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.”
The men and women of Zanah returned to their tasks. Some of the men
piled the grapes into large tubs, which were lifted on wagons drawn by
fat, sleek horses. The women, scattered among the vines, industriously
cut off the bunches of luscious fruit, and the boys who had accompanied
Gerson Brandt into the vineyard were sent back and forth, bearing pails
and baskets on their heads. Mother Werther gave Hans Peter the tin cups
to carry back to the village, and he went away unnoticed except by
Everett, who had the feeling that the simple one might be able to tell
what had become of Gerson Brandt’s treasured volume.
The close of the summer day began to be noticed. The sun sank behind the
bluffs. Everett idly watched the workers in the vineyard prepare to go
home. The women were first to leave their tasks, and, with Mother
Werther at the head of the procession, they walked two and two towards
the road. As they walked they sang a dismal strain. The wagons creaked
as the wheels sank deeply into the soil, and marching beside them went
the men, carrying upon their shoulders scythes and rakes, which they had
used in an adjoining hay-field. The vineyard toilers wound down the
hill-side. All had apparently forgotten Everett, who had found a place
where he could lie upon the ground with his head pillowed upon a smooth
rock. The peace and quiet of the evening soothed him, and again, for the
hundredth time in the day, he thought of Walda Kellar. As if his
thoughts were suggested by her proximity, he saw, coming from the
hay-field, the prophetess of Zanah. She was leading a little child by
the hand, and behind her silently followed several of the “mothers” of
the colony. The women carried upon their heads great bundles of hay,
while back of them moved the harvest wagons, piled high with heavy loads
taken from the great stacks that dotted the broad fields. Walda appeared
not to notice the stranger, who lay quietly watching her. She was
talking in a low, soothing tone to the child, which apparently had been
crying for its mother. When Walda was within a few feet of him, Everett
quickly rose, but he hesitated to address her. With uncovered head, he
waited until she might see him. When she was very near him she raised
her eyes and started, as if surprised to find the stranger in the
vineyard. She would have passed on, but he detained her by seizing upon
the pretext that she must be interested in hearing about her father,
whom he had seen after she left the sick-room. He said:
“Miss Kellar, your father is fast regaining strength. To-day I find that
he will soon be able to leave his bed.”
The girl stopped, and, looking at him, answered:
“Thou hast my prayers and my thanks, thou stranger in Zanah.”
“If I have done anything to deserve your thanks, I am grateful, Miss
Kellar.”
The women had stopped at a little distance from them, and he could see
that they were muttering something among themselves. Presently one of
them spoke:
“Sir, thou art addressing the prophetess of Zanah with the vain title
used in the world outside. If thou must speak to her, thou shouldst call
her Walda Kellar.”
Everett was embarrassed. He stood gazing at the girl, who smiled upon
him quite naturally.
“Yea, thou shouldst call me Walda,” she said. “Thou knowest that in the
Bible the men and women addressed one another by their simple names.”
“Then, if I am to follow the custom of Zanah, you must call me not
stranger, but Stephen,” he said. And she answered:
“Yea, Stephen, already thou seemest scarcely a stranger.”
He felt a sudden quickening of the pulses when the girl spoke to him by
his given name, so seldom used, for he was little burdened by kinsmen
and the intimacies of ordinary companionship. Stephen Everett had always
been a man who forbade those with whom he came in contact to take
liberties with him, yet he had the quiet friendliness that kept for him
the constancy and devotion of all who knew him. His name, spoken by the
prophetess of Zanah, had, however, a sound that suddenly glorified it.
As he stood there he could think of nothing to say, and she passed on,
leaving him to look after her, and to feel in a new and peculiar manner
that the world had changed for him. He saw that she walked with a firm
step and a light freedom of movement that gave her a rare grace. She
moved slowly, so that the little child could keep pace with her, and he
was grateful for the chance duty that gave him a longer glimpse of her.
She passed through the wooden gate which cut off the vineyard. Presently
he saw her disappear among the trees at the end of the village street,
and a sense of loneliness swept over him. He who had always been glad of
the opportunity to enjoy his own society felt something of the
homesickness of the soul.