Part 17

When the tall clock struck eleven, Everett entered the room. The solitary candle had burned out, and Walda was sitting in the darkness.

“Can you see to find your cloak?” he asked. “It is time for us to start.”

Walda caught up the wrap from its place on the sofa, and followed Everett out on the porch of the _gasthaus_. There was not a sign of life anywhere.

“The carriage will be waiting for us on the other side of the square beneath the old oak-tree,” said Everett. “Don’t you want to say good-bye to Piepmatz, or would you like to take him with you?”

“Nay, Stephen; Piepmatz is like the others that dwell in Zanah. He would not feel at home in the great world,” Walda answered, going to the cage where the chaffinch, with his head beneath his wing, slumbered in happy unconsciousness of the influence of love-songs.

On the bridge appeared a lantern. It came towards the inn, and when it was a few feet away the form of the bearer, Gerson Brandt, was discerned. By his side walked Hans Peter.

“I was afraid I should not have the chance to say good-bye to thee, Gerson Brandt,” Walda exclaimed, going down the steps to meet him. Everett drew the simple one away, with the excuse that they would go to see whether the carriage had come.

“Nay, at any cost, I meant to send thee out into the world with my blessing,” Gerson Brandt answered. He set down his lantern and put his hands behind him lest he should be tempted to touch her.

“It seemeth selfish of me to be so happy when thou art sad, Gerson Brandt.” Walda put her hand upon his arm, and they looked into each other’s faces with something of the old frankness in their glance.

“In this hour of parting it is good to know that thou leavest Zanah with a light heart.” Gerson Brandt spoke bravely, but his lips quivered. “Farewell, Walda. If I never behold thy face again, remember thine image is ever treasured in the memory of a man of Zanah. To him thou wilt never grow old. Here in my thoughts thou shalt dwell always in thy youth and beauty.”

He trusted himself to let one hand reach out above her head.

“Peace go with thee. The Lord bless and keep thee,” he said, softly, lifting his face to heaven, because he could no longer depend upon his human strength.

They stood silent for a moment.

Everett and Hans Peter returned to the inn to say that the carriage was waiting.

“Thou shalt have Piepmatz, if thou art willing to be burdened with the care of the chaffinch,” said Walda, speaking to the simple one.

“Nay, give him to both of us,” pleaded Gerson Brandt so earnestly that she bestowed the bird upon him and Hans Peter, with the injunction that they must not disagree over the partnership.

Everett put the scarlet cloak upon Walda’s shoulders and led her away. She went without waiting to say a last word to the man of Zanah, who had lifted his lantern and held it so that it might give her light. Gerson Brandt would have gone on ahead illuminating the way, but a sudden weakness overcame him when he saw that Walda had forgotten his presence in the excitement of her departure. He sank upon the well-curb, at the very place where Everett had first seen him and Walda speak to each other. He listened for the wheels of the carriage. He heard the horses start and then stop suddenly. Hans Peter had run out of the inn carrying on his shoulders the illuminated Bible which had become, by right of purchase, the property of the stranger.

Gerson Brandt quelled in his heart the rebellion he felt because to him was denied even the privilege of giving to Walda the Sacred Book into which he had wrought so many of his best thoughts and most precious hopes. He buried his head in his hands, waiting patiently until he should know that the woman he loved had gone forever beyond his reach.

The horses’ hoofs struck the soft road with a muffled sound. The wheels started a second time. Gerson Brandt closed his ears for a moment, and then, rising, listened for the last sound of the carriage. He was still standing in the deserted square when Hans Peter spoke to him.

“It is almost the beginning of a new hour,” the fool said.

Gerson Brandt examined his big, silver watch by the light of the lantern.

“Midnight!” he called, in a voice out of which all hope had gone. “Midnight!—”

“And all is well!” cried the simple one, taking up the words that Gerson Brandt had not power to speak.

Transcriber’s note:

1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.

2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.