It was a rainy day in Zanah. Early in the morning, when Everett looked
out of the diamond-paned window of his bedroom, he saw that the trees
and vines in the garden were dripping. The night-wind had beaten off
many of the leaves, which had grown yellow in the long drought and the
dying summer. The distant bluffs were hidden behind a curtain of mist.
Two village “mothers” passed, their shawls drawn over their heads and
their feet dragging slowly in their clumsy, wooden shoes. Everett
dressed quickly, for his room was dark, and the silence of the village
oppressed him. When he went out to his breakfast in the long, bare
dining-room, Mother Werther served him in silence. He wondered at her
unusual taciturnity, and he tried to start a cheerful conversation. She
replied to him in monosyllables. The entrance of a boy whom he
remembered seeing at the learning-school temporarily diverted Mother
Werther from her unpleasant thoughts.
“This is my son Johann,” she said, pushing the lad forward.
The boy hung his head, and Everett inquired why Johann was never at
home.
“It is not wise that he should be kept at the _gasthaus_,” Mother
Werther explained, as she fixed a place for Johann at the distant end of
the table.
“Does some unusual occurrence bring him here to-day?” Everett inquired,
with a show of interest.
“It is the Day of Warning, and families hold communion before they go to
the meeting-house,” Mother Werther explained. “It is the last Sabbath
before the _Untersuchung_, and we make ready for the annual accounting
of our faults and follies.”
The woman’s words brought uppermost in his mind the thought that had
harassed him in the hours of the night. The time of Walda’s ordination
as prophetess was very near. He rose from the table. He heard the rain
falling upon the slate roof of the side porch upon which the dining-room
opened. Lifting the heavy latch, he pushed the door slightly ajar. The
downpour was steady.
“Does your prophetess take any special part in to-day’s ceremonies?”
Everett asked, because he felt that he must contrive to see Walda.
“Nay, she will be present at the meeting, that is all,” said Mother
Werther, bustling out into the back kitchen.
Everett sauntered into the office, which was occupied by Hans Peter. The
simple one had placed upon the mantel-shelf above the fireplace half a
dozen of his marked gourds, and he was studying them intently. He did
not pay any attention to Everett, who stepped up beside him.
“Are you preparing for the Day of Warning and the _Untersuchung_, Hans
Peter?” Everett asked.
The village fool shook his head.
“Thou forgettest that Hans Peter is one whom the Lord hath forgotten,”
he said. “The Almighty taketh no account of the sayings and doings of
the simple one.”
The simple one took into his hand a gourd which bore but one or two deep
cuts dried into its hardened surface.
“This Hans Peter had in his pocket on the day that he carried the
carpet-bag of the stranger,” he said.
“What do the marks stand for, Hans Peter? I hope they do not mean
anything uncomplimentary.”
The simple one said that he did not understand, and Everett explained.
“This meaneth that the stranger in Zanah bringeth trouble,” the village
fool answered.
Everett paced up and down the sanded floor for a few moments.
“You are not a prophet, Hans Peter,” he said, stopping to pull the
village fool’s ear. “Have I done any harm in Zanah?”
“Thou hast sown some seeds of discord.”
“Cannot you forgive me for the Bible episode? You know I have done my
best to make amends. You will not always blame me for your suffering in
the stocks, I hope.”
The simple one put the gourd he had been examining into one of his deep
pockets.
“Thou knowest the stocks were but the penalty of mine own deed,” he
said. “There are other things that even a fool can see and hear. Thou
hast a soft voice when thou speakest to the prophetess of Zanah. Thine
eyes watch her always when she is near thee.”
Hans Peter folded his arms in imitation of Everett and stared at him
with unblinking eyes.
“You are observant, Hans Peter. As I have often told you, every day I am
more and more convinced you are the wisest man in Zanah.” Everett
flicked the ashes from the cigar he was smoking and smiled down at the
queer little figure. “What conclusions do you draw from your two
discoveries?”
“It seemeth that thine actions are like Joseph Hoff’s, and the people of
Zanah say that he hath earthly love in his heart.”
“If my memory serves me right, it was you who aided Joseph Hoff to send
messages to the one he loves,” said Everett.
“She was not a prophetess,” the fool declared.
Hans Peter had selected a second gourd from the shelf, and had fled from
the room before Everett could sound him on the subject of acting as
errand-boy.
Still the rain poured down. Everett chafed under his enforced
inactivity, for he felt that every hour meant much to him. Presently,
because he had nothing better to do, he took down from its place beside
Hans Peter’s gourds the old tinder-box, and lighted the wood that was
piled in the fireplace. He lounged upon the settle and idly watched the
flames creep along the logs. His thoughts flew out to Walda. He wondered
what she was doing. He felt a disgust for the fanaticism of the colony,
and he tried to think of some way of claiming the woman he loved. He was
ready to carry her off without any ado, but he knew that as long as her
father lived he could not persuade her to go away. Although he had not
yet made her realize she loved him, he would not harbor the thought that
he could lose her—and yet his suit appeared hopeless.
His reflections were disturbed by the voice of Mother Werther raised in
indignant remonstrance. She was in the next room, and he heard her say:
“Diedrich, thou dost vex me much lately. And now thou dost tell me thou
likest to gaze through the car-windows to behold the women of the world
as they pass by Zanah.”
“They are comely,” the innkeeper answered, in his laconic fashion.
“How darest thou tell me that? To-day I am half persuaded to confess to
the elders that at last I have learned the love of man is not to be
trusted. I have a mind to claim promotion to the second rank of the
colony, and who knows but I may soon hate thee enough to serve the Lord
in singleness of purpose!”
“Thy tongue proveth thou mayst yet become like Mother Schneider and
Mother Kaufmann, who have long been in the third rank because they love
not men,” remarked Diedrich Werther.
“Thou speakest hateful words.” Mother Werther’s voice was choked with
anger. “Many times hast thou tried me sorely, but never until to-day
have I seen that thou art indeed a man with sinful impulses. Thy feet
have been turned from the straight and narrow way. Thou hast a liking
for wicked things.”
Everett smiled when he heard what he might take as an object-lesson of
the inevitable experience of even the most faithful of married couples.
He shrugged his shoulders, and thought that, after all, it was only the
few who knew the real meaning of love, the love that blended worship and
lofty aspiration.
Diedrich Werther came into the office. It was plain that the berating he
had received had not disturbed his phlegmatic calm. He shuffled along in
his carpet slippers until he reached the desk, behind which he perched
himself on a high stool. Everett felt irritated at the unpleasant
interruption to his thoughts of Walda. He snatched up his soft felt hat
and went out into the muddy street. He turned his steps towards Wilhelm
Kellar’s room, where he found his patient sitting up in an arm-chair.
Gerson Brandt was with him. The two colonists showed an unusual
restraint in the presence of the stranger in Zanah.
“I have been telling Brother Brandt that I need thy services no longer,”
said Wilhelm Kellar, addressing Everett. “There is nothing to hinder
thee from leaving Zanah to-morrow.”
Everett noticed that Gerson Brandt watched him closely while Wilhelm
Kellar spoke.
“I shall not go away for at least a week,” said Everett, leaning against
the chest of drawers, and assuming an indifferent manner.
“It is strange that thou findest colony life so pleasant,” said Gerson
Brandt.
“It is restful and interesting to me,” Everett replied, carelessly.
As he faced the two elders of Zanah he felt a twinge of remorse, because
his dearest purpose in life was to win from them Walda Kellar. He who
had held honor first experienced a certain amount of self-abasement, but
he quieted his conscience, as he had many times before, by the thought
that love was the ruling power of the world, and that all things should
give way before it.
“The colony of Zanah would recompense thee for thy services in helping
to restore me to health,” said Wilhelm Kellar. “Wilt thou render to me
thine accounting?”
“Whatever aid you have received from me has not been given for money,”
Everett replied, in a voice so decided in its accents that both his
hearers felt there was beneath his words something which they could not
understand.
“The colony never shirks the payment of its debts,” Wilhelm Kellar
declared, proudly.
“If you think you owe me anything, accept the amount as a gift to
Zanah,” said Everett.
A moment of embarrassment followed, and he was glad to take his leave
rather hastily. When he reached the inn, many of the villagers were
assembled in the main room and on the porches. The meeting-house bell
sounded as he went up the steps, and instantly the men and women moved
towards the old building on the hill. The women drew heavy shawls over
their heads to protect them from the rain, and the men, who walked apart
from them, now and then removed their caps to shake off the water which
ran down upon their hair and shoulders. No one spoke. It was evident
that the Day of Warning had its terrors for many of the colonists.
Everett stood on the topmost step watching the little children, who were
miniature reproductions of the men and women, and listening to the click
of the wooden shoes upon the board walk. He looked down the street in
the hope that he might see Walda Kellar, but he was disappointed.
“Would I be admitted to the meeting-house?” he asked Diedrich Werther,
who was putting a long-tailed coat over a faded blue-gingham shirt.
“Ja, ja; if thou desirest to attend a service of much solemnity, come
with me,” the innkeeper answered.
The meeting-house was crowded when they entered. Its interior was as
devoid of ornament as its exterior. The bare, white walls were broken at
regular intervals with small-paned, clear glass windows, which let in
but little light on a gloomy day. A broad middle aisle led straight to a
platform upon which sat the thirteen elders, for Everett was astonished
to see that Wilhelm Kellar had been carried in his arm-chair from his
room in the near-by school-house. The men occupied rude benches on the
right side of the meeting-house, and the women sat on the left. The
children were placed in front, the boys on the men’s side and the girls
on the women’s. On a dais in the middle of the elders’ platform was a
heavy oaken chair.
A few moments after Everett’s entrance a group of colonists, who still
lingered at the door, separated to allow some one to pass in. A hush
fell upon the assemblage, for Walda Kellar was walking up the aisle.
Over her blue gown she wore a long cloak with a pointed hood that she
put back from her head as she moved slowly forward. The damp air had
caused her hair to curl in many unruly ringlets about her forehead, and
her pure skin had the peculiar clearness and transparency that a rainy
day imparts to a delicate complexion. Everett could see only her
profile. There was a majesty in her carriage, a consciousness of power
in her pose, that made her seem far off from him. His heart beat wildly
as he looked at her, and when the villagers knelt in acknowledgment of
her presence, he obeyed the impulse of worship, and bent forward with a
despairing humility in his heart. He, to whom prayer had long ceased to
be a daily habit, breathed his heart’s sincere desire in a petition that
his love might be given its reward.
When Everett raised his eyes again Walda had ascended the platform, and
had taken her place on the steps in front of the chair which it was
plain was the seat reserved for the prophetess. She had thrown aside her
cloak, and she sat with her hands folded in her lap. Adolph Schneider
spoke, in German, the words of a droning invocation. He left the front
of the platform, and Everett was surprised to see Walda come forward as
if she were about to speak. Instead of making an address, she began to
sing a monotonous hymn, to which her rich voice lent a glorious melody.
While Walda sang, the man of the world listened in breathless awe. Her
voice thrilled with the diapason of hope. It rose in triumphant notes,
and then fell with a softened cadence. His soul went out to hers, but in
the tense moment that followed her hymn he felt as if she were far away
from him. Her purity rebuked the passion of love in him, and yet he
could scarcely restrain himself from the impulse to claim her there
before all Zanah. She went back to her place on the steps before the
chair of the prophetess, which she was to occupy before another week had
passed.
Adolph Schneider commanded the colonists to listen with undivided
attention to what he had to say to them. It was the Day of Warning, when
all who felt they were not prepared for the _Untersuchung_ would make
confession. If there was any man or woman who desired to ask for
promotion in the colony, the time had come to show reason for a desire
for advancement.
A tall, large-boned woman rose from her place far back in the
congregation.
“I would seek advancement to the first grade of the colony,” she said.
“What is thy ground for making this request? Why dost thou believe that
thou art worthy?” the Herr Doktor asked.
“It is five years since I refused to listen to the elders of Zanah when
they told me of the trials earthly love would bring,” answered the
woman, turning a sallow, weather-beaten face towards the platform. “Now
have I learned that marriage is a hard discipline. Otto Schmidt hath
vexed me every day for forty months. I have found that the love of man
for woman is fleeting, and now do I know that I can worship God in
singleness of heart.”
On the men’s side a stout mill-worker pulled himself to his feet.
“Christina hath not suffered the smallest tithe of the mortification of
spirit that hath been mine,” he declared, in an emphatic tone. “It was
for her sake that I gave up my place in the first grade of Zanah’s
people, and now do I confess that the elders of Zanah are wise when they
entreat the people to beware of love. Love is but the fire of man’s
vanity kindled to flame by a woman’s wanton eyes.”
“Nay, it is but a woman’s faith which is nourished by man’s false
promises of kindness and constancy,” replied the woman, who was still
standing.
“Let the brother and sister of Zanah be seated,” commanded Adolph
Schneider.
As she obeyed, Christina Schmidt cast a glance of hatred towards her
husband.
The elders spoke together. While they were holding their conference,
Everett noticed that Hans Peter was creeping slowly up the aisle with a
letter in his hand. He passed the envelope up to Adolph Schneider and
tiptoed to a vacant place on the front seat. The elders examined the
letter. The colonists waited without any show of impatience.
“It is my sad duty to announce that one of the colony youths hath looked
with longing eyes on a maid, and that he entreats permission to wed
her,” said the Herr Doktor, standing upon the edge of the platform and
looking down at the people with a stern expression on his face. His
small eyes scanned the women and then the men. “I would have Frieda
Bergen and Joseph Hoff step forward.”
It would not have been in human nature for the people to remain
impassive. More than half of them turned their heads to look for the
culprits. Joseph Hoff made his way towards the elders. He carried his
head high, and had an air of bravado that showed how little he cared
because he was transgressing the laws of the colony. He waited for
Frieda Bergen, who came towards him with her head bent and her cheeks
flaming. “Be of good courage,” he whispered, as they faced Adolph
Schneider.
“You two have made for yourselves idols here on earth,” said the
president of the colony in a thundering tone, which frightened every
youth and maiden in the meeting-house. “Ye have not heeded the behests
of Zanah. How did Satan manage to tempt you when all the safeguards of
Zanah were thrown around you?”
Neither of the lovers spoke.
“It is not permitted here in the colony for men and women who are
unmarried to speak together except on rare occasions, and never are they
allowed to talk when no one is near them; how then did ye two surrender
to the tempter?”
Still there was no answer.
“Speak, Joseph Hoff!” Adolph Schneider shouted, in a tone which showed
that he was filled with indignation.
“Love needeth not words or messengers; love is carried on the winds that
blow across a woman’s cheek,” said Joseph.
“Nay, it is like a prayer that cometh from the heart of man to the heart
of woman,” faltered Frieda, bending in a low courtesy.
“Thou art blaspheming!” Adolph Schneider cried, looking on the maiden
with angry eyes. “It is plain that thou art made mad by what thou
callest love. To you two erring ones shall be given a chance to repent
between now and the _Untersuchung_, but if your eyes are then still
blind to your iniquities ye shall be allowed to marry. Ponder well upon
the testimony given here this day by Otto and Christina Schmidt. Human
love lasteth but a few years, and eternity is not long enough to blot
out the sorrow it can bring to a human soul. Go hence to pray that ye
may be delivered from paying the hard penalties earthly love bringeth to
all.”
Tears were streaming from the girl’s eyes as she walked back to the
women’s side of the building, but in her face was no sign of repentance.
Karl Weisel and the other elders had listened with stolid faces while
Adolph Schneider rebuked the people. After the young lovers had taken
their seats, Wilhelm Kellar pronounced a benediction. The colonists
filed slowly out of the meeting-house. Everett lingered in the hope that
by some happy circumstance he might speak to Walda, but she was detained
by the elders, who gathered around her. He had given up hope of getting
near her when it occurred to him to make Wilhelm Kellar’s imprudence an
excuse by which he might at least go closer to the woman he loved. He
went forward to where Wilhelm Kellar stood at the foot of the platform
steps.
“You have taken a great risk,” he said, to his patient. “You should not
have come here to-day.”
The old man drew himself up with a show of strength and said he was well
enough to make an effort to enter the Lord’s house.
Walda, who had smiled upon Everett when she saw him coming towards her,
put her hand upon her father’s shoulder and persuaded him to be carried
back to his room. Gerson Brandt and another man of Zanah lifted the
invalid’s chair. Everett opened the side door that they might pass out.
Walda, who was anxious for her father’s comfort, would have gone into
the rain ahead of them, but Everett reminded her she had not put on her
cloak. He stepped up to the chair of the prophetess without taking
thought that he might be profaning the place of the elders, and, taking
the long garment, put it around her. Although Karl Weisel and the other
elders stood by, he calmly fastened the clasp at the neck and drew the
hood over the head of the prophetess. Walda, looking up into his face,
beheld in the deep-set eyes as they rested upon her something that sent
the blood to her face. Gerson Brandt, looking back over his shoulder,
saw Everett hold the door open while Walda went through, and he noticed
that the strong face of the man of the world had upon it a look of
tenderness such as he had never seen before.
Everett hesitated a moment as he buttoned his mackintosh. He was
uncertain whether to go out into the woods for a long walk or whether to
return to the dreary inn. He turned his steps towards the inn, and he
had not gone half-way down the hill before he saw Walda coming from the
school-house. The prophetess was with Frieda Bergen, and behind them
walked two of the village “mothers.” Everett let them pass him, but he
noticed with a pang that Walda appeared not to see him as he stood with
uncovered head while she walked by.
“The elders have asked me to entreat thee to overcome this love that
thou hast confessed,” he heard Walda say to Frieda Bergen; but they had
gone beyond ear-shot before the girl replied.
They went into the inn, whither Everett followed them after a time.
Walda drew Frieda Bergen to the settle near the fire which Everett had
kindled.
“Thou seemest so happy in thy sin that I would know what is thy
feeling,” said Walda. “Thou hast the look of one to whom heaven hath
been revealed.”
“A great joy hath come to me, Walda. If it is wicked to love, then would
I continue in my sin,” answered Frieda. “Hast thou never known the
temptation of love? Hast thou never seen one who maketh the world seem
better to thee?”
“Gerson Brandt and Stephen Everett have taught me much,” said Walda,
“but no one hath ever tempted me to forget God and to worship man. Doth
not thy conscience make thee repentant?”
“Nay, I cannot believe that it is wicked to love.”
“How didst thou come to know that thou lovest?”
“One day, as we worked together, Joseph Hoff looked at me through the
trellis of a hop-vine. He was on one side and I was on the other. My
heart trembled, and thenceforth his face was often before me.”
“That is but a small matter. The stranger in Zanah hath sometimes made
my heart leap, but that meaneth naught.”
“After the hour in which Joseph Hoff looked at me, the day was happier
when I could see him. I no longer rebelled against the hard tasks given
me. I had sweet dreams,” declared Frieda.
“I have felt as thou sayest thou feelest, but it was prayer and fasting
that made the earth like the outer courts of heaven. Frieda, Frieda,
thou hast mistaken the spirit of holiness for earthly love.”
Walda Kellar leaned forward, clasping her hands together in a gesture
which betrayed her relief at what she supposed was her discovery of the
true state of her companion’s mind.
“Nay, nay, it was love that made a new life for me,” insisted Frieda,
shaking her black-capped head and speaking in a low voice.
“How couldst thou know?”
“One day Joseph spoke to me sweet words; he touched my hand. Life became
changed again. In my heart thenceforth was a great loneliness except
when I was near Joseph Hoff. I trembled when he touched my hand, and I
would have had him always by my side.”
“Ah, this that thou tellest me is strange indeed. I have known something
of this loneliness, but it was the loneliness of the soul that seeketh
God and feareth to lose the way to heaven. Tell me something more of thy
love.”
“Joseph Hoff sometimes said I was like an angel to him. He spoke softly
of love.”
“Thou wert wrong to listen,” said Walda.
“Thou hast spoken often with the stranger in Zanah.”
“True, but we talked of books, and the woods; of the wonders of the
heavens and the glories of the earth.”
“We spoke few words, but they gave me strange strength. The earth seemed
a pleasanter place after we had talked together. Hast thou never known a
day when suddenly the flowers became more beautiful and the sun shone
brighter?”
“Yea, lately, since the inspiration hath come to me, it is as if Zanah
were bathed in a heavenly radiance. But tell me more, Frieda.”
“The days became pleasant; every one was joyous. There was in my heart a
singing that made me care not for the reproofs of the village mothers.”
“I know what thou meanest. Thy experiences are not different from mine.”
Walda looked into her companion’s face with a smile of sympathy.
“Disturb not thyself any longer. Thou hast the revelation of divinity
that the Lord sendeth to those who serve Him. Why didst thou think this
new glory in thy life was an earthly love? Foolish girl, I am glad that
I did have this chance to probe thy heart to-day.”
“It was not love of God that was in my heart, Walda.” Frieda looked into
the fire and shook her head thoughtfully. “Else why should I look each
day for a glimpse of Joseph Hoff? Why should the simplest word from him
be more to me than the longest prayer of any of the elders? Even if I
had thought in the beginning that the tumult in my heart was due to the
fervor of my religious faith, I found out very soon that it was Joseph
Hoff I loved.”
“How did the revelation come?” Walda whispered.
“One day, when I went back into the hay-field to find a rake I had left,
Joseph Hoff, who was working on the top of the stack, came down to the
field, and, taking both my hands, he kissed me.” Frieda lifted the
corner of her apron and half hid her face as she made this confession.
“Ah, that was sinful, indeed!” exclaimed Walda, her eyes wide with
horror. “We of Zanah have been taught that a kiss is the password that
Satan giveth to weak and foolish men and women. I hope that thou didst
rebuke the bold and sinful youth.”
Frieda raised her apron a little higher and made no reply.
“What didst thou do when he had kissed thee?” Walda asked, after a
moment of silence.
“I—I—waited for him to kiss me again.”
Walda drew away from the girl beside her. “How couldst thou let any man
touch thy lips?” she exclaimed in indignation.
“Because I loved him.”
“And since Joseph Hoff hath kissed thee, hast thou not lost the sense of
holiness that belongeth to the people of Zanah?”
“Nay, every kiss hath added a glory to the earth. I care no longer for
heaven if I may dwell with Joseph Hoff here in Zanah.”
“Truly, thy state of mind doth alarm me, Frieda. Thou hast many of the
emotions that have come to me since the beginning of mine inspiration,
and yet thou hast fallen a victim to the wiles of man. Pray that thine
eyes may be opened to thine errors.”
“Nay, I would not pray that, lest my prayer should be answered. If I
prayed from my heart, I would ask that many years might be given me to
live and love Joseph Hoff here on earth.” Frieda Bergen rose and walked
away, but she turned back to put her hand on Walda Kellar’s shoulder.
“Forgive me if I seem of a stubborn spirit. I know that thou canst not
understand how the love of man can take possession of a woman’s heart.
Thou wilt be satisfied to live aloof from the people of Zanah that thou
mayst be near to God, but I would rather have the love of Joseph Hoff
than the inspiration that cometh to a prophetess of Zanah.”
“It is my duty to reprimand thee for thy sin, but somehow, when thou
speakest of Joseph Hoff, I cannot feel the abhorrence for thy
transgression that should fill my heart. I will pray that the Lord may
show thee the right way.”
Walda leaned her head against the settle and thought about Frieda
Bergen’s state of mind, but her thoughts were confused. Her reflections
were interrupted by Everett, who came into the inn. Drawing near to the
fireplace, he made a great show of drying his hat, which was wet from
the rain. Walda did not seem to notice his presence.
“You appear to be troubled about something,” he said.
“Yea. A matter of much moment hath been laid before me, and I have not
wisdom enough to see it in all its sinfulness.”
“Do you suppose my worldly advice would help you?” Everett asked.
“Nay, thou hast different measures of judgment from those set by the
people of Zanah. Thou dost not hold earthly love a sin.”
“No, I do not, Walda.” Everett smiled. “I hold love—the earthly love you
are taught to try to escape—as the most precious gift the Creator gave
to the children of men.”
His voice was low, and it betrayed an intensity of feeling that caused
Walda to give him a questioning glance. Everett looked at her with so
much tenderness she turned her head away.
“Thou hast in thy tones the same sound that was strange in Frieda’s
voice. Dost thou love? Hast thou the same unreasoning rapture as Joseph
Hoff?”
“Not the same, Walda. I love much more than any man in Zanah.”
Walda’s face became as white as the cap upon her soft hair. She clasped
her hands tightly together and said, with a catch in her voice:
“Stephen, why hast thou never told me of thy love?”
“Because I thought you would not care to hear about it. Because it is
forbidden to speak of love in Zanah,” Everett answered.
He seated himself beside her on the settle. From behind the high desk
Diedrich Werther now and then stared at them with a glimmer of suspicion
in his eyes. His recent contact with the world at the railway station
evidently had made him less trustful than his fellow-colonists. Everett
noticed the innkeeper’s watchfulness, and therefore was careful not to
betray emotion.
“Walda, you are not angry because I have deceived you, are you?” he
said, when she did not answer him.
“Angry with thee, Stephen? Nay, thy love cannot concern the prophetess
of Zanah.” Her lip quivered, but she held her head high, and disdained
to let him know that the heart beneath her kerchief was throbbing so
that her words were almost smothered in her throat. “Thy confession did
cause me to be abashed for a moment. I had never thought that out in the
world some woman loved thee.”
She rose to her feet as she spoke, and she would have gone away without
another word but he boldly caught her hand and pulled her back upon the
settle. Diedrich Werther looked on with jaw dropped and pipe suspended
at elbow-length, but Everett defied him.
“You misunderstand me, Walda. I want to explain to you, but this is not
the place.”
“I—I would not hear what thou hast to say about thy love, Stephen,” she
said, with a faint smile. “Frieda hath told me her story, and it is
enough for me to think of in the watches of the night. Detain me not. I
must pray for Frieda Bergen. I must seek divine light for the
understanding of mortal weaknesses, of which love is said to be the most
dangerous. Verily, to-day I fear the inspiration hath been withdrawn
from me, for I am dull of comprehension.”
Before Everett could reply, Gerson Brandt entered the room. The
school-master came towards them with a stern look upon his face.
“Why dost thou talk here with the prophetess of Zanah?” he said,
addressing Everett. “Thou canst have nothing to say that will be worthy
of her hearing, since she is close to heaven and thou art of the wicked
world.”
His long hair was wet as it lay upon his shoulders, and his thin face
was deeply lined.
“We were talking of love—earthly love,” Walda said, leaving her place
beside Everett. “Gerson Brandt, he hath just told me that he loveth.”
The school-master’s tall, gaunt form swayed beneath the burden of a
great emotion.
“Tell me, sir, thou hast not dared to speak of love to the prophetess of
Zanah?” he cried.
“Yes, I have spoken of love,” said Everett, going to the farther side of
the fireplace. “Yes, I have spoken of love.” He was again the cool,
well-poised man of the world. Carelessly he took up an old pair of
bellows, as he added: “But you need not fear. The prophetess of Zanah
did not care to hear about my love.”
“Walda, thou wouldst not listen to any man who would dare to speak of
love to thee, wouldst thou?” Gerson Brandt asked, in an agony of fear.
“Disturb not thyself, Gerson Brandt,” Walda answered. “What harm can
there be in Stephen Everett’s declaration that he loveth a woman out in
the world?”
An expression of relief passed over the face of the school-master. Beads
of perspiration stood upon his white forehead. He was shaking so that he
had to steady himself against the end of the settle.
“Thy time of inspiration is so near that thou shouldst not speak to the
stranger,” he said, in a softened tone. “Thou art close to heaven, and
it is not wise for thee to commune with any man.”
“Must I speak no more with thee, Gerson Brandt?” Walda looked at him
with all the tenderness of a deep affection shining in her eyes. Everett
watched her as she addressed the school-master. The childish heart and
the unawakened soul associated with the majestic form of a woman had
fascinated him when he first came to Zanah, but he saw that the face,
once as placid as a nun’s, showed the inner disquietude that is the
recompense of those who come into a knowledge of the great emotions of
life.
“Thou wouldst better dwell alone until the great day of the
_Untersuchung_,” Gerson Brandt said to Walda. “Go now to thy closet,
where thou canst pray until thou forgettest what thou hast heard of
earthly love.”
Walda started to obey the counsel of the school-master, but she
hesitated after she had gone to the door. She glanced at Everett. His
tall form was outlined in the fire-light, but she could not see his
face, which was in the shadow.
“I would speak a last word with Stephen Everett,” she said. Gerson
Brandt stood by the door while she went near to Everett.
“Since this may be my last meeting with thee, I would offer thee
gratitude from my heart for all that thou hast done for my father and
for me,” she said. “Thou hast helped me to gain wisdom, Stephen.”
“Do not speak of gratitude, Walda. You cannot say good-bye to me here,
for I shall see you again.”
“Nay, I may not be permitted to see thee again.” She stopped, as if she
were taking care to speak wisely. “It is my prayer, Stephen, that thy
love shall bring happiness to thee and to the woman upon whom thou hast
set thine heart.”
She was gone before she could hear Everett’s reply.