“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.