II
848 Words
IIYes, he had gone, fled he knew not whither, to hide his desolation and shame even from those who knew it not. Instinctively he had directed his steps toward the outer gates of the city, and having passed them, he was walking through the fields that led to the Trappist monastery, yonder by the hillside. The small cemetery belonging to the convent was lying peaceably in the moonlight, and the little chapel stood quite close, with its stained-glass windows illumined from within by the perpetual lamp that is forever kept burning before the high altar.
As Sergius looked before him, he suddenly saw Olga at the farther end of the field. She was walking very briskly, and a few moments afterward had disappeared into the chapel.
Sergius hesitated a moment. Should he follow her? Ah, yes, and speak to her, and perhaps dispel this horrid dream, and wake up to find reality, to find her once more pure, true, and honorable.
He ran across the field, and pushed open the heavy, panelled oak door. All within the chapel seemed love and peace. A monk in his quaint, pointed hood and gown was absorbed in devotions before the high altar, and another figure—a woman’s—was there, on her knees, laying bare her soul before God and sobbing bitterly. Ah, how Sergius’ heart went out to her then! How he longed the next moment to take her in his arms! But she rose, and touched the kneeling monk on the shoulder.
He walked up to the small sacristy door, and beckoned to an unknown person within, who then stepped out, while the monk, waiting, stood like one of the statues carved in stone upon the altar.
The newcomer appeared to be a young man. He held out both his hands to Olga, who took them in both hers.
Forgotten seemed her grief, her remorse. She talked excitedly to him for a few moments, then she poured into his hand the bag of gold and notes she had won at the gaming table.
The young man kissed her affectionately, whilst the monk’s hand was placed on her head in token of a blessing.
Sergius saw it all. He tottered as if intoxicated. He would have rushed forward and killed them all on the spot, but his feet refused to move and red clouds rolled before his eves.
The next moment all three had disappeared within the sacristy, and he found his way out and across the fields toward the city—the city of Warsaw, of which he was the governor. His Excellency, Sergius Kousmenski!— bah! what a mockery!—he, a broken-hearted man who had given his life to a wanton and a cheat!
He waited about in the fields. Was it in the hope of seeing her again? If so, what would he say to her—what questions would he ask?
She came out of the chapel some two or three hours later, the hooded monk closing the heavy doors after her, and walked rapidly in the direction of the city. It was almost broad daylight, and presently from the monastery chapel a soft-toned bell began to toll the Angelus.
Olga paused; like all Poles, she was a devout Catholic, and she stood in the middle of the field to say her morning prayer to the Virgin Mary, while, from within the chapel, now distant, came faintly the monotonous chant of the monks:
“Hail, Mary, full of grace.”
“Olga,” said Sergius Kousmenski. He had walked rapidly up to her. He would speak to her just this once, find out the truth, and then, if she be unworthy, strive to blot out her image from his memory.
She did not move; perhaps she had not heard his heart-breaking appeal; she stood with her hands clasped, a rosary between her fingers.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners,” she murmured devoutly. He might have been miles away for aught she heeded, her superstitious devotions seemed of so much greater moment to her than this heart-broken man, who only longed to forgive.
“Olga,” he begged once more, “have you nothing to say to me?”
Her face was hard and set; she would not look at him; she would have fled only he held her hands tightly, so tightly that the beads of the rosary made deep impressions into her flesh.
One moment he almost hoped she would speak, and a look of entreaty—an entreaty for faith and trust—for an instant softened the set expression in her eyes. She seemed to listen in the distance to the monks still chanting and praying to her who never sinned.
“I have nothing to say,” she said; “it you would be best if you would leave me now.”
Then Sergius let go her hand and walked away.
But she, now left alone, for a while watched his retreating figure.
She had forgotten her devotions; the rosary had dropped from between her fingers. Far away in the convent chapel the monks were chanting the last “Ave Maria.”
“Pray for us sinners,” they sang, and the little bell had ceased tolling, the sound of the organ was dying away—a look of unutterable, hopeless despair softened the lonely woman’s face. “Now and at the hour of death,” she prayed; and, falling on her knees, she sobbed bitterly.
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