Walda: A Novel

by Mary Holland Kinkaid

The evening of the Day of Warning closed in dark and dreary. The rain stopped and a high wind came up. After tea in the inn, Everett walked up and down the porch. The village square and the winding street were deserted. At long intervals lights gleamed from fast-curtained windows. At first he took it for granted that Walda would not make her nightly visit to the grave of Marta Bachmann. When he thought over the matter, however, it occurred to him that it might be well to walk out towards the cemetery. He knew the fanaticism of the colonists caused them to be punctilious in the smallest religious observances. He watched for Walda in vain. After Gerson Brandt’s exhibition of evident unfriendliness to him he knew that precautions might be taken to prevent Walda from passing the gasthaus. As he had nothing else to do, he decided that a walk out through the woods to the shore of the lake might possibly be rewarded by a glimpse of the prophetess. He met no one on the way to the cemetery, but when he reached the gate he could dimly discern the forms of two women who were standing by the grave of Marta Bachmann. He guessed that Mother Kaufmann had been sent with Walda. A tall hedge surrounded the God’s-acre of Zanah, and he followed this evergreen wall to the point where it was nearest the grave of the dead prophetess. He was careful that his presence should not be discovered by the colony “mother.”

An old oak-tree spread its branches over the little plot of ground in which the tomb of Marta Bachmann was situated. The wind waved the branches of this tree and blew a shower of brown leaves upon the two women. It wound Walda’s cloak about her and tore the shawl from Mother Kaufmann’s shoulders.

“This is a night to make the spirits of the dead walk about their old haunts,” said Mother Kaufmann.

“Put superstition away from thee,” Walda answered. “If thou hast fixed thy faith on God, evil spirits cannot harm thee.”

Mother Kaufmann put her hand to her forehead while she peered about her, as if to discover some chance ghost.

“Dost thou not hear footsteps among the dried leaves?” she asked Walda.

“Nay, Mother Kaufmann. Why art thou so affrighted?” the girl replied. At that moment a gust of wind almost swept them from their feet. Mother Kaufmann uttered a scream of terror and pointed to a far corner of the graveyard where a white form was moving about among the graves. She did not wait to find out who or what the unexpected apparition might be. Gathering her skirts in her hand she fled, leaving Walda alone beside the grave. Everett stepped through the hedge and spoke gently to Walda.

“Do not be afraid,” he said. “I will find out what sort of a ghost has frightened Mother Kaufmann.” He walked towards the place, where what appeared to be a headless form wrapped in a sheet was moving back and forth. When he came near to it he saw that it was a most substantial substance, for Hans Peter had borrowed a white rubber blanket, through which he had thrust his head, and thus improvised a most serviceable rain-coat.

“What are you doing here?” Everett asked, in an angry tone of voice. “Do you know that you have scared one of the colony women?”

“Thou hast no concern in what my errand may be,” said the simple one, gathering his rubber blanket around him and calmly seating himself upon the nearest gravestone. “If Mother Kaufmann had been scared to death there is none in Zanah who would have wept upon her bier.”