Part 3

Everett felt that the question would be parried, and he hesitated to ask it; but his impulse to speak of the girl who occupied his thoughts gained the mastery. Gerson Brandt’s face reddened.

“There is peace and faith in the heart of her whom the Lord hath chosen to be his instrument,” said the school-master, and, rising, he turned as if to leave the presence of the stranger. He paused and added:

“I came here to talk with thee of Brother Wilhelm Kellar. He is the closest to me of all Zanah, and I would ask thee to tell me the truth concerning him. Hath the Lord called him, or will he be spared to go on with his work in the colony?”

“If no great shock and no unusual strain of work is put on him he may live many years,” said Everett. “He appears to have much vitality, and I expect to see him able to resume his duties within a month.”

“The _Untersuchung_ is but a month off,” said Gerson Brandt, “and it will be a sore trial to him if he is not able to see his daughter anointed prophetess of Zanah.”

Gerson Brandt did not listen to Everett’s reply; he rose and stood upon the steps of the inn with his face turned towards the meeting-house. Down the street came Mother Werther and Walda. The wife of the host of the inn walked with the girl’s hand clasped in hers, and, entering the square, she drew Walda to the place where the school-master stood.

After the manner of the men of Zanah, Gerson Brandt made no sign until Walda had spoken to him.

“Thou wert missed at prayers, Gerson Brandt,” she said, “and because I asked thee to do a service for me. Thou hast talked about my father to the stranger?”

The school-master nodded his head.

“It hath been shown to me that I was selfish in begging thee to stay in Zanah,” Walda said, addressing Everett. “Thou wilt forgive a girl who hath not yet subdued her soul?”

In her presence Everett felt abashed. He saw in her a mysterious mingling of the child, the woman, and the prophetess. As she waited for him to answer her, he had a chance to notice the noble outlines of her face and the perfect poise of her lithe body.

“Do not concern yourself about me,” he said. “I assure you I am glad to stay in Zanah.” As he spoke the rare beauty of the girl again cast a spell over him, and he meant what he said. Mother Werther put her arm about Walda’s waist and would have drawn her inside the door of the inn had not Everett stopped them.

“One moment,” he said. “There is a condition that I should like to make. Your father needs faithful nursing—the watchfulness that only love can give him. If you will take care of him I shall feel that I have the right help and that I shall not have cause to regret that I remained in Zanah.”

“That is a matter thou shouldst put before the Herr Doktor,” said Mother Werther. “Brother Schneider is coming now; speak to him.”

“Is it not customary for members of families here in the colony to nurse one another?” Everett asked the school-master.

“Not unless they are especially appointed to the task,” answered Gerson Brandt.

Adolph Schneider had reached the inn. He greeted Everett with a show of cordiality, and, taking possession of the big arm-chair, lighted his pipe. He began to talk of Wilhelm Kellar’s illness, and to lament the loss of the elder’s aid in carrying on the business of the colony. Then Everett found his chance to request Walda’s attendance at the bedside of her father.

“The _Untersuchung_ is at hand,” said the Herr Doktor, “and it is the time for prayer and meditation. Thou knowest that we believe she will be made the instrument of the Lord, and therefore she should live much alone until the hour when she shall speak with a new tongue.”

Adolph Schneider looked at Everett suspiciously. The man of the world showed that he could outwit the man of Zanah. With an assumption of indifference Everett replied:

“Of course it makes little difference to me. I shall do the best I can to help Wilhelm Kellar back to health, but if you send his daughter to nurse him he is likely to recover twice as rapidly as he would otherwise.”

He resumed his promenade on the porch. As he walked back and forth the president of the colony saw that he was a man of magnificent physique, erect and athletic. With some misgiving he noticed that the stranger had more than the ordinary share of physical beauty, and that he had the indefinable air which belongs to those accustomed to command the best the world has to give.

“It is important that Wilhelm Kellar should be well as soon as it is God’s will to restore him,” said Adolph Schneider. “His sickness is a stroke of Providence we may not question. Still, it behooveth us to aid in his speedy recovery. Walda Kellar shall be sent to nurse her father.”

Everett put his hands behind him and turned his back as if he had not heard. When the Herr Doktor repeated his decision the man of the world said, in a quiet tone:

“Very well. I shall expect to see the new nurse in the sick-room to-morrow.”

V

When Everett went to see his patient the next morning he had a new interest in the case. Mother Kaufmann met him at the door and took him into the queer room under the eaves where, in his little alcove, lay Wilhelm Kellar. The room was exquisitely neat. The little, hinged window at the foot of the sick man’s bed was open, and it let in the fragrance wafted from the garden.

Everett looked around for Walda, but she was not in the room. He was too wise to make any inquiry for her. He went to the bedside, and while Mother Kaufmann leaned upon the foot-board he felt the pulse of the sick man. Wilhelm Kellar cast a questioning look at the physician.

“You are better,” Everett said, in German. “You will be out in a week or two if nothing unforeseen happens.”

He stepped out of the alcove to prepare his medicines in the larger apartment. “Are you the nurse?” he inquired of the woman.

“The Herr Doktor told me to help Walda Kellar, who will come after her hour of prayer,” Mother Kaufmann replied.

Everett left a few directions, and said he would call again. He returned at sundown. The school-master was out on the little porch poring over a yellow-paged book. He let Everett pass him without salutation. The younger man hastened up the narrow stairs. The sick-room appeared quite changed when he entered it. Flowers were arranged in a great blue bowl on the table. In a clumsy-looking cage that hung by the window a chaffinch fluttered back and forth. Plants bloomed in the bow-window at which sat Walda Kellar. The girl’s long, slender hands were busy with her knitting. The folds of her blue gown swept the sanded floor. The kerchief folded on her breast was not whiter than her neck. One of her braids fell over her bosom. She did not hear Everett, as she was looking out upon the western bluffs even while her hands kept the needles flying. He stepped into the room. Walda rose and, putting her finger on her lips, said:

“My father sleepeth.” In rising she dropped her ball of yarn. Everett picked it up, and, slowly winding it, advanced until he was very close to her. As he put the ball in her hand their fingers touched, but the prophetess of Zanah appeared unconscious of the contact. Motioning him to a chair she again took her place at the window. There was a long silence, during which her knitting-needles flashed back and forth. The girl showed no embarrassment; indeed, she seemed to have forgotten him. In Zanah small talk was unknown. Walda Kellar, who was to be inspired of the Lord, had been taught to speak only when she had something to say.

Everett suddenly found himself dumb. He sat opposite Walda, and was as uneasy as a school-boy who has not the courage to bestow the red apple in his pocket upon his pretty neighbor across the aisle. As the minutes went by he began to feel her presence restful. She sat immovable except for her untiring hands. Once or twice she raised her calm eyes and caught the stranger’s gaze resting on her. She appeared not to notice it, and continued her knitting. At last the silence became unendurable, and Everett said:

“It will be a great help to me to have you here to nurse your father.” The girl looked up and did not answer.

“Much depends upon you,” he continued. “It is only with your aid that I can do my best.”

Walda Kellar again raised her eyes. Then, in her soft, deep voice, she said:

“The Lord hath sent thee to Zanah. Thou shalt have all my help. Thou hast already won my gratitude.”

Again a silence fell. Everett leaned back in the splint-bottomed chair and resolved to make the most of his opportunities of being alone with the prophetess. Upon his perch the chaffinch looked out through the bars at the quiet room.

Outside the crimson sky was turning to purple, the fields had become a tender brown, and the bluffs made a dark line to the west. Everett, who gazed at the distant hills, compared the surging world to which he belonged with the peaceful colony of Zanah, the dwelling-place of Walda Kellar. The contrast between his own life and that of the strange girl impressed itself upon him. Now and then he brought his glance back from the far bluffs to look at the fair woman who was oblivious of his presence.

The chaffinch chirped his drowsy notes, and Walda Kellar, looking up at the bird, said:

“What disturbeth thee, Piepmatz?”

The bird turned his restless head back and forth, and Everett imagined that the chaffinch might object to his presence.

“Is that your bird?” he asked, relieved at even the paltriest excuse for again starting a conversation.

Walda stopped her knitting and, smiling, said:

“Piepmatz is my _liebchen_; he hath a voice as clear as that of a lark. He can whistle tunes; he knows a bar of the doxology.”

Everett went to the cage and whistled softly. The bird chirped his silvery note, and, thus encouraged, the man whistled the strain of a love-song. The bird imitated three notes.

“That is a noble hymn thou art whistling,” said Walda Kellar. “I have heard that there is wonderful music out there in the world, and that they play on strange instruments.”

“And have you never heard an organ or a violin?” asked Everett.

Walda Kellar shook her head.

“And is even the piano barred out of Zanah?”

“Zanah permits no musical instrument. Gerson Brandt keepeth yet a flute that he brought with him from the world, but it is always silent here.”

“Perhaps you will let me sing you the tune you seemed to like?” said Everett. “Some day when I am not afraid of disturbing your father you shall hear it all.”

Wilhelm Kellar stirred in his bed; Walda was at his side in a moment. Everett followed her. Wilhelm Kellar would have spoken, but his tongue still refused to do his bidding. While he was looking up at his daughter and the physician, Mother Kaufmann bustled in.

“How comes it that thou art here alone with the stranger?” she asked, casting an ugly look upon Walda.

“I am here to serve my father,” said the girl, with a sweet dignity. “Dost thou not know that the Herr Doktor hath assigned me here?”

“He is foolish,” snapped Mother Kaufmann.

“What art thou saying, woman?” asked the school-master, who had just passed through the doorway. “Walda is in her father’s care and in my care. It is not thy concern to ask questions.”

The woman scowled and drew her thin lips tightly over her hideous teeth.

“And thou art a second father to Walda, I suppose?” she sneered.

“Yea, and more,” said the school-master.

“Gerson Brandt hath spoken the truth. He is more than father to me in that he is my teacher and my safe counsellor,” said Walda, stepping back towards him.

The school-master’s pale face flushed.

“Thou art always my sacred charge for whom I pray,” said Gerson Brandt, in a soft voice. “For thee and for thy happiness I would do all things in my power.” There was that in his face which told the man of the world all emotion had not died in the heart beating beneath the queer coat of the school-master.

“Ah, and I pray for thee every night when I ask a blessing for my father,” spoke Walda. “I entreat wisdom and strength for thee.”

Gerson Brandt looked into her eyes and a sudden light illumined his face.

“Thou needest much of divine aid for thy work with little children,” the girl added.

“Yea, yea,” the school-master said, as he turned away.

“Yea, yea, didst thou say?” repeated the shrill voice of Mother Kaufmann. “Just remember that thy conversation should be yea, yea and nay, nay.”

Ignoring the elder woman, Everett gave a few directions to Walda. Then he passed out into the darkening evening.

VI

There was labor for all in Zanah. Early in the morning the villagers took their hasty breakfasts in the kitchens and then went out to work in the mills and fields. The children over six years of age were gathered into the school-houses, the boys being accorded more privileges in the way of learning than the girls, who were not permitted to enjoy the instructions of Gerson Brandt. The future “mothers” of the colony were kept many hours in a rambling building, where they were taught all the domestic arts, with but now and then a lesson from the books borrowed from the school-master. In the very centre of the village stood the _kinderhaus_, where the babes of the colony were tended during the working-hours of their mothers. A wide porch surrounded the _kinderhaus_ on four sides, and a tangled garden of bloom divided it from the street. In a vine-covered arbor, set among the flowers, Walda Kellar was accustomed to spend her hours of meditation during her last month before the _Untersuchung_. It was not long before Everett discovered this fact; and when Mother Kaufmann relieved the girl in the sick-room he often made excuse to speak to her as she went through the little wicket gate. Outside the sick-room, however, she was always the prophetess of Zanah, aloof in manner and difficult to reach by word.

One day as he wandered down the street, after having assured himself that Walda was poring over a book in the little arbor, he happened to meet Adolph Schneider. Since the day when the stranger had shown a willingness to pay a generous price for any book he might wish to buy from the colony, the Herr Doktor had treated him with a perceptible deference. Adolph Schneider stopped now, and, leaning on his cane, said:

“If thou hast a mind to buy that Bible shown thee by Gerson Brandt, the people of Zanah are willing to sell it to thee. Many times have I meant to speak to thee concerning the barter, but thou knowest that the sickness of Wilhelm Kellar hath interfered with all the business of the colony.”

Everett waited half a moment before he replied. He read in the face of the Herr Doktor craftiness and greed, and he knew he must use tact if he would spare Gerson Brandt the pang of parting with his precious book.

“The Bible is not what I want,” he said. “Some smaller book will do as well for me.”

Adolph Schneider was too shrewd to be easily put off.

“We have found that there is no writing for sale in Zanah. Of all our books there is none that we can part with except the Bible. Zanah is loath to part with that, but the colony hath need of money.”

Again Everett said that he did not wish to make the purchase.

Adolph Schneider was not to be balked. “I will send to the school-master for the book,” he said, “and thou shalt examine it at thy leisure. I will have it taken to the inn.”

Everett walked away towards one of the large vineyards, which was situated on a sunny slope of a hill just beyond the village. Here men and women were silently picking the early grapes. Elders and village mothers kept strict watch of the younger members of the colony. No one appeared to take any notice of the stranger, and he went over to a place where a pile of stones offered him a seat. It was a glorious summer day with a premature promise of the autumn in its golden haziness. Along the edges of the fences stalks of golden-rod here and there stood out among the tall grasses. The fields stretched away in patches of brown and green and yellow. He felt sure that there was no more tranquil spot in all the earth. As the quiet colonists worked among the vines, Everett asked himself if they were really reconciled to the barrenness of their lives. The world, with its delights, its pains, its passions, was barred out, but he wondered whether the men and women found it possible to close their hearts to all human emotion. With heads bowed low the women kept their faithful hands busy, each doing the work allotted to her. Apparently the chagrins of coquetry, the pangs of aspiration, the restlessness of unfulfilled ambition did not touch them; yet, now and then, he caught the girls casting sly glances at the youths who labored near them.

When the afternoon had advanced until the long shadows began to fall upon the fields, Mother Werther appeared, carrying two steaming tin pails fastened to a bar that she balanced deftly. Her appearance was the signal for every one to stop work. She put the pails down in an open space, and, smiling kindly on men and maids alike, said:

“Every man and woman here will be glad of a cup of coffee, I am sure, and this to-day is stronger than any I have boiled for many a week. It is from the Herr Doktor’s own bag.”

There was a merry twinkle in her eye, and Everett was sure he saw her wink at one of the village “mothers” who leaned against a near post that supported a well-stripped vine.

“Didst thou steal from Brother Schneider’s store?” inquired a fat old man who was leisurely sorting the great bunches of grapes. “Fie, fie, Sister Werther! I thought thou couldst be trusted, even though thou art still in the lowest grade of Zanah’s colonists.”

Several of the older women laughed, and Mother Werther made haste to reply:

“It was right that I should take the coffee, since my stock was gone. Surely it should not be better than that we all drink, for here in Zanah no one is entitled to more than another.”

One or two of the men sneered perceptibly.

“Hasten to serve us,” urged an impatient girl.

“There are no cups,” said Joseph Hoff, who had drawn near to where Frieda Bergen stood.

“Ach! Where is that boy Hans Peter?” asked Mother Werther. “He was to follow in my very footsteps.” She looked back across the field, and in the distance the form of the simple one appeared. On his head Hans Peter carried an immense basket. He walked slowly in his usual listless way, and appeared unmindful of the numerous urgent calls to him. When he finally reached Mother Werther he put the basket, which was heaped high with tin cups, down upon the ground, and stood staring vacantly ahead of him.

“Thou art tardy, foolish one,” said a man who scowled down upon the boy and took the topmost cup, which he dipped into one of the buckets of coffee. Hans Peter made no reply.

“Where is Gerson Brandt?” asked the overseer, who had been too closely engaged in examining some of the vines to pay attention to anything that was going on around him. “I need his advice, and he and all his troop of boys should have been here a quarter-hour ago.”

“The Herr Doktor hath kept him in the school-house. They are speaking together,” explained the village fool.

“Go tell him that the work cannot go on until he comes,” said the overseer.

Hans Peter turned and went back with lagging steps. The vineyard workers paid little attention to him, however, for they were all intent upon helping themselves to Mother Werther’s clear coffee. Joseph Hoff dipped a cup into one of the buckets. Calling to Everett, he said:

“Wilt thou not join the men of Zanah in drinking good luck to the wine-presses?”

Everett rose from his seat to take the proffered cup. He saw that Joseph Hoff managed to pass by where Frieda Bergen sat upon the ground. They spoke a word to each other, but no one noticed them. Under the cheering influence of the coffee, more talking was permitted than the stranger in Zanah had heard at any other time since he came to the colony. Now and then the elder men and women exchanged a word. The young girls laughed in low tones, and there was even something like playfulness among the youths, some of whom wrestled, and some of whom cuffed one another in rough play.

“The quarter-hour is past,” said the overseer, and all the cups were thrown upon the ground in a pile, while men and women, youths and maidens, turned again to their work. Everett had half a mind to ask for a knife with which to cut the great clusters of heavy fruit from the vines. He felt that he would know how to do it quite as expertly as the men whom he watched; but while he was hesitating about taking upon himself anything that was like real work his attention was attracted by the appearance of Hans Peter, accompanied by the school-master, who was followed by his pupils. As the school-master came near, Everett saw that he had a troubled look.

“What hath detained thee, Brother Brandt?” inquired the overseer, who was superintending the loading of the grapes upon heavy wagons.

“I had mislaid a book,” the school-master said, simply. “I spent half an hour searching for it.”

“Thou wert ever absent in thy mind,” said Mother Werther, with a laugh. “Thou wilt find it in some odd place where it ought not to be.”

“I was sure I put it safely in my chest of drawers,” said the school-master. “I recall the very day on which I laid it in the topmost place.”

“Now recall the day thou didst take it from the drawer,” said the overseer.

“Nay, I know it hath lain there undisturbed by my hand,” said Gerson Brandt.

“Was it a book of much worth?” inquired Mother Werther.

“Yea, one most precious to me—the Bible that I have been illuminating these many months.”

“The Bible that the stranger coveted?” inquired the overseer, pointing towards Everett, who stood by, listening to the conversation.

The school-master nodded.

It was not five minutes before every one working in the vineyard knew that Gerson Brandt had lost his Bible, and there were some, Everett noticed, among both men and women, who muttered to one another as if they accused the school-master of some sinister design concerning the book the colony claimed. Everett walked up and down among the rows of vines, until he noticed that Adolph Schneider had come to the place where Gerson Brandt had busied himself. He could see that the Herr Doktor spoke emphatically and waved his cane, and that the school-master replied with quiet dignity.

“The Bible that thou wouldst buy hath disappeared in a strange manner,” said Adolph Schneider, addressing Everett. “It will be found in the space of a day or two, for we have no thieves in Zanah. The overseer and I both believe Brother Brandt hath forgotten where he put it, and that he will find it when he maketh a more thorough search.”

There was something like insinuation in his tone, and Gerson Brandt’s face flushed.

“The book hath been taken from my room,” he said. “It is where I cannot find it.”

“Thou speakest as if thou wert brother to the simple one,” said Herr Schneider.

“I speak the truth,” said Gerson Brandt.

“Yea, he telleth the truth,” declared Hans Peter, pulling himself up on his knees and looking at the Herr Doktor.

“The truth! What dost thou know about it—thou of little mind and less judgment?” said Adolph Schneider.

“I may know much, and I may know little,” said Hans Peter, swaying himself back and forth on his knees.

“Surely thou hast not taken my Bible?” said the school-master, with a look of mingled hope and fear on his face.

“Nay, I have not said that I took it,” replied the fool.

“Yet thou hast knowledge of it, Hans Peter?” asked Gerson Brandt, his eyes scanning the dull face of the simple one.

“It is said I have knowledge of naught,” said Hans Peter, who rose to his feet and, folding his arms across his ragged, blue blouse, confronted the school-master and the Herr Doktor with fearless eyes.

“Why bandy words with a fool?” said the overseer. “There is much to be done.”