Part 15

“Thou wilt see that no harm befalleth Stephen Everett?” she said. Unconscious of the tumult in the school-master’s heart, and indifferent to his touch, she thought only of the stranger in Zanah. The mob moved forward, and Gerson Brandt gently put Walda away from him.

“Let Walda Kellar follow the bier of her father,” he commanded.

Again the women hissed their fallen prophetess.

Raising her hands to heaven, Walda uttered the words:

“Lord, have mercy upon us, thy people in Zanah. Forgive us our transgressions.”

The colonists’ jeers were silenced. As Walda passed down the aisle, the majesty of her carriage and the exaltation that was written on her face cast a fear upon the people. One woman who had but a moment before uttered bitter gibes kissed the hem of the white garment of the fallen prophetess.

Hans Peter, who had been watching the proceedings from the limb of a tree, slid from his high seat and walked a few feet behind Walda.

A hush fell upon the multitude. Standing with uncovered head, Gerson Brandt waited until the bier disappeared among the trees and the last glimpse of Walda’s white-robed figure was obscured.

The distant bell of the meeting-house tolled. The sunset hour of prayer had come. Beneath the sky, dyed in crimson and purple, the people of Zanah bowed their heads.

XIX

For three days after the _Untersuchung_ Zanah was in mourning. The body of Wilhelm Kellar lay in the meeting-house, and there the colonists spent many hours in prayer and fasting. Gerson Brandt shut himself in the upper room where Wilhelm Kellar had been so long ill and where Piepmatz still hung in the big wicker cage. The school-master sat for hours looking towards the bluffs which shut out the busy world. He thought constantly of Walda. He had given her a pledge that he would make reparation for his part in the _Untersuchung_, but his heart rebelled against his task. He coveted Walda with all the strength of a nature in which the best human impulses had been thwarted. He knew that he must give up the woman he loved to the stranger in Zanah, but his soul cried out against the fate that took her from him. He looked back upon the years in Zanah, and he knew that she had become all of life to him. At first he was dead to the sense of his own unfaithfulness to the colony. Gradually he realized that his had been the part of the unconscious traitor. He felt relieved when he looked forward to his release from the irksome duties of a leader of Zanah.

A sense of terrible loneliness took possession of him whenever he thought of the death of his friend, but his grief became more poignant with the thought that Wilhelm Kellar’s death made Walda’s departure from the colony possible. There was no reason why she should not go out into the world as Everett’s wife. Night after night he battled with himself to the end that he might be strong enough to help the woman he loved to the attainment of happiness. He gained many partial victories over himself, but at first he could not summon the courage to go to see Walda in the House of the Women where she was kept under surveillance. The day after the _Untersuchung_ he compelled himself to ask that Everett be released, but he found that the cupidity of Adolph Schneider had been aroused by the possibility of exacting a fine from the stranger, who was locked in his room at the inn. It was a rule of the colony that a member who brought money into the community should, in case of departure from Zanah, receive just what he had contributed. Wilhelm Kellar’s share was not small, and the danger of Walda’s marriage, and consequent demand for her portion of her father’s property, was one that the elders desired to avert.

“Thou canst persuade Walda Kellar that the curse of God will descend upon her if she leaveth Zanah,” Karl Weisel said to Gerson Brandt, at the close of a long conference of the elders. “She is suffering from remorse, and thou canst sway her woman’s heart.”

“I refuse to have aught to do with inclining Walda’s will to the will of Zanah,” said the school-master, in a tone so decisive that the matter was dropped.

It was two days after Wilhelm Kellar’s death that Gerson Brandt, who had gone to look once more upon the still face of his friend, encountered Walda. The girl was kneeling alone beside the bier.

“See how peaceful he looketh,” she said, in a voice that was shaken with sobs. “It is a comfort to remember that his last words told me and all the people that he had forgiven my failure to fulfil his hopes.”

“He hath attained greater wisdom. He knoweth that thou wast led by a stronger power than thine own will,” the school-master answered.

“As thou art my friend, point out the path of duty to me,” Walda implored, rising to her feet. “I have prayed constantly, and it seemeth that it is right I should stay here in Zanah serving the people, and proving to them that while love must ever be in my heart, I can still follow in the paths of righteousness.”

Gerson Brandt was silent. He stood looking at her as if he would have her image graven on his mind for all his coming years. The tempter spoke to him. One word of counsel, given as from her father’s friend, and he could keep her safe in Zanah.

“Art thou strong enough to let Stephen Everett go back into the world without thee?” he questioned.

“I have prayed for fortitude. I have found courage to think of living on here without him,” she replied. “I have seen myself an old woman of Zanah who goes her way dreaming still of the love of her youth.”

“Thou knowest that I would watch o’er thee,” said the school-master.

“Yea; but thy brotherly compassion hath not the sustaining power of love.”

“Thou knowest not what sustaining power brotherly compassion may reveal.”

Gerson Brandt’s voice betrayed suppressed emotion, and, looking up, Walda saw that his face had become suddenly old and drawn.

“I have pained thee by my seeming ingratitude for all thy kindnesses,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. The school-master’s face flushed, for her touch made his heart throb.

The tempter’s voice spoke insistently.

“Shall I send Stephen Everett away?” Walda asked, after a brief pause. “Direct me aright. Help me to do what my father would have me do.”

Gerson Brandt did not answer.

“The people of Zanah accused me of murdering my father,” Walda said, after a long silence. “All the night after the _Untersuchung_ I was filled with terror, but now I know that I could not have spared him the sorrow. I was, indeed, but the instrument of fate. I had to tell the truth as it was made clear to me. Oh, tell me that thou dost not deem me guilty of my father’s death.”

She was weeping again, and Gerson Brandt was stirred to compassion.

“Cease thy lamentation,” he said, gently. “I have thought much about thee ever since thou didst make thy confession of love. I have come to know that thou must follow the dictates of thy heart. It is right that thou shouldst go out into the world as Stephen Everett’s wife. There thou wilt find pain and suffering, but all will be glorified by thy love.”

The tempter was vanquished. The school-master had listened to him for the last time.

“Nay, speak to me as my father would speak.”

“As thy father’s friend, and as one who holds thee in the deep recesses of his heart, I tell thee to go forth from Zanah with the man thou lovest.”

“And do I owe no duty to the colony? Is it not right that I should strive to make amends for my unfaithfulness to the trust reposed in me? Tell me the whole truth. Spare me not, for I would do the Lord’s will.”

“The colony hath forfeited all claim upon thee, for the men and women did shamelessly flout thee. Thy father hath recompensed the people of Zanah a hundredfold for whatever may have been done for thee.”

Walda gazed at the face of her dead father. Its calmness gave her assurance of his forgiveness. Then the realization of her loss impressed itself on her. She wept again. Stroking his stiffened hands, she prayed that he might know she had not meant to disregard his teachings or to bring him to dishonor.

Distressed at the sight of her remorse, Gerson Brandt urged her to leave the meeting-house, and when she gave no heed to him he led her away, holding her hand as was his custom in the years of her childhood. Two colony mothers were waiting on the steps.

“Remember my counsel,” said the school-master. “There is but one path for thee.”

Walda walked slowly towards the House of the Women, and left him standing on the threshold of the meeting-house. A mist came before Gerson Brandt’s eyes, and as it cleared away he saw Hans Peter running up the hill.

“The stranger, who is still bound at the inn, would speak with thee,” said the simple one, when he had reached the meeting-house steps.

“What doth he want?” said the school-master.

“He hath not talked with the village fool,” answered Hans Peter, “but even the simple one might guess that he wants thee to have him set free.”

Gerson Brandt thought for a moment. Walda’s presence still exerted its influence over him. He had not the courage to see the man she loved.

“Tell Stephen Everett that I cannot go to him until after Wilhelm Kellar’s funeral,” said the school-master, “and you may give him the message that he may trust me to work for his deliverance.”

“He hath made threats that he will not be patient much longer,” Hans Peter volunteered. “He hath told the Herr Doktor that it will cost Zanah much if he is imprisoned another day.”

“According to the laws of the United States he hath right on his side,” declared Gerson Brandt.

“He hath offered to pay much money if they will let him take Walda Kellar away, and every hour that he remaineth with his hands behind him he is more wasteful of his dollars.”

“Stand not here gossiping, Hans Peter. Hasten back with my reply to the stranger’s message,” admonished the school-master, to whom the words of the simple one had suggested an easy method of obtaining permission for Walda to leave Zanah. If the elders were seeking to profit financially from the loss of money as a compensation for the loss of their prophetess, they would be likely to consent to let Walda leave the colony on one condition—the forfeit of her property rights.

In his room at the inn Everett received Hans Peter with much impatience, and, after he had heard Gerson Brandt’s message, gave expression to his views on Zanah’s methods of dealing with strangers.

“So I am to remain bound until to-morrow,” he said. “Since Diedrich Werther consented to tie my hands less tightly I am not so uncomfortable. But I want you to summon the Herr Doktor immediately.”

Adolph Schneider was slow in making his appearance, and Everett, who had fretted under the delay, was not in his usual self-contained mood.

“I sent for you to tell you that I am tired of this outrageous treatment,” he said, as soon as the Herr Doktor’s burly form appeared at the door. “You must come to an understanding with me to-night, or I will show you that Zanah cannot ignore all the laws of the United States. I will have you and all the leaders arrested for falsely imprisoning me. I will cause an investigation of the affairs of the colony.”

Adolph Schneider’s fat face was deeply lined and his thick skin was a pallid yellow. He showed plainly that he was worried with the numerous troubles that had come upon the colony. He sat upon the nearest chair, and, letting his head sink into his neckcloth, studied Everett furtively.

“What do you intend to do with me?” the prisoner asked, after his first outburst had remained unanswered.

“After the funeral to-morrow thou art to have a trial, and then the people of Zanah will fix thy penalty.”

“Penalty? Penalty for what? I have broken no law. I have done nothing for which you can deprive me of my liberty.”

“Thou art not the judge of that,” declared the Herr Doktor. “Thou hast acknowledged that thou hast wronged the people of Zanah, for hast thou not offered to pay a fine?”

“I have offered to buy my freedom, because I cannot expect to obtain justice here among you bigots,” returned Everett. “I warn you that if you do not take this rope off my arms, I shall see that you do not get a penny from me, and that you pay for this week’s work.”

“So long as Walda Kellar is guarded it will be safe to let thee have thy freedom, but we take no chances now.”

“Walda Kellar is my promised wife, and I demand her liberty as well as my own.”

“Walda Kellar belongeth to Zanah, and thou canst not assert any claim to her,” Adolph Schneider retorted, angrily.

“You will see what I can do,” Everett said. “But I do not want to try coercion. Give your consent to our marriage, and I will make Zanah a gift of money to signify my gratitude.”

The Herr Doktor’s little eyes glittered.

“How much?” he asked.

“We will not discuss terms until I am freed from these ropes,” said Everett. “My imprisonment would be much easier to bear if you would let me have my hands free, so that I can smoke.”

Adolph Schneider surveyed the stranger in Zanah with a look of suspicion.

“Zanah would not be doing the will of God if Walda Kellar was not punished for causing her father’s death,” he remarked.

“How dare you accuse her!”

The prisoner strained his bonds, as if he would use his hands to some purpose in defending the woman he loved.

“Her confession broke her father’s heart,” said the Herr Doktor.

“The cruelty of you zealots of Zanah made Wilhelm Kellar die,” declared the prisoner. “I warn you to be careful how you blame an innocent girl, who simply told the truth at your _Untersuchung_.”

Everett’s face was so stern in its expression that the wily colonist thought it wise not to pursue the subject.

“When thou art ready to make an offer of money, the elders will weigh it against Walda Kellar’s transgression,” he said. “If it is found better for the colony that she be cast out with thee, consent to the marriage may be given.” He thought for a moment, with his chin in his neckcloth. Shaking his head, he added: “There is still a chance that Walda Kellar may receive the true inspiration. She may yet lead the people. It is but small hope that I can give thee.”

He turned to go out.

“Stop! How about these ropes? Have them taken off,” Everett said, in a tone that was menacing. “I shall be here to my trial. Don’t think I would miss that. I shall stay in Zanah until I can leave the colony with Walda Kellar.”

Adolph Schneider paid no attention to Everett’s demand. Instead, he stalked through the door, his cane pounding in unison with every other step.

XX

It was noontime when the colonists gathered in the meeting-house to attend the funeral of Wilhelm Kellar. The bier, placed before the platform of the elders, was covered with flowers—the late garden blossoms of autumn. White dahlias and asters, intwined in wreaths, almost concealed the lid of the coffin. The women, who wore gowns of black calico, gathered solemnly on their side of the big, bare room. The men stood in groups until the elders had taken their places on the platform where the vacant chair of Wilhelm Kellar was draped in black. This occupied the position formerly given to the chair of the prophetess, which was pushed back and turned so that it faced the wall.

The bell tolled the age of the dead elder. When its fiftieth stroke had died away Walda was brought in from the room where she had held her vigil before the _Untersuchung_. Mother Werther and Mother Kaufmann accompanied her. Her appearance caused a hush to fall upon the assembly, and some of the women covered their eyes, for it was seen that over her black gown was thrown the scarlet cloak, which betokened that her soul was clothed in the garment of sin. It was the same cloak that Marta Bachmann had worn during the time of her probation, and some of the softer-hearted of the colony “mothers” prayed that the fallen prophetess might follow in Marta Bachmann’s footsteps until she reached the height of final repentance. The maidens of Zanah gazed on Walda with fascinated eyes. A few were bold enough to hope that she might be able to leave Zanah with the stranger whose worldly ways and physical beauty had charmed even those who had never spoken to him. At the head of the coffin a stool had been provided for Walda, and she sank upon it as if overcome with sudden weakness. For a moment she bowed her black-capped head in prayer, and then, looking unflinchingly into the faces of the colonists, waited with courage for the service to begin. She was very pale, and once she threw off the cloak, as if it smothered her. In a second she remembered its significance, and drew it about her shoulders.

From his seat at one end of the platform Gerson Brandt, with pitying eyes, looked upon Walda. His thin face had a pinched look, and from his eyes had faded the last smouldering fires of youth and hope. He sat with hands tensely clasped, except when, now and then, he pressed his thin fingers to his temples, from which the long hair, touched with gray, fell back to his shoulders.

Karl Weisel read a long chapter from the Bible, and then a meek elder offered a prayer. Adolph Schneider next told the people of their dead brother’s services to the colony. His thick, droning voice, monotonous in its cadences, did not hold Walda’s attention, until presently she knew he was speaking of her and accusing her of unfaithfulness to Zanah. She listened with downcast eyes, her lithe body quivering with emotion, but she was too proud to show the pain she suffered. She choked back the tears and prayed for strength.

At last the funeral address was finished. The bier was carried out into the golden sunshine. Walda rose as if to follow it, but one of the elders detained her.

“Is it meet that one who wears the scarlet cloak should walk first behind the bier?” he asked.

Gerson Brandt answered by going to Walda’s side, pulling her arm through his, and waving the people aside.

“He hath touched Walda Kellar’s hand, and he is no kin to her!” cried Mother Kaufmann; but the school-master walked on as if he had not heard her. Tenderly he supported Walda’s faltering footsteps. The procession formed behind them, the men and women walking on opposite sides of the village street, while Gerson Brandt and Walda kept in the middle of the grass-grown road, directly behind Wilhelm Kellar’s coffin.

“Gerson Brandt, thou art, indeed, a friend in mine hour of trouble,” Walda said, when they had reached the strip of woods and the bier had been put down in order that its bearers might rest.

“Until death thou wilt be ever safe in my heart,” the school-master answered, solemnly.

“Pray that I may have fortitude when I see the earth cover my father’s body,” she whispered, as the procession started again, and he pressed her arm to give her the assurance of his aid.

The school-master could have prayed that the walk to the graveyard might last forever. He knew that, in all the coming years which might belong to him on earth, he might never again touch her or be close to her. He trembled in the excess of his joy. He felt a great strength taking possession of him. They came to the lake, and he looked out upon it as it lay undisturbed by wave or ripple. Around the water’s hem the yellowing willows dipped into the placid pool. The sumach flamed among the oak-trees.

“When thou art gone from me out into the world I shall pray that thy soul shall be untroubled as is this lake to-day,” he murmured, softly.

“Ah! To-day I feel that I must remain here in Zanah to make atonement for my betrayal of the people’s trust,” she answered.

The tempter had spoken to him for the last time, and so he made haste to say:

“Thy love leads the way of thy duty. Harbor no longer the thought of sacrificing thyself to no purpose.”

They reached the high gate of the graveyard. The bier was carried to the rise of ground where Marta Bachmann’s burial-place had been selected many years before. A grave had been hollowed out near that of the prophetess of revered memory. The colonists gathered around it. Walda and the school-master stood on one side and the elders on the other while the coffin was lowered. The simple one, who had not been seen at the meeting-house or in the procession, looked on from a place of vantage on the gravestone of Marta Bachmann.

Adolph Schneider announced that there would be a reading of the Scriptures. An awkward pause followed. It was discovered that the Bible had been forgotten. The elders held a conference, while the villagers waited stolidly.

“Hans Peter shall be sent back for the Holy Book,” announced the Herr Doktor, motioning to the simple one.

Hans Peter advanced with slow steps.

“There is a Bible here,” he said.

“Bring it quickly, then,” ordered the elder.

“It can be brought only after an understanding,” answered the simple one. “Gerson Brandt’s lost Bible is hidden here. It belongeth now to the stranger in Zanah. If it is the will of him who made it gay with colors that it be given to the stranger I will bring the Bible forth.”

“Would the fool make terms with the elders of Zanah? Bring forth the Bible,” commanded the Herr Doktor.

Hans Peter did not stir.

“Dost thou defy me?” asked Adolph Schneider.

The simple one made no sign that he heard.

“Speak,” urged Gerson Brandt. “Stephen Everett shall have the Bible.”

“When the promise is given that the elders will let me deliver it to the owner I will find it,” said Hans Peter.

The promise was given, after a brief consultation of the elders. Hans Peter went back to Marta Bachmann’s gravestone, and from beneath it pulled out a stout wooden box. This he opened with some difficulty, and from it produced the Bible, which was wrapped in oil-cloth. Gerson Brandt’s heart gave a throb of joy when he saw it.

“Bring it here to me,” he commanded, and the simple one, almost staggering under its weight, obeyed the wish of the school-master.

The people whispered among themselves, and the elders looked sullenly at the volume about which there had been so many conjectures.

“I will read from the Scriptures,” announced Gerson Brandt, motioning to the village fool to help him hold the heavy book. He turned to the fourteenth chapter of St. John, and, scanning a page more beautiful in its illumination than all the rest, he began to read the message of peace. After he had finished he closed the Sacred Book. One of the elders prayed, and while the people’s heads were bowed Hans Peter stole away with the Bible.

Diedrich Werther began to shovel the earth into the grave. Walda, with a sudden feeling of horror, clutched Gerson Brandt’s arm, upon which she buried her face. The school-master forgot the people of Zanah. He leaned over her, whispering words of comfort and strength. Half fearfully he touched her on the shoulder, and bade her remember that the Lord worketh in wondrous ways. He told her that the Father in heaven had planned for her deliverance from Zanah.

The people had begun to leave the graveyard before Walda was calm. Two of the colony “mothers” waited for her, and she bade the school-master return to Zanah, leaving her alone with the women.

Gerson Brandt hesitated, loath to walk away from the place that had become to him one of the outer courts of heaven.

“I would pray here for a time,” Walda said, “and thou shalt be remembered in my petitions.”

He looked at her, not trusting himself to speak.

He led her close to the new-made grave and left her there. Not until he had closed the graveyard gate behind him did he dare to look back. Gazing with straining eyes he beheld the prophetess as she lay face downward on the ground, with the scarlet cloak still wrapped around her. From a place a little distant the colony women watched her.

XXI