Part 5

“See, the daughter of Zanah is touched by the temptations of the world,” said Mother Schneider. “We have heard enough. Begin thy work, Frieda Bergen.”

“If what I hear is true, the elders should discipline Frieda,” said Mother Kaufmann, with a sneer. “It hath come to my ears that she hath often spoken with Joseph Hoff.”

Frieda Bergen bent her head over her work. A telltale blush overspread her delicate skin, and her hand trembled as she took up her distaff.

“Frieda Bergen hath the right to love Joseph Hoff if she chooseth,” said Mother Werther, rising from her chair and walking the length of the room to the place where the girl sat. “Love may be a foolish thing in the eyes of Zanah, but it bringeth its reward.”

“Thou art teaching heresy, Sister Werther,” said Mother Schneider. “If the elders knew of thy heterodoxy thou wouldst have to do penance through some hard task.”

Mother Werther smiled in a tantalizing way. She drew in a long breath as she were about to retort, and then, thinking better of it, went back to her work.

“If Frieda is wise she will follow the example of some of us who have served God faithfully all unmindful of man,” said Mother Kaufmann. Her remark was too much for Mother Werther. Dropping her flax, the innkeeper’s wife put her hands upon her hips and laughed.

“And hast thou always been unmindful of Gerson Brandt?” she inquired.

“Mother, thou shouldst put an end to this unseemly talk,” said Gretchen Schneider.

“Yea, thou hast something to fear lest it be remembered how narrowly _thou_ hast escaped love,” said Mother Werther.

“Stop thine unruly tongue,” admonished Mother Schneider.

“Thou forgettest that in Zanah all men and women are equal,” said Mother Werther. “Thy husband, the Herr Doktor, is enjoying but a brief authority. Thou art not greater than any other woman in the colony.”

Mother Schneider gasped in anger, but before she could reply a shadow was cast upon the floor and Walda Kellar entered. Her sweet face wore an untroubled look. She smiled upon all the women gathered in the room.

“Something brought me here among you,” she said. “I have but just come from my father’s sick-room, and as I walked long, thinking of the coming _Untersuchung_, I felt that I wanted once more to spin with the women of Zanah.”

“Thou bringest peace with thee,” said Mother Werther.

Frieda Bergen rose from her little, low-backed chair, and Walda Kellar seated herself before the girl’s wheel.

Silence fell upon the room. The girl’s presence commanded reverence. In her eyes was a peculiar light, and her face was radiant. Slowly she began to turn her wheel.

“It is very good to be here,” she said, presently. “If the Lord giveth me the tongue of inspiration there will be other tasks for me, and now and then, when I am not quite so strong in the faith as I ought to be, I wonder whether I shall not sometimes be an unworthy instrument of the Lord, because the little things of life, it seemeth, will always have a charm for me. While the great, leather-bound books of Zanah have much to teach me, there are days when my inclinations draw me towards the labors which belong to the women of the colony.”

No one answered. For a few moments the wheels whirred again, and not a word disturbed the pleasant hum of industry. Presently Walda’s voice rose in a minor hymn. The deep, rich cadences swelled above the sound of the wheels. It was a weird, plaintive tune to which she sang German words which breathed a prayer for light upon the way that led through the sin-encompassed world. She paused after the first verse. Appearing to forget her work, she clasped her hands in her lap and sang again with such sweetness and such pathos that Mother Werther wiped her eyes. The singing had brought some one to the porch outside, but Walda appeared not to hear the footstep. She sang on and on, and when the last verse died upon her lips she sat very still, as if her soul had gone out with the strange melody.

Everett, who had come to the window, looking through the blinds, beheld the prophetess. For the moment the woman was lost, and he felt an overwhelming sense of her aloofness from him. There came to him a full realization of the gulf between him and this woman of Zanah, who belonged so little to the world and so much to heaven. For several minutes he stood fascinated as he gazed upon her, but, summoning all his will-power, he turned away lest he should be discovered spying upon the women of Zanah. As he walked towards the bluffs he met Hans Peter moving along in a leisurely manner. The witchery of Walda’s song was still upon him, and he would have passed the simple one without a greeting, but Hans Peter stepped directly in his path.

“Thou hast made trouble in Zanah,” said the simple one, staring at him with unblinking eyes and doubling up one fat fist. “The day that thou goest hence to the wicked world where thou belongest will be a happy one.”

“You speak with but scant respect for the stranger within your gates,” said Everett, who was amused by the vehemence of the village fool.

Hans Peter removed his ragged cap. “Thou hast brought sorrow to Gerson Brandt,” he continued, “for thou wouldst have taken the Bible that he was making beautiful for Walda Kellar.”

Everett studied the odd little figure before him for a moment. It was the first time that Hans Peter had betrayed, in manner or countenance, the least trace of emotion. Even now, as the simple one stood blinking his eyes, the man of the world could not comprehend his motive in making the unexpected accusation.

“You seem almost excited, Hans Peter,” said Everett, presently, when the boy had begun to show that the silence was uncomfortable. “And why are you concerned about the Bible?”

“The school-master setteth great store on the Sacred Book,” replied the simple one. “He hath been kind to me, and I like not to see him troubled.”

“And is not every one kind to you, Hans Peter?”

The simple one thrust his hand into his deep pocket and hung his head.

“The people of Zanah are many times vexed with the fool,” he said. “They have scant patience with one who believes not as they do. In all the colony there are only three who seem to forget that Hans Peter is the village fool.”

“And who are they? Gerson Brandt is one, I know. Who are the others?”

“The prophetess of Zanah and Mother Werther.”

“And do you not believe in the prophetess of Zanah? Have you not faith that she will be the inspired one?”

“Why do you question the village fool?” asked Hans Peter, suddenly, wary lest he should tell something that he wished to conceal. “Thou knowest that to all the colony Walda Kellar is the revered one. Truly, she walketh near to God.”

“Then perhaps some day she will lead you into the full faith of Zanah?” said Everett. But the fool shook his head.

“Hans Peter loveth earth, not heaven. He would not be wise as the men of Zanah are wise, for verily their wisdom bringeth them no joy.”

“Hans Peter, you speak as one who has much knowledge, after all. I am beginning to think that you are the wisest man in the colony.”

“If there is wisdom in knowing one is a fool and being content in his own folly, then am I wise. They say that the fool is often given the power of prophecy; and when I was carving the day of the month upon one of the gourds I keep to help my memory, there came to me the fear that something was coming to Zanah through thee. I ran to seek thee that I might give warning of the trouble thou art bringing to the colony.”

Everett reached into the pocket of his coat, took out a cigar, and lighted it. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me in just what way I am to bring more trouble to Zanah,” he said, with a smile. “I had nothing to do with the loss of the Bible, for I have refused to buy it, and I give you my word now, Hans Peter, that I will never take it away from Gerson Brandt.”

“Thy word is not needed now,” answered the fool. “The Bible is where thou canst not get it.”

“And you know where it is,” said Everett, so quickly that the fool was taken off his guard.

“And if I do, no one shall find it,” the simple one declared, with a gesture of his arm and a stamp of his bare foot.

“Don’t you think it would be wise for you to take back the Bible to Gerson Brandt?” Everett inquired, walking a few steps to his right, where there was a great tree against which he leaned.

“If the Bible could be found it would not again be put in Gerson Brandt’s hands. It is better that it should be lost forever than that he should see it owned by another man.”

“Why is this Bible so precious to the school-master? Can’t you tell me, Hans Peter? Perhaps I may help you to restore it to him. You see, I might buy it and give it back to Gerson Brandt.”

“No man in Zanah can own anything. If the Bible should be given to Gerson Brandt it would still belong to the colony, and it could be sold again.” The simple one had thrown himself upon the ground, and, with chin in his hands and elbows dug deeply in the earth, he appeared to be thinking.

“Tell me about the Bible,” urged Everett, and he waited as impatiently for the village fool to speak as if some matter of tremendous importance to him, the man of affairs out in the great world, hung in the balance. There was something almost absurd in the contrast between the two who talked there in the summer afternoon. Stephen Everett was a man to be noticed anywhere. It was not altogether his physical beauty that invariably commanded attention; he had an unusual charm of personality.

Hans Peter, with his long, straight tow hair tangled upon his big, round head, kicked his earth-stained feet in the air as he lay at length upon the ground. His blue cotton shirt, torn down the back, revealed a strip of white skin, and his baggy trousers were held by the one button which attached them to a knitted suspender. The pocket in the back of his trousers bulged with one of the gourds that he carried with him wherever he went.

“I am waiting for you to tell me about the Bible,” Everett remarked, when he had smoked half of his cigar.

Hans Peter reached back and removed the gourd from his pocket. Then, sitting up, he began to examine it carefully.

“It was long ago that it came to Hans Peter one day, as he watched Gerson Brandt at work with his bright inks, that the school-master’s thoughts were on Walda Kellar as he made the gay letters in the great book. Lest the fool might forget, he marked on his gourd some lines to make him remember. Many times after that he saw that the school-master was praying for her who would be inspired. Hans Peter knew that the Bible was for Walda Kellar, and that the school-master meant it for her to read every day when she should become an instrument of the Lord. That is why Gerson Brandt loved the Bible. That is why no other man should have it.”

Everett left his place at the tree, and, pacing back and forth, pondered for a few moments upon the information that the simple one had given him.

“Ah, the school-master is a second father to Walda Kellar, I suppose?” he said, presently, casting a furtive glance at the fool.

“Nay, he hath not years enough to make it right he should love her as a father,” declared Hans Peter, nodding his head. “The simple one hath been taught that love is a wicked thing, but there is in Gerson Brandt’s heart something that may be love, like that with which he worships angels.”

“Again I tell you, Hans Peter, you are the wisest of all the colonists in Zanah,” said Everett. “There, go about your errands.”

“But thou wilt promise not to buy the Bible, even if it is ever found?” said Hans Peter, coming close to Everett and lowering his voice.

“Yes, yes; you have my word for it. I shall not buy it unless it is to aid Gerson Brandt,” Everett replied. “And, Hans Peter, give me your hand. I pledge my word.”

The fool hesitatingly put out his fat, work-hardened hand, and Everett gave it a hearty clasp.

IX

Wilhelm Kellar lay propped up in the four-posted bedstead that stood in his little alcove. His thin face showed the effect of his illness, and the hand that played with the flowered coverlet was thin to the point of translucency. His long, white hair was brushed straight back from his high forehead; his eyes, which had sunk deep into their sockets, wandered restlessly.

“Walda, where art thou?” he said, in a thick, indistinct voice. Walda pushed back the chintz curtains that divided the alcove from the larger room, and, kneeling beside her father, took one of his hands in hers.

“I have been thinking of the _Untersuchung_, daughter,” said the sick man, “and I pray that I may be able to be present when the spirit descends upon thee.”

“Thou wilt be well in another month,” said Walda, soothingly, as she stroked the white hair. “The physician hath said that thou canst soon leave thy bed.”

“But the _Untersuchung_ is only two weeks off,” said Wilhelm Kellar. “It may be that if strength is not vouchsafed me so that I may walk again a litter can be made for me. I would be carried to the place if I cannot go there myself.”

“There is some talk that the _Untersuchung_ may be delayed for a month,” said Walda, “and then thou wilt surely be able to take thy place among the elders.”

“It would be well, indeed, to postpone the _Untersuchung_, for thou hast been much distracted from thy meditations by my illness.”

“Nay, nay, father. Strange thoughts have come to me since I have been sitting here many hours a day in this room. Never hath heaven seemed so near to me.”

“It is well, indeed, that thou hast never been touched by earthly love,” said the old man, scanning the face of his daughter. “It was to keep thee free from it that I brought thee here when thou wast a little child, for it putteth waywardness and frowardness into the heart of a woman. Since I have been near to death it hath been shown to me that I must warn thee again lest thou some time feel its evil influence. Thy mother forgot all duty. She forfeited her soul for love.”

The old man spoke with intense feeling; he trembled as a long-controlled emotion swept over him. It was as if he had unlocked the flood-gates of a passion barred for many years within his heart.

“What dost thou mean, father?” asked Walda, rising to her feet. A deathly pallor overspread her face, but the habit of repression, taught so persistently in Zanah, prevented her from showing the terror with which his words smote her.

“I mean,” said Wilhelm Kellar, drawing a quick breath—“I mean—” But suddenly his tongue stiffened and refused to frame the words he would have spoken.

“Thou wilt make thyself more ill,” said Walda. “Think not of the past.” Taking a pewter cup of water from the table, she moistened his lips. The old man clinched his fists and closed his eyes. He lay as if he were dead. The frightened girl ran to the door of the room to summon help. Stephen Everett was coming up the stairs.

“Oh, hasten to my father!” Walda implored. “I fear greatly for him.”

Everett went to the bedside, felt the old man’s pulse, listened to his heart, and discovered that his patient had, indeed, some serious symptoms.

“Has anything happened to disturb your father?” he asked, turning to Walda, who stood with hands clasped around one of the head-posts of the bed while she watched him with breathless interest.

“He began to talk to me of the past,” said the girl, with hesitation, and Everett saw tears in her eyes.

“And he recalled some memory that troubled him?” asked Everett.

“Yea, yea; he would have told me something of my mother,” said the girl, as she turned to go into the outer room.

Everett administered a soothing-potion, and went out of the alcove to find that Walda was sitting by the old carven table with her head bowed upon her hands.

“Do not be alarmed,” he said, “your father will recover from this temporary relapse.” His voice and manner were so sympathetic that the girl began to weep.

“Be blind to my weakness, O stranger in Zanah,” she said, presently lifting her head proudly and biting her trembling lips. “My faith teacheth me that nothing which belongeth to earth is worth a tear. The people of Zanah are trained to accept the decrees of God. For an hour I have been thinking of self. Strength will be given me to put these rebellious impulses from me.” She went to the window, where the chaffinch was hanging in his wicker cage.

“Piepmatz, thou hast no foolish tears; thou canst teach me a lesson that I need; thou art undisturbed by any distrust in thy nature.” Piepmatz, thrusting his head forward, looked out between the bars of his little prison. Then he chirped a cheery note. Everett went close to the cage and whistled to the bird, which paid no attention to him.

“If I can be of service to you, you must command me,” he said to Walda Kellar. “You must not think of me as the stranger in Zanah. Have I not earned the right to be called a friend?” He did not look at her as he spoke lest she might be awakened to the fact that he took more than a passing interest in her.

“We use not the word friend in Zanah,” said Walda. “Here we are all brothers and sisters. And what dost thou mean by being a friend?”

Out in the world Everett had the reputation of being ever ready with words, but when the future prophetess of Zanah looked up at him with questioning eyes he was abashed.

“I mean,” he began—“I mean that I want you to feel you can trust me even more than if I were a brother of Zanah,” he replied, rather lamely.

Walda looked puzzled.

“There is none whom I could trust more than the men of Zanah,” she said. “I have been taught by Adolph Schneider and the elders that there is no such thing as friendship between men and women. The Bible telleth that David and Jonathan were friends, but truly I cannot remember that there were men and women in Holy Writ who called each other by that word thou wouldst have me give to thee in my thoughts.”

Everett now sought in vain for an argument that he would dare make bold to use. Suddenly he regretted that he had neglected to study the Bible since his Sunday-school days had ended. He tried to think of all the Scripture stories he knew, dimly hoping that somewhere he could recall one that would be a fit illustration. He felt a disgust with himself when he discovered how lamentably ignorant he was. If he could only have commanded a text that would be convincing, he felt that he might be able to win something more than an impersonal gratitude from the future prophetess of Zanah, who had almost ignored him during the fortnight that had passed since he had been serving her father for her sake.

“Out in the world there are many friendships between men and women,” he declared.

“Then, indeed, must they be sinful,” said Walda, “for I have heard that there be few who serve the Lord with singleness of purpose out there beyond the bluffs.”

“Do not condemn the world too severely. Surely you do not think that I am such a wicked man?” His effort to draw attention to himself failed, however, for Walda was gazing out upon the bluffs as if she had forgotten him in thinking of the great world that Zanah barred out.

“Still thou hast not told me the true meaning of a friend,” she said, presently, and again Everett became aware that somehow he had lost the gift of speech.

“Perhaps I cannot find words to make the meaning of friendship plain,” he said, finally, “but I will try to teach you what the word implies.”

“Nay, Stephen Everett, it is not right that thou shouldst teach me anything, since thou art of the world, to which thou wilt soon return.”

“The world will never be the same to me after I leave Zanah,” said Everett.

“Hast thine eyes been opened to its wickedness?”

“No. Since I came to the colony I have thought little of the world, but my eyes have been opened to some things to which they were blind before—things that do not belong to the every-day world.”

Again he was afraid to let himself look at Walda, and he appeared to be addressing Piepmatz. Walda did not reply to him. She was thinking again of the life beyond the bluffs.

“Often have I tried to imagine what life must be outside of Zanah,” Walda remarked, by-and-by, after a long silence. “Now and then stray memories come back to me, for thou knowest I was born in the world, and that I was a little child who brought to the colony recollections of another existence. It is these memories that compel me oftentimes to pray that I may be spared temptation which should never assail a woman of Zanah.”

“Surely no temptation could come to you,” said Everett.

“Thou knowest little of a woman’s heart. The seeds of vanity are here,” she said, folding her hands upon her breast. “I find pleasure in the flowers and the pretty things that God hath made.”

“It seems to me a sin for the colonists to deny its members the highest joys that have been given to men and women,” said Everett. “I have often wondered whether you had any idea of all that you miss here in Zanah.”

“I miss nothing that is best for my well-being,” said Walda. “Thou wouldst not plant discontent in my heart, wouldst thou, Stephen Everett?”

“I would have you enjoy all that is most to be desired in life,” said Everett; and as he spoke he felt for the hundredth time an overwhelming impatience with the creed of the colony which denied to the young and beautiful all that made living worth while.

Walda went to the chest of drawers, and, taking her knitting from a little basket, sank upon a low chair, from which she could get a glimpse of her sleeping father. Everett felt that she had dismissed him. He took up his hat and said:

“You told me I might call you Walda, so I shall say, Good-night, Walda.”

“Good-night,” said the girl.

Everett hesitated.

“Will you not say, ‘Good-night, Stephen’?” he asked.

Walda stopped knitting.

“Why wouldst thou have me say thy name again?” she inquired.

For the twentieth time Everett was embarrassed.

“Because it is the custom of friends to speak one another’s names,” he explained.

“But we are not friends,” said Walda.

“At least you will repay me for my long stay here in the colony by speaking my name now and then,” he insisted, hypocritically.

There was the barest shadow of a smile on the lips of the future prophetess of Zanah. “Good-night, Stephen,” she said; and because he could find no excuse for lingering longer in the quaint room under the eaves, he went away.

X

Wilhelm Kellar’s health mended slowly. Some days he felt strong enough to be lifted out upon the chintz-covered lounge in the large room, but every attempt to hasten convalescence appeared futile, and after a morning spent out of bed he always felt a reaction. On one of his best days he lay on the lounge, which had been pushed into the bay-window. Above his head hung Piepmatz. When Everett came to make the first call of the day, the bird was trilling his one bar of the doxology, with long breaks now and then between the notes. Walda was trimming a plant that stood on the table near which sat Gerson Brandt. The school-master watched the future prophetess intently, and at first he did not notice Everett’s entrance.

“My patient must be better,” said Everett, passing to the window, and Walda, turning from the table, answered:

“We are happy, indeed, to-day. My father hath already begun to think about his work in the colony.”

“You must not be too ambitious,” said Everett, drawing a stool to the foot of the lounge and placing himself where he could study the old man’s face.

“I have declared a half-holiday that I may celebrate the return of health to Brother Kellar,” said Gerson Brandt, smiling upon his old friend, who lay, weak and prostrated, among the pillows. At this point Piepmatz abandoned the doxology and burst into a flood of song.

“Hush, thou saucy bird,” Walda commanded. She went to the cage and playfully shook her finger at the chaffinch. “See, he knoweth there is reason to be glad,” she declared. “Verily he hath much wisdom.”