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.”
“Piepmatz is something of a philosopher,” remarked Everett. “He makes
the best of his imprisonment. Like the people of Zanah, he appears to
care little for the great world.”
“He hath taught me many a lesson of submission,” said Walda.
“Still, his tiny heart is easily touched by worldly things,” said the
school-master. “He hath shown a dangerous inclination to take up the
song the stranger hath whistled.”
“Let me see whether you have forgotten the worldly song.” It was Everett
who spoke. Going to the cage he whistled the minor strain of the
love-song. Piepmatz proudly imitated him.
“You see, I might have been a good school-master if fate had not decreed
otherwise,” said Everett, addressing Gerson Brandt.
“What is thy work in the world?” asked Walda. “Since my thoughtless plea
kept thee here I have often wondered about thy daily labors. At first I
thought thou didst tend the sick, but once I heard thee say that thou
hadst not yet begun that labor.”
“So far I have not done any one thing,” Everett confessed, with a
feeling of shame.
“How dost thou spend thy days?” the school-master inquired.
Everett hesitated before answering. In all his life it had never
occurred to him to think how his days were spent.
“Since I left college I have travelled a great deal,” he replied,
evasively.
“And hast thou seen the whole world?” asked Walda. Wonder was written on
her face.
“I have seen much of it.”
Wilhelm Kellar made an inarticulate sound.
“Perhaps it disturbeth Brother Kellar to hear thee speak of the wicked
world which he left long ago,” said Gerson Brandt. “Like thee, he hath
seen it all; he hath wandered over land and sea.”
“Knowing the world, my father hath kept me safe from it.” Walda had
drawn the stool first occupied by Everett close to the head of the
lounge, and, sitting near to the sick man, she clasped one of his hands.
“Thou knowest, dear, that I have put away from me all vain longings to
know aught of life outside of Zanah.”
Wilhelm Kellar closed his eyes with a look of contentment.
“Didst thou mean me to understand that thou art that abomination of the
Lord, an idle and slothful man?” he asked Everett, after a moment of
reflection.
“I confess that I have not done half my duty,” said Everett, humbly;
“but I have spent many years in study; I have dipped into science.”
“Science? Zanah hath naught to do with science,” said Gerson Brandt.
“Science would reveal the mysteries of nature that the Lord hath hidden
from his people.”
“Don’t you think that the man who inquires just how the tiny body of
Piepmatz has had its origin in the egg, how the bones and muscles that
form the wing give him the power of flight, and how his mite of a brain
is made to be the home of at least a fragment of intelligence has a
wider conception of the omnipotence of God than he who knows nothing of
what you call the secrets of nature?” asked Everett.
“I would not place my judgment against the judgment of Zanah,” said
Gerson Brandt. “And yet when I was a boy I learned about the growth of a
flower, and my soul was quickened with a new impulse towards worship.”
“They tell me there is a magic force called electricity that is now
performing what would once have been called miracles,” said Walda.
It seemed incredible to Everett that, notwithstanding all the barriers
placed between Zanah and the outside world, it could be possible so
completely to shut out all that was modern.
“Yes; electricity propels cars; it gives men the power to talk when they
are hundreds of miles apart; it sends words across the continent,
literally, with lightning rapidity. You know the latest achievement of
science is the discovery of the x-ray, by which it is possible to look
through a man’s body so that the bones are visible.”
“How strange it all is!” exclaimed Walda, who was still stroking her
father’s hand.
“The wisdom of the world is so great that no one man can understand more
than the smallest fragment of it,” averred Gerson Brandt.
Walda was lost in thought for another moment or two.
“Thou makest it clear to me that we people of Zanah must seem strange,
indeed, to thee.” She spoke slowly. “According to thy standard, I, who
am thought wise enough to be chosen prophetess of the colony, must be
ignorant and childish. Out in the world they would jeer at me, would
they not?”
“Thou wilt have a wisdom that the world cannot give,” said Gerson
Brandt. “Thou shalt be spared from contact with the mammon of
unrighteousness.”
“Nay, Gerson, it seemeth to me there must be good men in the world.
Stephen Everett, the stranger who hath come to us, belongeth not to
those who are bound to the idols of sin.”
Everett, who had been sitting in one of the splint-bottomed arm-chairs,
was touched by the girl’s artless words. He rose to his feet and
responded quickly:
“According to Zanah’s standard I may not be a good man, but out in the
world I am not singled out as one of the profligates. I hold honor dear.
You people of Zanah may trust me.”
“We have trusted thee,” said Gerson Brandt. “We have prayed much over
thee, and it hath been revealed to us that thou wert sent from the Lord.
We trust thee so much that we have let thee speak to Walda Kellar, who
hath never known any one belonging to the world.”
Gerson Brandt stood up and faced Everett. An intensity in his tone gave
his words strong emphasis. Wilhelm Kellar turned his head on his pillow,
and his sunken eyes stared at Everett as if they would read his
uttermost thoughts. A deep flush overspread Everett’s face, and the
realization swept over him that perhaps he might have it in his power to
disturb all the plans of Zanah by turning Walda Kellar’s thoughts away
from what he regarded as the superstition of the colony. Human nature is
contradictory, and Gerson Brandt’s words presented clearly a temptation
that had but vaguely suggested itself to him. He could appear not to
recognize the insinuation conveyed by the school-master, and therefore
he replied, evasively:
“My intentions are good. It was an unselfish motive that prompted me to
remain in the colony. When Wilhelm Kellar has recovered I shall go away,
and you will all forget that I ever came to Zanah.”
“Nay, we shall not forget thee,” said Walda. “We shall always be
grateful to thee.”
The conversation was interrupted at this point by the appearance of Karl
Weisel. He had scarcely finished his greetings when Mother Kaufmann and
Gretchen Schneider came into the room.
“How is it that the prophetess of Zanah hath time to spend in the
company of men?” asked Mother Kaufmann. “It might be better to pass the
days alone, praying and reading the Bible.”
“How is it that Mother Kaufmann dares to speak thus sharply in the
presence of the woman chosen to guide the colony of Zanah?” retorted
Gerson Brandt.
“I like not this dispensation which permits Walda Kellar to be brought
under the influence of a sinful man of the world.”
Mother Kaufmann spoke in her guttural German. She had advanced close to
Gerson Brandt.
“The colony is not ruled by old women, and thy likes weigh little in
Zanah,” declared Karl Weisel, whose chair had been drawn near to the one
chosen by Gretchen Schneider.
“If Zanah were ruled by old women the head of the thirteen elders would
not be coveting the daughter of the Herr Doktor,” said Mother Kaufmann,
losing all caution in her anger.
Gretchen Schneider’s thin face turned a livid yellow, and Karl Weisel
sprang forward as if he would like to grasp the woman by the throat.
“Peace, children of Zanah,” commanded Walda, rising in majestic
indignation. “Your words are shameful. Put away from you the spirit of
contention.”
Wilhelm Kellar had made an effort to speak, but in the excitement of the
moment his tongue refused to frame the words. Everett, looking at him,
saw that there were beads of perspiration on his brow and that he looked
exhausted.
“Send these people out of the room,” he said to Gerson Brandt. “Wilhelm
Kellar must be kept quiet.” He went to the table, where he began to mix
a soothing draught, while Gerson Brandt dismissed the three visitors.
The school-master preceded them out of the room, leaving Walda and
Everett to soothe the sick man, who showed signs of extreme exhaustion.
When the medicine had been administered, Walda drew together the white
curtains and placed a chintz screen before the window.
“He looketh almost as if death were near,” she whispered to Everett.
“Do not be alarmed,” he replied; “he will soon fall asleep, and when he
awakens he will be as well as he was this morning.”
The girl bent over her father to watch the faint breathing. The old
man’s face was ghastly in its emaciation and pallor.
“Thou wilt not leave me yet?” she said, entreatingly. “Sit here with me
until I am sure he is slumbering peacefully.”
Walda took her place on an old oaken bench above which hung Gerson
Brandt’s book-shelves, and Everett drew one of the chairs close to the
table, near to the place where Walda sat. Instead of taking up her
knitting the girl leaned on the oaken arm of the bench, and with her
chin in her hands she became lost in thought.
“Through thee it hath become plain to me that I am different from the
women out there in the world,” she said, presently. “Sometimes there
hath come over me a great fear lest one day I shall be sorely tempted to
go forth among men and women of the earth. In the days of my rebellion,
when I turned a deaf ear to the calling of the spirit, I dreamed of
going away from Zanah. Since I have known thee I have sometimes
faltered, even as my steps were being led near to the place of peace
which will be revealed to me when the inspiration cometh.” She spoke as
if she were thinking aloud, and Everett made no response, for he dared
not say the words that came to his lips.
“Thou knowest the world,” she continued. “Dost thou think that I could
ever be tempted to forget my duty to the people of Zanah? Shall I be
able always to walk near to God?”
“It is said that there is a supreme temptation for every man and for
every woman,” said Everett, not daring to look at her. “You may be
spared that, or, if it comes to you, you may be strong enough to resist
it.”
“There are strange, earthly impulses in my heart that none but Gerson
Brandt can understand,” she said. “But even he will not let me speak of
them.”
“What are your besetting sins?” Everett asked, gently. “Can’t you
confess them to me? Perhaps I can judge more fairly than any one in
Zanah, because mine must be the broader view.”
Walda cast upon him a look of such trustfulness that his conscience
smote him.
“Stephen, my faith in the devil is not strong. I like not to think of
the power of evil, for truly the world seemeth good to me. When I walk
forth into the fields something in me maketh me to love the beauty of
the sky, the vast stretches of rolling prairie, and the shining water of
the distant lake. The bird-voices seem human to me, and yet the
meadow-lark and the robin, the little creatures that God hath made,
appear not to know of Satan’s rule.”
“Walda, you are not sinning. The Creator of all things is speaking to
you through nature.”
“Dost thou believe that, Stephen?”
“Yes; science teaches that. Have you not been taught that the wood which
burns so brightly on your hearth is giving out the sunshine stored for
years, so that in time man might use it?”
Walda listened with parted lips.
“Ah, that is good,” she said. “Perhaps thou couldst unlock many of the
mysteries that disturb me. Canst thou tell how the grain of wheat
groweth when it is put into the ground? Dost thou know how the egg is
changed into the nestling?”
“Science has probed the secrets of the seed and the egg, and it has
discovered much. If it is permitted, I will send you books when I have
returned to the world.”
“Nay, I am but a child in my ignorance. Canst thou not tell me about the
mysteries when thou comest here to this room?”
“It would be a privilege to teach you,” said Everett. “We might have our
first lesson to-morrow.”
“I have not told thee half my wayward impulses,” Walda declared,
presently. “When strangers have driven to the village I have caught
glimpses of women who wore gay clothes, and I have coveted the gowns of
exquisite color.” She hesitated for a moment, with something like
embarrassment. “And, Stephen,” she added, “I like thy garb better than
that of the men of Zanah. Thou hast a ring on thy finger that I think is
pretty, and when thou takest from thy pocket thy gold watch I have a
curiosity to look at it. This shows how easily I am tempted by earthly
gauds.”
Everett could not repress a little laugh, but seeing how much in earnest
she was, he said, quite solemnly:
“Walda, these are not sins. Your confessions show that you are a woman
with a woman’s impulses. Even a prophetess cannot help being a little
human.”
He took his watch from his pocket and placed it in her lap. Drawing from
his finger a ring of beautifully wrought gold, he put it into her hand.
Walda’s face crimsoned.
“Thou must not persuade me to put it on,” she half pleaded, as she
looked at the ring; and then, as if to prevent herself from succumbing
to temptation, she passed it back to Everett. The watch she examined
carefully. “This will mark the seconds, the moments, and the hours of
all thy life. It should remind one to make good account of his time.”
“It has marked some very pleasant moments since I came to Zanah,” said
Everett, and his tones conveyed to Walda a dim impression that made her
suddenly shy.
Some one knocked twice on the door, lifted the latch, and entered. It
was Hans Peter, who carried in his hand a package of books, letters, and
papers.
“These have I brought from the post-office,” said the simple one, his
pale eyes wandering from Walda to Everett as they sat close together. It
was plain, even to a fool, that their conversation had been of a sort
interesting only to themselves.
“The elders ordered that thy mail be given into thy hands, and I have
followed thee here that I might deliver the chronicles of the wicked
world into thy keeping.”
Everett thanked the simple one, who made no move to leave the room. Hans
Peter still stood playing with his queer cap and balancing himself first
on one foot and then on the other.
“Wouldst thou give me the newspaper when thou hast read it?” he asked,
with something like eagerness in his tone.
“No, no, Hans Peter, I cannot disregard the rules of the colony,”
Everett said, carelessly.
“Dost thou not know that the fool cannot be hurt?” asked the simple one.
“He hath so little knowledge that he knoweth not folly from wisdom. To
him the wicked appear good and the good wicked.”
Everett’s mail was scattered on the table where the simple one had put
it. Among the envelopes the man of the world saw one that enclosed a
photograph.
“This may be a picture that will interest you,” he said. “Will you
pardon me if I open it?” He tore off the envelope, and the photograph of
a young and beautiful girl was disclosed. The hair was dressed in rather
an elaborate fashion, and the gown was slightly décolleté.
“This is my young cousin Beatrice,” he remarked. “She is one of my
favorite relatives. I want you to tell me what you think of her, Walda.”
“It is forbidden in Zanah that we should make the image of anything on
earth,” declared Walda, turning her eyes away when Everett held the
photograph towards her.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
The fool had come close to Everett’s chair, and he now looked over the
stranger’s shoulder.
“Is she called beautiful?” he asked.
“I believe she is,” said Everett. “Don’t you think she is a pretty
girl?”
“I like her hair and her necklace,” the simple one said. “She hath no
cap or kerchief. Yea, she is like an angel.” He hesitated for a moment,
looking from the picture to Walda, as if he were comparing the two
faces, and he added: “She is not so fair as the prophetess of Zanah.
Dost thou think her more comely than Walda Kellar?”
“Hush, Hans Peter; thou knowest it is a sin to see that a woman is fair
or comely,” warned Walda.
The simple one shook his head of tangled, straw-colored hair, and
answered:
“Thou forgettest the fool knoweth not right from wrong; he is the only
free man in the whole colony.” He threw his cap into the air, but his
stolid face betrayed no sign that he might be exulting over his
emancipation from the laws of Zanah.
“Here, gather up these letters and papers and come with me to the inn,”
said Everett. He thrust the photograph into the outside pocket of his
coat.
“Now, indeed, do I know that I am a daughter of Eve,” said Walda,
rising. “To-day it hath been made plain to me that I am not like unto
the women of the world. I—I—I would have one glimpse of thy cousin. Dost
thou think it would be very sinful if I looked at the image of thy
kinswoman?”
“Sinful! I think it is your right to know something of the women outside
the colony,” Everett declared. He took the picture from his pocket and
put it into her hand.
Walda studied the face for a few moments.
“Thy cousin Beatrice is fair indeed.” As she spoke the faintest sigh
accompanied her words. “Wilt thou not tell me something of her?” she
asked. “Doth she wear this gown and this necklace when she worketh?”
The picture of his cousin Beatrice working was so absurd that Everett
smiled.
“This is the sort of a gown my cousin wears when she goes to a ball,” he
explained.
“A ball! What is a ball?” asked Walda.
“Oh, it is a party—an assembly of men and women where there are music
and flowers and brilliant lights.”
“And what do the people do? Do they sing hymns and pray as we do at our
meetings?”
Again Everett smiled. The spectacle of the guests at a modern ball
joining in hymns and prayers would be entertaining indeed, he thought.
“They talk and dance, Walda.”
“There is dancing spoken of in the Bible,” said Walda; “but the elders
of Zanah have told the people how the rite hath been degraded by the men
and women of the world. I have heard that dancing is no longer a
religious ceremony.”
“That is true, indeed,” said Everett, and the memory of some of the
stage-dancing flashed across his brain.
“What is thy cousin’s work?” Walda inquired, again studying the
photograph.
“Work?” repeated Everett. “Why, she has no work.”
“And doth all thy family belong to the drones?” Walda asked. “How is it
that out in the world some men and women are permitted to be idle while
others labor?”
“Now, Walda, you have hit upon one of the great social problems. Out in
the world the people do not work for the common good. Selfishness rules.
Some men and some women are born to wealth, and some are born to
poverty.”
“Thou meanest that some men are like Solomon and others are like the
beggars that lay outside the gates of Jerusalem?”
“Yes, that is what I mean,” said Everett.
“Art thou like Solomon? Hast thou gold that thou keepest from the poor
and hungry?” Walda placed the picture upon the table and withdrew
several steps from Everett.
“I am not like Solomon, Walda,” Everett replied, with an uncomfortable
feeling that he belonged to a useless class.
“But you have money so that you live without work?”
“Yes,” admitted Everett, with some reluctance.
“He carrieth much silver with him,” said Hans Peter, who had listened
intently to the conversation. “He hath tossed me many a piece when I
have run errands for him.”
“Oh, thou dost give away thy money?” Walda’s tone betrayed her relief at
the thought that, after all, Everett might not be altogether selfish.
“Yes, I give away some of my money,” Stephen answered; “but I have not
done half the good with it that I should. Perhaps I may learn here in
Zanah how to employ my time and my money to better advantage.”
“Now, indeed, I know that the Lord hath sent thee here for thine own
good.”
“Sometimes I am not so sure of it, Walda,” said Everett, and, turning
quickly, he took up his hat. He pushed open the door, motioned to the
simple one to pass out first, hesitated a moment, and then returned to
Walda’s side.
“Don’t think of me as such a bad man,” he said.
“Nay, there is something in my heart that maketh me believe only that
thou art wise and true.”
Quickly he left the room, and as he went down the stairs he reflected
that one of the first steps in wisdom is that which takes a man away
from a great temptation. Walda, standing alone by the table, thought of
many things, and then, strangely enough, Piepmatz, looking from his
little cage, whistled the notes of the love-song that Everett had taught
him.