a mischief-maker. Walda, sitting with folded hands, had appeared oblivious of the woman’s presence. She had heard the evening prayers of the colony gathered in the meeting-house. She felt a dull pain when she recalled her father’s face. Underneath every emotion that she experienced in the dreary watches of the night she was always conscious of the memory of Everett’s voice as he pleaded for her love. At first she had a faint hope that he might speak to her through the window, or that, in some way, he would send her a token of encouragement, but nothing disturbed the oppressive quiet of the laggard hours.

Walda was wakened early in the morning, after a brief and troubled sleep, by the whispers of the women outside her door. She knew that the watch was being changed, and that soon she would be expected to be kneeling at her prayers. Rising from the cot she looked out of the one window—it overlooked the school-house garden, and she saw Gerson Brandt walking back and forth amid the tangled nasturtiums and late asters. As he moved to and fro he never once turned his eyes towards the meeting-house. With difficulty Walda repressed an impulse to call him to her. Through all her childhood and girlhood he had bent a ready ear when she told him her troubles, and now it seemed an easy matter to confide in him. While she was still at the window, Gerson Brandt went up the worn steps that led to the school-room.

A long, dull day followed for Walda. Her pride enabled her to preserve an outward calm when, on various pretexts, the women opened the door to look in upon her. She tried to think what she ought to do. So great is the power of love that it did not occur to her she might try to put out of her heart the sacred emotion she had mistaken for religious inspiration. She accepted it as the divine gift for which she had been waiting. Although she knew that it was likely her father would forbid her marriage to Everett, she told herself no one in Zanah could take away from her the glory of an earthly love. Towards the end of the day she fell again into the old habit of praying much. Kneeling at the reading-desk, with her head upon the big Bible, she asked that she might be given strength to do her duty to her father, and to submit to the will of Zanah.

For the second time the evening hymns were chanted outside the door. Walda listened quite calmly, and, long after she knew the meeting-house was emptied of all except the six watchers, she sat in the fading light of the evening looking out into the schoolyard, and thinking serenely of the life she was putting behind her. Presently her thoughts were disturbed by a man’s voice. With a heart-flutter she recognized Everett’s low, clear tones. She heard him command one of the women to open the door. Rising to her feet, she listened breathlessly to the protracted parley that followed. Without warning, a light knock sounded on the door.

“Let me in, Walda,” said Everett.

Before she could go to the door, he had lifted the latch and had entered, followed by the six women, all of whom spoke words of angry protest.

“So this is where they have hidden you, Walda?” he said, paying no attention to the colony mothers. “I have searched for you all day, for I have much that I wish to say to you.”

His manner was quiet and determined. “I wish to be left alone with Walda Kellar,” he said, turning to the watchers. “I have a message of much importance to give to her.”

“How darest thou break in upon the vigil of a prophetess of Zanah!” shrieked Mother Kaufmann. “Dost thou not know that the instrument of the Lord is not permitted to speak until the last hour of her probation hath expired?”

“Ja, ja, Mother Kaufmann is right. We will send for the elders if thou dost not leave here this minute,” chorused the women.

Everett coolly surveyed the group. Putting out his hand he grasped Walda’s arm, and quickly drew her into the meeting-house assembly-room. With a quick motion he slammed the door and turned the key, imprisoning the six women, who immediately began to call for help. Reopening the door for a little space he ordered them to keep silence, accompanying his admonition with the remark that if they summoned a crowd they would prove they were not fit to watch the prophetess. For the second time he turned the big key. Walda had watched the proceeding with astonishment. Her face was white and scared when he put his arms around her and drew her to him.

“There, do not be frightened,” he said, soothingly, as he kissed her on the forehead. “I have come to take you away.”

“Ah, Stephen; now, indeed, do I know that I was never fitted to be a prophetess,” said Walda, looking up into his face. “My heart hath thirsted for thee. With thine arms around me I feel as if I had found a safe refuge from all my troubles. When thou didst kiss me I forgot for a moment that I had been untrue to the people who trusted me.”

“I mean never to let you go away from me again,” he said. “But come; we are wasting time. Let us go now to your father and tell him that you are to belong to me, and not to Zanah.”

Walda drew away from him. “Nay, Stephen,” she said. “In the nights and day that I have been alone there in that room, it hath been made plain to me that I must tell all the people how I have betrayed their faith in me.”

“You owe the people nothing,” said Everett, with a trace of impatience in his voice. “Come; there is no time to be lost. I mean to take you away from Zanah this very night. Your father and Gerson Brandt can explain to the colony why you are not to be their prophetess.”

Walda shook her head. “Wouldst thou have me show a craven spirit?” she inquired. “Dost thou think I could go away to be happy with thee and forget my father, even if I could be unmindful of what I owe the men and women of Zanah?”

“Do you not think you owe me any duty?” Stephen asked. “Do not let us stand here discussing what is right and wrong. It is right that you should be my wife. You have been the victim of the bigotry and superstition of a clannish, religious sect. Love has made you free. Doesn’t your heart tell you to answer the call from my heart?” He stretched out his arms to her, but she stepped beyond his reach.

“Stephen, I have prayed constantly that wisdom might be given me, and my way hath been made plain before me,” she answered, firmly. “I must go before the _Untersuchung_, and, for my father’s sake, I must accept whatever penalty is meted out to me.”

“Do you mean that you would submit to any decree of the colony of Zanah? That signifies that you do not love me, after all. It means that you are lost to me forever.”

The strong man’s voice trembled as he spoke. A wave of passion and longing swept over him. He drew her to him and held her close, pillowing her head upon his breast, and whispering to her that she was his; it was not in her power to make the choice since love gave him the right to her.

“Thou dost affright me. There is something in thy love that terrifies me,” she said, trying to make him free her.

“I shall not let you go until you have promised that you will marry me,” he said.

“I cannot promise that, Stephen,” she said, so faintly that he scarcely heard her. “Thou knowest I cannot leave my father, and surely thou wouldst not be content to stay here in Zanah.”

“I could live here or anywhere else with you. Promise.”

“Nay, nay, I cannot,” she repeated.

“Will you pledge yourself to marry me when your conscience tells you that you are free?”

“It is in my heart to promise that to thee, Stephen, but during my vigil I have come to know that if thou shouldst live away from me out in the world thou mightst no longer love me. Nay, I will not bind thee. The only pledge I give thee is the pledge that I will love thee all my life.”

A furious knocking on the door made them remember the imprisoned watchers.

“If you refuse to go with me now what do you wish to do?” Stephen asked, coming back to the subject of his original errand.

“I want to wait until the _Untersuchung_, and I want thee to be patient until thou hearest what the elders say. I shall pray that I may be given to thee.”

“There is no danger of your repenting of love, is there, Walda?”

She smiled confidently and answered: “Thy love will dwell in my heart forever.”

He kissed her farewell, holding both her hands in his.

“I wish I could spare you the ordeal of the _Untersuchung_,” he exclaimed. “Why need we care for all the world?”

“Hush!” she said. “We care not for Zanah or the whole world, but if we would keep our love holy, we must be true, Stephen, to all our duties.”

After he had kissed her for the last time, she stood before the elders’ platform and looked up at the chair of the prophetess. Everett unlocked the door.

“I appreciate the opportunity you have given me of speaking to Walda Kellar,” he said, with a suavity and courtesy to which the women of the colony were so unaccustomed they did not know what it meant. They stood scowling at him until Mother Kaufmann replied:

“Thou wilt be ordered out of the colony for this day’s work.”

“If you are wise—and I am sure you are, or you would not have been chosen to attend the prophetess of Zanah—you will not make any complaints.” He bowed deferentially to all of them, and passing Walda, before whom he stopped to whisper “Farewell, until the _Untersuchung_,” he went out of the meeting-house.

“It must have been a message of much import that brought the stranger here,” sneered Mother Kaufmann, as she seated herself on the nearest chair.

“He hath small respect for the laws of Zanah,” declared a second watcher.

Without uttering a word, Walda returned to her place of temporary imprisonment. Kneeling before her reading-desk, she prayed that she might be given strength and courage to accept whatever penalty the elders might allot to her.

XVIII

The day of the _Untersuchung_ came at last. A brilliant sun shone upon Zanah. An early frost had turned the maples yellow and had touched the oaks with crimson. In the vineyards the last purple grapes hung in the shrivelled foliage. Along the winding road the golden-rod was blossoming in the tall, feathery grasses. A hush fell upon the quiet valley in the morning. The brown fields on lowland and hill-side were deserted. At the edge of the village the mill-wheels had ceased their busy whir.

Everett had walked out under the autumn sky nearly all night. In the days that had passed since his interview with Walda at the meeting-house all the villagers had avoided him. Even the school-master had passed him by with scarcely a nod of recognition. Time had dragged. Of all the people of Zanah, Hans Peter alone remained on friendly terms with him.

At dawn Everett arose from a brief sleep, and dressed himself with unusual care. The thought came to him that before sundown he might be robbed of Walda. All his strength left him. He dropped upon a chair near the window. Love had become life to him. Sitting with his elbows on his knees he looked out upon Zanah. Walda represented hope, worship, aspiration. The touch of her lips had awakened all that was good in him. He, who had rarely prayed, petitioned, in an agony of longing, that he might be given the woman of Zanah.

Some one knocked. Everett jumped to his feet to open the door. Hans Peter, freshly scoured with soap until his round face shone, stood in the hall, twirling a cap that had been recently mended.

“The elders have sent me to tell thee that thou art to remain away from the timber-land where the _Untersuchung_ is to be held,” announced the simple one.

“And why is my absence desirable?” Everett asked.

“Question not the village fool,” Hans Peter replied. “He knoweth not what the great men of Zanah think inside their wise heads.”

“What do you think inside your foolish head?” Everett laughed, as if he made light of the order.

Hans Peter looked down at a pair of copper-toed shoes, which were to him the insignia of an unusual occasion.

“It seemeth to the simple one of Zanah that it is wise for the stranger to be far away when the prophetess doth pledge herself to love only God and the angels.”

“I intend to go to the _Untersuchung_, Hans Peter, and I want you to find a good place from which I can look on during the hours when the people give their testimonies concerning the state of their souls.”

“Thou canst not sit among the colonists,” said Hans Peter. “The men and women of Zanah have turned against thee. They will not permit thee to mingle with them on the most solemn day of all the year.”

“Whether or not they permit me, I shall go to the _Untersuchung_,” Everett replied. “Would it not be safe for me to wait behind the line of poplars not far off from the platform upon which the elders will sit?”

“If thou shouldst go out there early, and stay where the wild hop-vine might hide thee, there is a chance no one would behold thee,” admitted the simple one.

“When does the prophetess go before the elders?” Everett inquired. “I know nothing of to-day’s arrangements, because here at the inn no one will give me any information. You are my only friend, Hans Peter. I expect you to tell me all you know.”

“Thou forgettest that the fool hath no memory.”

“Where are your gourds? Is there not one that will help me to find out when to hide among the poplars?”

Hans Peter twirled his cap.

“Thou wert merciful to me when I was in the stocks,” he said, slowly. “The fool’s memory hath still a knowledge of that day. The fool doth know that, last of all Zanah, Walda Kellar will appear before the elders.”

“That means I need not go to the _Untersuchung_ until this afternoon?” queried Everett.

“Yea, thou shouldst wait until late in the day.” Hans Peter turned as if to run away, but Everett caught him by the sleeve of his gingham shirt.

“Have you been to the meeting-house to-day?” Everett asked, looking at the simple one with such entreaty in his eyes that Hans Peter answered:

“Yea, I have but just come from the place where the prophetess of Zanah hath been keeping her vigil.”

“You went there on an errand, I suppose?”

“I carried orders from the elders.” At this point Hans Peter closed his mouth very tightly and stared stupidly. Everett saw that further questioning would be of no avail.

As soon as he had had breakfast Everett walked out to the timber-land where the _Untersuchung_ was to be held. The elders had chosen a strip of woods near the lake as a place for the ceremonies of the inquisition. The road leading to it was that over which Everett had walked with Walda the first day she visited the cemetery to pray at the grave of Marta Bachmann. About two hundred yards from the shore of the lake a large clearing had been made. A rude platform for the elders had been built between the lake shore and rough benches, which had been arranged in orderly rows beneath the intertwining trees. Everett saw that the line of poplars was beyond the place where the path led into the out-door chapel. Hidden there he could easily escape detection, and he would be near enough to hear most of what was said from the platform. He walked to the farther shore of the little lake, and lay down upon the ground to wait as patiently as he could for the laggard hours to pass. The quiet beauty of the day appealed to him, and, thinking of Walda, he was finally lulled to sleep. It was mid-day when he awoke. He sauntered back to the scene of the _Untersuchung_. He made a seat for himself at the foot of one of the poplars where the vines were thick. Through the screen of leaves he saw the people slowly gathering. The women occupied the benches nearest him.

By two o’clock all the colonists had assembled. The thirteen elders formed a solemn row, Adolph Schneider holding the middle place, with Wilhelm Kellar at one end of the platform and Gerson Brandt at the other. After a droning hymn and a tedious prayer, those who were candidates for preferment in the colony went before the elders. The men first were catechised by Adolph Schneider, who did not rise from his chair. Everett was astonished to see how few signified ambition for colony honors. When the women’s turn came the applicants greatly outnumbered the men. In both cases those who pleaded for advancement boasted of spiritual conflicts and victories. Their sing-song voices maddened the impatient lover. At last, when he had begun to fear that Walda would not be summoned until the next day, Everett noticed that the people, who had sat stolid and unmoved through the hours of dreary recitative, stirred with something like interest. Everett pulled himself to his feet, and, looking down the road, saw a sight that made his heart beat.

Two by two, a long line of girls approached slowly. All wore the blue gowns of the colony, but white caps and white kerchiefs were substituted for those of every-day use. Each carried in her hand a large hymnbook. When the procession turned into the path of the woodland chapel Everett caught sight of Walda, walking last of all. As they marched slowly onward, the girls chanted a hymn. Walda carried her head in the old, proud way, and her manner reassured the watcher who loved her. She was clothed in a trailing gown, fashioned of the white flannel from the colony mills. The clinging folds brought out the noble lines of her figure. The kerchief crossed upon her bosom was of some thin material of the same tint as the flannel. The cap, pushed back from her brow, revealed the waves of her fair hair, which was confined in two long braids. Her face was pale; her lips were firmly set; her eyes shone with the light of peace and courage. The little procession passed quite near Everett, but, although his heart called to her, and his eyes followed her, she appeared unconscious of his presence. He noticed that her hands hung at her sides, and he read a meaning in the fact that she no longer crossed them upon her breast in the old fashion, signifying that she would keep out the world and all its emotions.