The Playground of Satan Part 11

Indeed, the priest, too, had fears about it; guards, he said, sleep with their eyes open. But Roman was so enthusiastic and hopeful, so thoroughly master of the situation that he inspired the others with his optimism. Besides, the priest knew he was thinking of to-morrow morning; and the power of the secret they shared overcame his objections.

They changed clothes at last, Joseph putting the Cossack's cap well over his eyes. Then they embraced again. Joseph began to talk of grat.i.tude; but Roman cut him short.

"I'll see you soon, I hope. Meanwhile, marry Vanda and fight for us."

"I will. Oh, Roman, you're heaping coals of fire on my head."

"Fiddlesticks! Now, be off, and show a brazen face."

Roman had put on the Prussian clothes far quicker than Joseph had taken them off, and before the others left, threw himself on the straw mattress, his back to the door. The brothers were much the same height and build, and Roman had shaved his red beard before sitting down to supper with the Countess and Rennenkampf that night. His face was darker than Joseph's, though he had washed; but the light was so bad and the guards so indifferent and unsuspecting that Father Constantine felt almost easy in his mind when a sentry looked in as he let them out.

"He's got his pa.s.sport," he remarked, nodding towards the mattress.

"German swine."

He saluted Joseph, who strode downstairs, clanking his spurs and carrying himself as straight as you please. In one of the corridors they pa.s.sed a cornet, who called out to him; but he strode on, muttering something between his teeth. Father Constantine noticed that the subaltern was going up to the turret. After his visit the sentries would probably doze. Roman knew what he was doing, anyway.

It was nearly three when, at last, the priest threw himself into a chair in the sacristy. He could not leave the chapel precincts while Joseph lay hiding there. Not that he hoped to be any good, supposing that the Russians took it into their heads to look there for their quarry; but he felt he would be in a fever of apprehension if he went to his rooms.

With some trouble and many precautions he had managed to hide Joseph under the altar of a side chapel, dedicated to the Mother of G.o.d of Czenstochova. The altar was there temporarily, the Countess having ordered a marble one last time she was in Rome; the war had stopped its arrival, and only the other day she had said how sorry she was not to get it sooner. And now, it looked as if the wooden altar was to save Joseph's life. Its back was hollow, and there he hid.

The priest could not sleep, tired though he felt. His mind was full of trouble. Suddenly, he remembered that the narrow-eyed Muscovite knew the story of Joseph's arrest and would suspect him when he heard of the escape, would search the chapel. But then he comforted himself with the thought that even _he_ would not order his men to pull out an altar. He was not a Prussian. After that, he began to worry about Roman. How could he get past those guards? The more he thought about it the clearer it seemed that he had run his head into certain danger. Not only would he be caught, but all his dear ones would be dragged into the trouble; that Muscovite would punish every inmate of Ruvno in his rage. Such were his thoughts as night gradually left the sacristy.

At last he fell into a troubled doze. He was awakened by the sound of musket shots coming through the open window. With vague fears he hurried into the garden. A young subaltern was enjoying the last of the Countess' roses; all was quiet.

"Reminds me of Monte Carlo," he remarked.

"What were those shots?"

He turned his head towards a tall pine, where smoke, blue in the air, still lingered.

"Only a German." He plucked a large red rose, heavy with dew, saluted and walked off, whistling.

With shaking knees the old man staggered to the stretch of sward upon which Prince Mniszek killed Ian's father, years ago. Under the pine lay a huddled form. Somebody had thrown a blanket over it. He drew it aside and knelt before the body. The film of death had covered his eyes. His wounds were horrible. But it was Roman, dressed in the Prussian uniform, the one white patch of cloth stained with blood....

Had he been caught? Did he, when he sent Joseph down, know that this was the only way to save him? Or did the thought of Vanda's happiness urge his sacrifice? The priest remembered his anxiety that Joseph should promise to fight against Prussia, his insistence for a solemn oath. Did he think that, since one of them must die, better he, rather than the man Vanda loved? Who shall look into his heart, one of the bravest and truest that ever beat? Father Constantine puzzled his brains many times, but found no answer. And he could not ask anybody to help, because he alone knew that Roman Skarbek, and no Prussian spy, lay under the pine tree in the rose garden.

He never even found that subaltern, who must have gone off while he was weeping over Roman's remains. A couple of soldiers came up to take them away. He could not bear the thought of their burying him in a ditch, wanted him to lie amongst the trees and the other soldiers, where he had been the day before, laughing and joyous because he found Ruvno safe in the midst of the storm.

"Leave him to me. He was a Catholic," he pleaded. They looked at each other.

"We've orders to bury him."

"Then take him over there," he pointed to the home forest.

"Too far," said one. "We're off this minute."

As they dug a hasty grave for him he went for Holy Water, and gave him Christian burial. And much later, when he could control his face, he told the Countess that the German who had been shot in the Garden was a Catholic; so they put up one of the wooden Crosses such as you can see by the thousand in Poland to-day. And when there was n.o.body about he used to pray for his soul. And sometimes, in the very early morning, he would take the portable altar out there, and say a Ma.s.s for Roman Skarbek.

And because the burden of his secret was worse than his heart could bear, he sat up all night when the household thought him asleep and set it down in his diary.

VI

Ian, on waking that morning, found that all the Cossacks had left. He went in to breakfast, feeling a little hurt with his cousin, Roman. He might at least have shouted a farewell through the window.

"Has anybody seen Roman this morning?" he asked the rest of the family as they met for the morning meal.

"He came in last night for a moment, after supper," said the Countess.

"But I was going to the wards and we did not talk. He said some officer had sent for him."

"He was going to shoot a spy at daybreak," said Minnie. Vanda was silent. She had not seen him at all, had kept away from the supper-table, on purpose to avoid him.

At that moment Father Constantine came in. His face was ashen gray and distorted with emotion.

"What's the matter?" they all asked.

"Nothing. That is..." He could not speak. Ian made him sit down and went to a sideboard for brandy, which he waved aside.

"Joseph Skarbek is here," he stammered.

"Roman, you mean?" suggested Ian.

He shook his head and said with sudden vigor:

"No--not Roman. He..." Then, with another effort, painful to see, he added: "Roman went away this morning."

They thought he was going to faint. Ian loosened his neckband, the Countess dipped her napkin in water and dabbed his wrinkled face; Vanda made him drink something. Minnie stood near, watching and listening.

He had enough people taking care of him; besides, it took all her time to follow what was said. They talked Polish; a habit of theirs whenever they got excited or related thrilling experiences, so that she had to concentrate all her energies upon listening to them. They were pained and puzzled over Father Constantine, speculating as to what had happened to upset him like this.

"He is overworked," was Vanda's verdict, "I'm sure he's not been to bed last night. Look how rumpled he is."

He lay back in the chair, his eyes closed, his thin hands, puckered with age and none too clean, closing and unclosing on the chair arms.

"Worn out," said Ian, whilst his mother watched her faithful chaplain with deep concern. "I'll take him into my room. It's quiet there." He proceeded to do this; but the patient suddenly sat upright and said peremptorily:

"Leave me alone!"

"But you must rest," explained the Countess, soothingly.

"Nonsense.... I was never better in my life." They exchanged glances; the poor old man was out of his mind; never, in all the years he had been at Ruvno, had he spoken to her like that. Before they had recovered from their astonishment he got up and walked across the room, tottering a little, but more sure of his step every minute. They watched him in silence and Ian, at least, stood spellbound. This little old man, with his creased alpaca soutane, muddy shoes and unshaven chin, dominated the room.

He reached the door, which was a long way off, just as one of the servants came in with coffee.

"Give me that! And go away!" he ordered, taking the tray from its astounded bearer.

"Do as the Father says," said Ian, hurrying to take the heavy tray.