After giving his promise to stay in Zanah, Everett found that the day
dragged. Having finished questioning the fool, he went to the inn, where
he ate his noonday dinner in silence. Then he wandered among the lanes
and winding roads until it was time for the evening meal, at which two
taciturn women waited on him. He made an effort to talk to the women,
but they pretended not to understand his German, and insisted upon
offering him hot biscuits and honey. He found that he had no appetite,
and soon left the table. As he passed through the big room which served
as an office, he noticed that Diedrich Werther was not in his usual seat
beside a little, round table where at all hours the innkeeper was to be
seen smoking his pipe and drinking huge cupfuls of black coffee. Hans
Peter occupied his favorite nook on the settle near the fireplace.
Everett went out on the porch, where he took possession of his host’s
arm-chair. Naturally his thoughts wandered to Walda. The girl was a
mystery to him. Although he was slow to acknowledge it, he knew that she
aroused in him an insistent interest. He who cared little for women
suddenly found his attention fixed upon a girl who belonged to a class
different from any other with which he had ever come in contact. He
usually classified all women he met. He found that they were easily
divided into comparatively few types. Here was one whose education and
whose traditions isolated her. He hoped she would pass by the inn.
Impatiently he looked at his watch; the hour for evening prayer was slow
in coming. He had risen with the intention of strolling about the
square, when he heard the meeting-house bell ring. In a moment the long
street again became alive. As the men and women went by on opposite
sides, many of them glanced at him. Even the demure, quiet girls allowed
their eyes to rest upon him for half a second. One, however, was
unconscious of his presence. Frieda Bergen, the village maid who had
taken the letter from the tree-trunk at the mill, looked across the
grass-grown road to a youth who kept his eyes upon her until the blood
mounted to her cheeks and her glance was cast upon the ground.
The school-master walked with his head bowed, as if he were deep in
thought, and behind him followed the boys, who forgot to romp and play.
He stopped on the rustic bridge. When all the villagers had passed,
Walda Kellar came. Her hands were crossed upon her breast, and instead
of keeping her eyes upon the ground she had them fixed on the clouds,
where the crimson light was turning to purple and gray. On either side
of her walked women whom Everett had never seen before. One of them was
stout, and had passed her first youth. As Walda walked by Gerson Brandt
on the bridge, the school-master and his charges doffed their caps to
her. Everett could see that Walda smiled on the man of Zanah, and that
she spoke to him. The school-master waited in reverent attitude until
the future prophetess disappeared within the church porch. Then he
motioned to his pupils to go on, while he turned back towards the inn.
With lagging step he came into the village square.
“Hast thou half an hour to spend with one who would speak to thee?” he
asked, addressing Everett.
The stranger in Zanah hastened to assure the school-master that he
wanted companionship. Without being summoned, Hans Peter appeared with a
chair. Gerson Brandt dropped into it as if he were weary, and Everett
had a chance to notice that the delicate face was worn and haggard.
There was something extraordinarily impressive in the personality of
this man of Zanah. His gaunt form was well knit. Meekness and gentleness
sat upon a face that denoted an intense nature. The curve of the lip
told of unusual will-power, but the eyes revealed the fact that the soul
of a dreamer dwelt within the school-master.
“I would talk to thee about Brother Kellar,” he said. “Walda Kellar is
concerned lest she hath been selfish in asking thee to stay in the
village. The women of Zanah have told her that thou hast much to do in
the world and that thou canst ill afford to waste thy time here in the
colony.”
Everett forgot his reflections of the previous hour and replied:
“I shall be glad to stay here. It is a privilege to be useful once in a
while.”
“Dost thou work much?” asked the school-master. Gerson Brandt folded his
thin hands that bore the marks of toil and turned to scrutinize the
stranger. “It is long since I left the world,” he added. “I know little
of it as it is to-day, but I remember that it was a very busy place.”
Everett could not repress a smile.
“You speak as if the whole world were one great village, and Zanah’s
only rival,” he said.
Gerson Brandt laughed, and for an instant his face was young.
“We colonists live shut up in our little valley so closely that we can
hardly be called a part of the changing life of America,” he said. “Once
I loved the things of the world, and even now I sometimes long for what
were once my idols.”
“Your idols?”
“Once I dreamed of being a great artist,” confessed the school-master.
“That was when I was a youth in Munich. There came to me a
disappointment. Then it was shown to my soul that I must not fix my
hopes on the things of earth. I drifted to America. The world was cruel
to me. Somehow I found Zanah. My art was a help to the people of the
colony. They took me in.”
He spoke simply, but there was a little quaver in his voice, and he
turned his head away.
Everett rose and began to pace up and down the porch. The humble tragedy
in the life of the man of Zanah touched him and made him feel ashamed of
his own paltry aims.
“Do you mean that you illuminated their books?” he asked.
Gerson Brandt shook his head.
“Not at first. I still loved beauty. I yet had ambition, and it was long
before I could trust myself to use the colors. I had a hard discipline.
For years I have made the designs for the blue calicoes that the mills
turn out.”
“By Jove! I don’t know how a man can surrender all his ambitions. I
cannot make it out,” Everett exclaimed, pausing before the gentle
school-master. “How long have you been in Zanah?”
“Fifteen years. I was two-and-twenty when I came. Some day, before I
die, I mean to go out to see what changes have taken place. I know that
men are doing marvellous things, for sometimes I talk to strangers. But
it is better not to know the world, for it gives a man so many interests
he forgets his God.” Gerson Brandt hesitated a moment. “Even under the
protection of Zanah it is hard for a man to subdue all the human forces
within him,” he added.
“All human forces are not wicked. Such a creed as that is not taught in
the New Testament,” said Everett. He felt irresistibly drawn towards the
school-master. All the vigorous manhood in him resented the restrictions
that Zanah placed upon its disciples.
“There are many that seem not so to me,” assented the school-master,
“but Zanah teaches that it is best to fix all one’s thoughts on heaven.
Of course we have our restless hours. We who have been touched by the
world find it hard to forget. Those whose thoughts have been centred
always in Zanah are the happy ones.”
“Walda Kellar is one of the happy ones, is she not?”
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.