XVII

Kneeling by the window in her bare little room, Walda tried to pray

after the manner of Zanah, yet no words of penitence came to the lips

that had been touched by a lover’s kiss. The soul that the good elders

had turned towards heaven as a mirror upon which the divine will might

be reflected held an earthly image. A human love was enshrined in the

heart that had been consecrated to God. As the girl prostrated herself,

the discipline of long years of religious training was forgotten. Her

Zanah life fell from her. New emotions swept over her, submerging her

old character and bringing strange, sweet hopes. The soul of the

priestess was consumed by the supreme passion of earth, and in its place

flamed the soul of a woman.

One by one the lowly duties that had occupied her days came up before

her. She recalled the pious fervor that had made them pleasant. Looking

back to the time when Everett’s chance words in the sick-room had

tempted her to enjoy the beauties of sky and field, she realized how far

she had grown away from her former self since the almost imperceptible

beginning of the fuller life which she had unconsciously entered.

Kneeling there in the darkness, for the first time in all her life she

rebelled against the laws of Zanah. Her youth and womanhood demanded the

privilege of accepting human love. Everett’s influence was over her, and

she gave little thought to the future. It was enough to feel the

exaltation of love, to comprehend that she stood at the threshold of the

ultimate mystery of life. She looked out at the stars that shone above

the far horizon. She felt that she had ceased to belong to Zanah. It was

as if she had entered into a larger kinship with all nature. Love had

wrought the miracle that puts away all one’s years and leads the soul

into a new existence independent of the past, expectant of the future.

Long after the village had gone to sleep Everett stayed out in the

starlight, thinking of the weeks he had spent in Zanah, and of the woman

who would henceforth claim his life’s allegiance. He dreamed of the

future that was his and Walda’s. He saw the girl’s stunted life

expanding under its new environments. His thoughts wandered over

imaginary years, and he beheld her clad in the ripened charm of

maturity. He saw the light of happiness in her eyes reflected in the

eyes of their children. Sometimes, perhaps, they would look back to

Zanah and thank God that among the middle-aged mothers with dwarfed

minds and cramped souls there was none that bore the name of Walda

Kellar.

For Walda the next day dawned with mysterious splendor. Zanah had fallen

under a spell of enchantment, yet as the village awoke to life all its

influences once more stole over her. Looking out of her window, she

began to remember that she had been the prophetess of Zanah. She watched

the men and boys walk leisurely towards the factory. Ox-teams creaked up

the narrow street. The children solemnly wandered schoolward. She could

no longer put her father or Gerson Brandt from her thoughts. The

realization that she would give them pain burst upon her.

She tried to think what Everett’s love meant to her, but she found it

impossible to get beyond the one idea that she was to be unfaithful to

the trust that the people of Zanah had put in her. She did not shrink

from facing the change in her position in the colony, but she could not

understand what her future would be. She recalled that Everett had taken

it for granted she would leave Zanah, but she knew she could not desert

her father, even though a greater love than that which she bore for him

might call her away. She was not sad, however, for underneath her new

anxieties there was the consciousness of the revelation of love, the

recognition of divinity that was so different from the one to which she

had looked forward since her childhood. It gradually came over her that

the inspiration she had felt came through a human medium, and not

directly from heaven. She fell upon her knees before the low table that

held her little German Bible. She tried to pray that she might know the

will of God, but she could not bring herself to plead that she would

have power to cast out from her heart the human love which had brought

to her life the holy exaltation she had hoped to obtain through rigid

conformity to the creed of Zanah.

Walda went out of the house of the women and stood in the little street,

in which she felt suddenly that she was a stranger. She turned her steps

towards the hill, for she obeyed the impulse to go to her father.

Wilhelm Kellar was sitting in the window whence Walda had looked so many

times at the far-off bluffs. He was reading his Bible, and as Walda

entered the room he was mildly rebuking Piepmatz, who was singing the

doxology and the love-song, mingled in such a medley as was never before

heard from the throat of any bird.

“Peace be with thee, daughter,” he said, taking off his horn spectacles

and stretching out his thin hand to her.

Walda clasped his hands, and her eyes fell beneath his glance. “Thou art

feeling better, I hope?” she said, sinking upon a stool that was just

beneath Piepmatz’s cage.

“The knowledge that the day of the _Untersuchung_ is so near giveth me

new life,” declared the old man. “To-day I am full of gratitude because

the Lord hath kept thee safe from the wiles of men. I have given thanks

unto the Lord that thou art to be the prophetess.”

Walda’s face flushed and then became pale. Her heart beat so that she

could not answer.

“Come near to me, Walda,” her father said. “I would tell thee that thou

hast crowned my life with happiness, that thou hast atoned for the sin

of the mother who bore thee.”

Walda knelt before him and hid her face upon his knee.

“Nay, nay, father,” she cried, “I am unworthy of thy trust. I am but a

weak woman such as thou sayest my mother was.”

“It is right that thou shouldst feel humble, my daughter,” the old man

replied, putting both hands upon her head. “But thou hast not sinned in

deceiving those that trust thee. Thou hast not known the temptations of

a human love.”

“Father, father!” Walda raised her head and looked up with tearful eyes.

A knock sounded on the door, and Hans Peter, still tapping on the

door-jamb with one of his gourds, crossed the threshold.

“The elders have sent me to tell thee they would consult with thee. They

bade me make ready the ink-horn and the papers, as they have business of

much importance,” he announced.

Walda went away from her father’s room with her confession still

unspoken. She lingered for a moment on the school-house porch, for she

felt uncertain what to do with her day. For the first time in all her

Zanah life she had no inviting task before her. She was already removed

from the calm routine of duty. Ordinarily she would have gone to study

the heavy books kept in the elders’ room which occupied a little wing of

the meeting-house, but as she looked at the door, which stood invitingly

open, she felt that she would no longer need to be familiar with the

annals of former prophetesses and the discourses of the elders long

since sanctified by good works. She had a sense of being outside the

colony. A pang of homesickness made her sink upon the bench and look out

upon the quiet valley.

The years had slipped by so noiselessly that she had come into womanhood

without realizing the changes wrought by time. When she was a child, the

colonists had labored in simple harmony and humble faith, content to

work for the common welfare. Each season their harvests had been more

abundant, their vineyards more fruitful, their lands more extensive. In

the midst of this well-preserved plenty she had been happy, although she

had often vexed the “mothers” by her sudden impulses and hasty actions.

Beneath the kerchief crossed upon her breast now an eager, restless

heart beat, and she comprehended that all the teachings of the good

elders had not altered her intense nature. It seemed to her that Zanah

had been metamorphosed since the coming of the early summer-time when

she had looked forward to the autumn with a large hope for the final

step towards her complete consecration to the service of God and the

colony. She felt that, somehow, mysterious influences were at work.

There was a general discontent. It had been a bad year for both the

mills and the harvest fields, and she had represented hope and wisdom to

the colonists. Tears came to her eyes when she thought that she had

betrayed the trust of Zanah, and yet underneath her remorse was the

consciousness that she was being led by the divine power in which she

had trusted. Love flamed beneath every shifting emotion.

Through her tears Walda gazed down at the quaint village. The low-roofed

stone houses were almost hidden beneath the vines and shrubbery that

were turning to gorgeous color with the magic touch of the first frosts

which had come early. Beyond the village the little valley melted into

the plain, which rolled away to the far-off bluffs. The fields were

brown and gold, as the gleaners had left them after the harvests, except

here and there where the rich, black earth had been turned up by the

plough. Cattle grazed beside the placid river that flowed almost

imperceptibly onward to the Mississippi. The sunlight, mellowed by the

autumn haze, glorified even the commonest every-day things. The scene

had the beauty that gave it unreality. As her eyes rested upon the

familiar landscape Walda felt a vague fear that it might vanish, since

she had forfeited her right to remain in it as one of the faithful

colonists. While she was looking down the wavering street she saw Gerson

Brandt slowly climbing the hill. He had taken off the broad-rimmed hat

that distinguished him from the other men of Zanah, and Walda noticed

with a pang that his face had the stamp of pain upon it. He paused

half-way up the hill to look back upon the village, and the girl, whose

perceptions had been quickened with her recognition of an earthly love,

noticed that the school-master’s tall form was more stooped than usual.

When he resumed his walk towards the school-house Gerson Brandt caught

sight of Walda, and his face took on an expression of gladness.

“Providence is kind to give me yet another chance to speak with thee

before the _Untersuchung_,” he said, pausing before her. He saw that

there were tears in her eyes, which refused to meet his glance. “Thou

hast no sorrow? Surely, I know that nothing can disturb thee, now that

thou art so near to thy Father in heaven. Yet why dost thou weep?”

He pushed the long hair back from his forehead with a trembling hand

while he waited for her reply, but she remained silent, with only her

profile turned to him. The white kerchief on her breast moved with her

quick breathing.

“Canst thou not answer me, Walda?” he asked, in the tender tone that she

remembered from her childhood.

Walda rested her elbows on the back of the porch seat, and, with her

chin in her hands, shook her white-capped head. The tears began to fall

so rapidly that she dared not try to speak. Gerson Brandt sank upon the

seat opposite her.

“It would be foolish for me to offer thee solace for thine aching heart,

for I know that thou, who art the prophetess of Zanah, no longer cravest

human sympathy. Forgive me for forgetting that thou art no longer the

colony maiden over whom I have felt a care all these years. Yet thy

tears are no more sacred to me now than they were in thine earliest

childhood, Walda. Thy griefs were always felt by me.” Gerson Brandt

leaned forward as if he would read what was in Walda’s heart, and he

paled with a formless fear.

“Thy tears distress me,” he said, presently, “and yet I know that it is

but natural thou shouldst feel awe-stricken and oppressed with a weight

of responsibility, now that thou art so near to thy consecration.”

“Speak not so. Thy words smite me,” exclaimed Walda, turning towards him

and blushing scarlet as she met his eyes. “I am not worthy to be the

prophetess. I—I—I am sorely troubled.” She put her face upon her arms

and sobbed.

“To them whom the Lord maketh most strong He revealeth weakness,” the

school-master replied.

“I shall need much strength,” said Walda, controlling herself with an

effort.

“Yea, that is true,” agreed Gerson Brandt. “My prayers will help to

support thee, for thou art always in my mind. Much have I rejoiced to

know that thou hast escaped all danger from earthly love. Ah, now that

thou hast safely passed thy period of probation nothing can befall

thee.”

“Gerson Brandt, tell me what would have happened if I had found an

earthly love?” asked Walda, turning to him with an intensity of interest

that was but lightly disguised.

“Why wouldst thou waste time talking of such an unprofitable subject now

at this holy season? It is a sacrilege to link the name of the

prophetess of Zanah with an earthly love.”

The school-master was looking far away as he answered, and he did not

see that his words caused the girl to clasp her hands tightly and to

bite her full, red lips.

“Tell me, is human love such a wicked thing, after all? Thou didst once

speak to me as if thou hadst known it, and thou canst tell me whether it

hath in it something of the divine quality. If I had loved, wouldst thou

have condemned me as severely as would those of the colonists who live

like the cattle on the fields, feeling none of the mystery and the glory

of life?”

“If thou hadst loved any man I should have sorrowed more than all the

colony, for I have longed to see thee spared the pangs and pains that

love brings.”

“Doth love never bring happiness?”

“The woman who loveth must suffer much,” declared Gerson Brandt.

“But women are glad to suffer for love.”

In Walda’s eyes shone the light of a new-born courage, and Gerson

Brandt, catching some of the spirit that had taken possession of her,

answered:

“Walda, it passeth understanding that thou shouldst speak thus of love

now, when thou hast gone forever beyond the reach of temptation. Thy

mood doth confound me.”

He went near to her, and, standing before her, studied her face.

“In thine eyes I behold a mystery,” he said, presently, with a tremor in

his voice. “Thou hast lost the essence of childhood that lingered with

thee until—was it yesterday or to-day that thou didst lose it?”

“The world hath been different to me since the sun set yesterday.” Walda

spoke the words softly, and Gerson Brandt beheld in her face a radiance

which made him ashamed of the vague suspicions that had sent a chill to

his heart.

“Verily, the spirit of prophecy hath descended upon thee. Thou hast come

into the full possession of the divine gift.” He drew away from her, and

looked at her in awe.

“Nay, nay,” Walda faltered; “thou art deceived.”

Her gaze wandered past him as she spoke, and she saw, ascending the

hill, six of the village mothers. Gerson Brandt, following her glance,

said: “This is the day when thy vigil beginneth. The watchers are coming

for thee.”

Walda’s face paled.

“I had forgotten that the time had come,” she exclaimed. “I am not ready

for it. I am unworthy.”

“It is the hour of our last talk together,” Gerson Brandt announced, in

a solemn tone. “Thy misgivings are only human.” He raised his hands

above her bowed head and gave her his blessing. He could not trust

himself to look at her again. Passing by her he entered the

school-house, closing the door tightly behind him, lest he might be

tempted to look back.

Walda submissively followed the women, who led the way to the little

room that opened out of the bare auditorium of the meeting-house. It was

here that she had spent many hours of study among the elders’ books, but

its appearance was slightly changed. In one corner stood a cot covered

with white blankets of the finest weave that came from the looms of

Zanah. In the centre was a reading-desk, upon which a large Bible lay

open. Six chairs were ranged along the wall just outside the door that

led into the interior of the meeting-house.

“Thou wilt find nothing to distract thy thoughts here,” said Mother

Kaufmann, glancing into the room.

“We will take good care that thou art not disturbed,” asserted Mother

Schneider.

Walda gave no sign that she heard. Crossing the threshold she closed the

door, shutting out the six women. She threw herself upon the bed, and

gave way to a paroxysm of weeping. The realization that she had missed

her opportunity to confess her love for Everett at first frightened her,

for she knew it was now too late to speak before going to the

_Untersuchung_. Zanah guarded a prophetess so carefully that when once

the door of the sanctuary in which Marta Bachmann had fasted and prayed

closed upon one supposed to be inspired, no word could be spoken. She

lay awake far into the night. When the day had faded, a single candle

had been put upon her reading-desk by Mother Kaufmann, who scanned her

face with the inquisitive look of a mischief-maker. Walda, sitting with

folded hands, had appeared oblivious of the woman’s presence. She had

heard the evening prayers of the colony gathered in the meeting-house.

She felt a dull pain when she recalled her father’s face. Underneath

every emotion that she experienced in the dreary watches of the night

she was always conscious of the memory of Everett’s voice as he pleaded

for her love. At first she had a faint hope that he might speak to her

through the window, or that, in some way, he would send her a token of

encouragement, but nothing disturbed the oppressive quiet of the laggard

hours.

Walda was wakened early in the morning, after a brief and troubled

sleep, by the whispers of the women outside her door. She knew that the

watch was being changed, and that soon she would be expected to be

kneeling at her prayers. Rising from the cot she looked out of the one

window—it overlooked the school-house garden, and she saw Gerson Brandt

walking back and forth amid the tangled nasturtiums and late asters. As

he moved to and fro he never once turned his eyes towards the

meeting-house. With difficulty Walda repressed an impulse to call him to

her. Through all her childhood and girlhood he had bent a ready ear when

she told him her troubles, and now it seemed an easy matter to confide

in him. While she was still at the window, Gerson Brandt went up the

worn steps that led to the school-room.

A long, dull day followed for Walda. Her pride enabled her to preserve

an outward calm when, on various pretexts, the women opened the door to

look in upon her. She tried to think what she ought to do. So great is

the power of love that it did not occur to her she might try to put out

of her heart the sacred emotion she had mistaken for religious

inspiration. She accepted it as the divine gift for which she had been

waiting. Although she knew that it was likely her father would forbid

her marriage to Everett, she told herself no one in Zanah could take

away from her the glory of an earthly love. Towards the end of the day

she fell again into the old habit of praying much. Kneeling at the

reading-desk, with her head upon the big Bible, she asked that she might

be given strength to do her duty to her father, and to submit to the

will of Zanah.

For the second time the evening hymns were chanted outside the door.

Walda listened quite calmly, and, long after she knew the meeting-house

was emptied of all except the six watchers, she sat in the fading light

of the evening looking out into the schoolyard, and thinking serenely of

the life she was putting behind her. Presently her thoughts were

disturbed by a man’s voice. With a heart-flutter she recognized

Everett’s low, clear tones. She heard him command one of the women to

open the door. Rising to her feet, she listened breathlessly to the

protracted parley that followed. Without warning, a light knock sounded

on the door.

“Let me in, Walda,” said Everett.

Before she could go to the door, he had lifted the latch and had

entered, followed by the six women, all of whom spoke words of angry

protest.

“So this is where they have hidden you, Walda?” he said, paying no

attention to the colony mothers. “I have searched for you all day, for I

have much that I wish to say to you.”

His manner was quiet and determined. “I wish to be left alone with Walda

Kellar,” he said, turning to the watchers. “I have a message of much

importance to give to her.”

“How darest thou break in upon the vigil of a prophetess of Zanah!”

shrieked Mother Kaufmann. “Dost thou not know that the instrument of the

Lord is not permitted to speak until the last hour of her probation hath

expired?”

“Ja, ja, Mother Kaufmann is right. We will send for the elders if thou

dost not leave here this minute,” chorused the women.

Everett coolly surveyed the group. Putting out his hand he grasped

Walda’s arm, and quickly drew her into the meeting-house assembly-room.

With a quick motion he slammed the door and turned the key, imprisoning

the six women, who immediately began to call for help. Reopening the

door for a little space he ordered them to keep silence, accompanying

his admonition with the remark that if they summoned a crowd they would

prove they were not fit to watch the prophetess. For the second time he

turned the big key. Walda had watched the proceeding with astonishment.

Her face was white and scared when he put his arms around her and drew

her to him.

“There, do not be frightened,” he said, soothingly, as he kissed her on

the forehead. “I have come to take you away.”

“Ah, Stephen; now, indeed, do I know that I was never fitted to be a

prophetess,” said Walda, looking up into his face. “My heart hath

thirsted for thee. With thine arms around me I feel as if I had found a

safe refuge from all my troubles. When thou didst kiss me I forgot for a

moment that I had been untrue to the people who trusted me.”

“I mean never to let you go away from me again,” he said. “But come; we

are wasting time. Let us go now to your father and tell him that you are

to belong to me, and not to Zanah.”

Walda drew away from him. “Nay, Stephen,” she said. “In the nights and

day that I have been alone there in that room, it hath been made plain

to me that I must tell all the people how I have betrayed their faith in

me.”

“You owe the people nothing,” said Everett, with a trace of impatience

in his voice. “Come; there is no time to be lost. I mean to take you

away from Zanah this very night. Your father and Gerson Brandt can

explain to the colony why you are not to be their prophetess.”

Walda shook her head. “Wouldst thou have me show a craven spirit?” she

inquired. “Dost thou think I could go away to be happy with thee and

forget my father, even if I could be unmindful of what I owe the men and

women of Zanah?”

“Do you not think you owe me any duty?” Stephen asked. “Do not let us

stand here discussing what is right and wrong. It is right that you

should be my wife. You have been the victim of the bigotry and

superstition of a clannish, religious sect. Love has made you free.

Doesn’t your heart tell you to answer the call from my heart?” He

stretched out his arms to her, but she stepped beyond his reach.

“Stephen, I have prayed constantly that wisdom might be given me, and my

way hath been made plain before me,” she answered, firmly. “I must go

before the _Untersuchung_, and, for my father’s sake, I must accept

whatever penalty is meted out to me.”

“Do you mean that you would submit to any decree of the colony of Zanah?

That signifies that you do not love me, after all. It means that you are

lost to me forever.”

The strong man’s voice trembled as he spoke. A wave of passion and

longing swept over him. He drew her to him and held her close, pillowing

her head upon his breast, and whispering to her that she was his; it was

not in her power to make the choice since love gave him the right to

her.

“Thou dost affright me. There is something in thy love that terrifies

me,” she said, trying to make him free her.

“I shall not let you go until you have promised that you will marry me,”

he said.

“I cannot promise that, Stephen,” she said, so faintly that he scarcely

heard her. “Thou knowest I cannot leave my father, and surely thou

wouldst not be content to stay here in Zanah.”

“I could live here or anywhere else with you. Promise.”

“Nay, nay, I cannot,” she repeated.

“Will you pledge yourself to marry me when your conscience tells you

that you are free?”

“It is in my heart to promise that to thee, Stephen, but during my vigil

I have come to know that if thou shouldst live away from me out in the

world thou mightst no longer love me. Nay, I will not bind thee. The

only pledge I give thee is the pledge that I will love thee all my

life.”

A furious knocking on the door made them remember the imprisoned

watchers.

“If you refuse to go with me now what do you wish to do?” Stephen asked,

coming back to the subject of his original errand.

“I want to wait until the _Untersuchung_, and I want thee to be patient

until thou hearest what the elders say. I shall pray that I may be given

to thee.”

“There is no danger of your repenting of love, is there, Walda?”

She smiled confidently and answered: “Thy love will dwell in my heart

forever.”

He kissed her farewell, holding both her hands in his.

“I wish I could spare you the ordeal of the _Untersuchung_,” he

exclaimed. “Why need we care for all the world?”

“Hush!” she said. “We care not for Zanah or the whole world, but if we

would keep our love holy, we must be true, Stephen, to all our duties.”

After he had kissed her for the last time, she stood before the elders’

platform and looked up at the chair of the prophetess. Everett unlocked

the door.

“I appreciate the opportunity you have given me of speaking to Walda

Kellar,” he said, with a suavity and courtesy to which the women of the

colony were so unaccustomed they did not know what it meant. They stood

scowling at him until Mother Kaufmann replied:

“Thou wilt be ordered out of the colony for this day’s work.”

“If you are wise—and I am sure you are, or you would not have been

chosen to attend the prophetess of Zanah—you will not make any

complaints.” He bowed deferentially to all of them, and passing Walda,

before whom he stopped to whisper “Farewell, until the _Untersuchung_,”

he went out of the meeting-house.

“It must have been a message of much import that brought the stranger

here,” sneered Mother Kaufmann, as she seated herself on the nearest

chair.

“He hath small respect for the laws of Zanah,” declared a second

watcher.

Without uttering a word, Walda returned to her place of temporary

imprisonment. Kneeling before her reading-desk, she prayed that she

might be given strength and courage to accept whatever penalty the

elders might allot to her.