Walda: A Novel

by Mary Holland Kinkaid

The man and woman bending over the form of the simple one looked into each other’s eyes for a second. Then Everett lifted Hans Peter in his arms, carried him down the steps, and, passing through the crowd, disappeared within the door of the inn.

Standing upon the platform of the stocks, Walda looked after them until the inn-door had closed. Turning, she beheld Gerson Brandt staring at her with terror in his eyes. He was ghastly pale, and his thin nostrils were widely dilated with the quickness of his breathing.

“Art thou ill, Gerson Brandt?” she asked.

“Nay, I have my usual health. Just now, fear clutcheth at my heart.”

“Fear, Gerson Brandt? Thou wert ever brave. What is it that thou couldst fear?”

“A shadow was cast over me. It hath passed.”

Gerson Brandt stooped to pick up his hat, and motioned to Walda to pass down the steps before him. As Walda walked through the square the people bowed before her, in token of their recognition that she was, indeed, the prophetess, for it was whispered that the stranger from the outside world had given his word to Adolph Schneider that he would pay twice the value of the Bible on condition that Hans Peter should not be further punished.

XIV

Everett counted the days until the Untersuchung. Only ten intervened. In less than a fortnight Walda would be cut off from all communication with him. She would have entered into her duties as the leader of the colony. She would be the prophetess—the inspired one. He tried to imagine himself looking on during the quaint ceremony of the Untersuchung, and he had to face the knowledge that he could not stand by while the girl passed forever beyond his reach. Even while he dared vaguely to plan some way by which he could win her for himself, he had a few misgivings concerning her unfitness for his world, which he knew she would find strange and cruel. He told himself that he could protect her, that he could make her happy, and that he could help her to become adjusted to a different sphere. With the unreason of the lover he imagined how they would live for each other, aloof from all the ordinary demands of every-day existence. He knew that she loved the few books that had been open to her in Zanah, and he dreamed of the days when he would guide her into a broader knowledge, when he would help her to acquire the sort of an education suited to her unusual mind. He was confident that her artistic nature would develop in a congenial atmosphere. It would be his pride to cultivate her glorious voice, and to teach her to understand the painter’s art, which Zanah held sinful. His thoughts travelled over the same circle again and again, but always he came back to the idea that he must act quickly if he would save her from bondage to the colony—if he would awaken her to the meaning of his love.

He was thankful for the opportunity her daily prayers at the tomb of Marta Bachmann gave him to meet her, but the next night after he had walked with her to the little cemetery he had seen her cross the bridge accompanied by no less a person than Mother Schneider herself. He had been compelled to pace restlessly back and forth among the trees, keeping out of sight lest his presence might be discovered.