Walda: A Novel

by Mary Holland Kinkaid

“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.