ENIGMA
As the man came nearer, he seemed a remarkable creature. His coat, of
the kind known in the eighties as a Prince Albert, hung loosely from his
lean square shoulders, to a point midway between hip and knee. His hair
was dark and long and wisps of it had fallen over his broad pale
forehead to which they adhered as though a tight hat-band had pressed
them there. Heavy eye-brows met above a long narrow nose, which jutted
down over lips turned in, thin and impalpable, to the square chin which
was thrust out aggressively as he strode forward, his hands working
unpleasantly at the ends of his long wrists.
"What's this, Tanya Korasov?" he asked in a sharp querulous voice.
"A hungry soldier, Kirylo Ivanitch," said the girl.
Her shining eyes glanced quickly toward the dais.
"He came----"
"Over the wall. He was much in need of rest and food----"
"Ah----" growled the other. "A soldier----"
"He goes to join his colors."
The frown on the brows of the man in the Prince Albert relaxed and he
seemed to give a gasp of relief as he examined the intruder more calmly.
"The world has gone rabid with the smell of blood. Even here, all about
us----" He broke off suddenly, turning to the girl. "You have fed
him?"
"Yes, Kirylo. But I doubted----"
"We are not savages, Monsieur," he broke in. "You shall be made
comfortable for the night. Come. Tanya, the lantern."
And he led the way across the lawn to the house, while Tanya mounted the
dais for the lantern and followed them. Whatever the doubts of the girl
as to the hospitality which might be accorded him, the fugitive now saw
no reason to suspect the intentions of the strange gentleman in the
Prince Albert coat, for as they reached the building he stood aside,
indicating the lighted doorway.
"Enter, mon ami," he said. "It shall not be said that this house
refuses charity or alms to any seeker after Liberty, even though he go
about his quest in a manner with which we disapprove."
"Thanks, Monsieur," said the soldier gratefully.
The room which they entered was the kitchen, and the two persons who
occupied it, an aged woman and a youngish man with a shock of yellow
hair, paused in the act of masticating, remaining with their full mouths
open and eyes staring until the young soldier had passed through the
door into the main building beyond. In the brief moment of passing
them, the American experienced the same sense of vague hostility as that
which had first greeted him in the man Ivanitch, a querulous attitude of
anxious suspicion, which for some unknown reason had now disappeared,--a
look of expectancy in their eyes, or was it a veiled fear, as of some
danger which might come upon them unawares? Was this the reason for the
wall? And if so, why a girl in a monk's cowl for sentry?
He was too weary to analyze the return of his impressions and when the
Russian reached the room beyond the kitchen, he motioned the Legionnaire
to a chair while he bade the girl Tanya bring forth glasses and a jug.
"Sit a moment, Monsieur the soldier," he said suavely. "It is
Chartreuse--the real Chartreuse, made years ago by the monks not many
leagues from here--there is little of it left even in Switzerland. It
will give you new life."
The soldier pledged his host and hostess and drank.
"You are very good," he said with real gratitude. "I came to steal and
go upon my way," he smiled. "And so your kindness and that of
Mademoiselle covers me with confusion."
"Ah! Necessity knows no law," said the Russian pleasantly. "You shall
have a bed, a night of sleep. And your necessity shall be our pleasure."
"But my intrusion! If one lives within a wall it is doubtless to keep
people out. But in helping me, Monsieur, you are helping France. And
in helping France,--Russia."
"Russia!" There was a finality of despair in the tone with which Kirylo
Ivanitch uttered the word. "May God grant her help--for she needs it.
We pray for her--as we work for her in secret--in secret."
Ivanitch clasped his bony fingers and squeezed them until the knuckles
cracked. "If it will give you courage to fight with steel and bullets,
I will tell you that great things are in the air, for Russia and for all
the world."
"Freedom," said the American. "I know. It is written. So much blood
cannot be shed in vain."
"We labor for the same end, you and I," went on the Russian. "The same
end, but with different means----" And then, with a look of quick
inspection--"You join the Legion soon again?"
The gaze of the Russian quickened as for the first time he noted the
soldier's uniform.
"What is your name, Monsieur?"
"Phil Rowland."
"Rowlan'?" He puzzled over the pronunciation slowly
"Rowland. I am an American."
"Ah--American!"
"My mother was Italian----"
"But American. How happens it that you are here in this uniform?"
"I'm a citizen of the world, a nomad. I like adventure. And so when the
war broke out I sailed and joined the Foreign Legion."
"The Legion! A regiment of young devils. It is madness. A mad
cause--to what end?"
"That France may live."
"Ah, yes." And then, suddenly, "You join the Legion soon again?"
The American would have replied, but the girl Tanya, who had stood
behind his chair, broke in quickly.
"Monsieur Rowlan' is tired, Kirylo Ivanitch. Is it not better that I
show him to his room? Tomorrow he will tell you--"
"Your Chartreuse has already restored me, Mademoiselle."
The Russian waved his hand and Tanya Korasov sank into a chair.
"An American! I have always wanted to go to America. One day you will
learn to think over there. And then you will be able to help with the
great problems of Europe. Your mother was Italian?" he asked.
Phil Rowland smiled good-naturedly at the persistence of his questioner.
"Yes, Monsieur. Of an ancient and noble family. But in America we make
little of ancestry."
"Yet, it is important."
The deep gaze of the Russian, which had been fixed upon the jug upon the
table, turned slowly and fastened upon the uniform of the Legionnaire,
the shocking condition of which had not been visible in the dim light of
the garden.
"You have fared badly, Monsieur Rowlan'. Your uniform shows hard
usage."
"What would you? I was captured in it and have worn it ever since. The
Boches do not trouble to send their prisoners to a tailor."
"The Boches! You were, then, a prisoner of the Germans----?"
The Russian straightened in his chair, his bony hands clasping its arms,
his brows tangling suddenly.
"Until three weeks ago, yes, Monsieur."
It was not imagination that gave Phil Rowland the notion that the tone
of voice of the Russian had suddenly changed again. He felt the black
eyes, now almost hidden under the dark bushy brows, burning into his
own. And while he could not explain the feeling of inquietude, he
realized that some chance remark of his had aroused a dormant devil in
his host.
"A prisoner! The Germans!" He repeated quickly. "And you come here to
Nemi. Who sent you hither?"
"Why, no one, Monsieur," said the American, easily, with a smile which
concealed his growing curiosity. "I do not even know just when or where
I crossed the border."
"Ah. It is strange--that you should come here. Italian, too----"
Ivanitch wagged his great head quickly. The girl Tanya broke in with a
short laugh.
"Monsieur Rowlan' is not the first escaping soldier who has passed
through the village. You remember, last week----"
"But he went away, Tanya Korasov--he did not stay----" broke in Ivanitch
excitedly.
The American rose from his chair, mystified.
"As I shall do now, Monsieur, if you will permit me----"
He took a pace toward a door which seemed to lead toward the front of
the house, but the girl stood before him and faced her compatriot, who
had sank again in his chair, his head deep in his shoulders.
"For shame, Kirylo Ivanitch," she said in a spirited voice. "For shame!
That you should be so inhospitable! The man is dead upon his feet and
you send him out into the night--to be interned perhaps tomorrow!"
"An escaping prisoner! A slave!" He rose from his chair, brushing his
hair back with a wild gesture. "You were a slave, were you not--a slave
to the Germans? Answer me."
Had the man suddenly gone mad? Or was the brain of the Legionnaire
suffering from a delusion of its own weariness? What was the meaning of
this extraordinary conversation? What the significance of this sudden
and strange hostility? And what difference could it make to this man
Ivanitch whether he, Rowland, had been a slave or not?
The American shrugged and smiled again, more patiently.
"A slave?" he replied. "One might call it that. I worked like a dog
upon a railroad. I was chained to the man next me, and would have been
shot had I attempted resistance."
The result of this innocent explanation was still more surprising.
"There!" cried the Russian, wildly exhorting the girl. "Did I not tell
you so? A slave--an escaping slave--here at Nemi. Let him go, I say,
or I shall not answer for the consequences."
"Of course, Monsieur----" said Rowland.
But at a sign from the girl, the American paused at the door and stood,
his weariness forgotten in the curious dialogue that followed, which
seemed to plunge him deeper into the mystery of this strange couple and
the house of the walled garden. The girl Tanya crossed the room swiftly
and noiselessly and laid her hand upon the arm of Kirylo Ivanitch, who
now paced to and fro before the fireplace, like some caged beast, his
head lowered, seeming not to see but furtively watching the dusty boots
of the astonished fugitive.
"It is not possible, Kirylo," she said softly. "He knows nothing.
Would he not have broken IT at once? Who was to have prevented him? Not
I. He is merely a boy and free from guile. Can you not see?"
"It is dangerous for him to remain," gasped the Russian.
"It is more dangerous for you to indulge these mad fancies. IT is safe
yonder. Go and see for yourself. I, Tanya Korasov, will vouch for this
weary fugitive. But you shall not turn a loyal ally of Russia out into
the night. Tomorrow he shall go forth and you shall send him, refreshed
and safely conducted to the border of France, when he will go and fight
your battles and mine, with the common enemy of Humanity. Do you hear?"
He stared at her, sullenly.
"I shall conduct him nowhere. I wish him to go," he said.
But the girl stood her ground, continuing calmly:
"Tomorrow morning you shall give him a suit of civilian clothing and he
will go upon his way, thanking you, Kirylo Ivanitch. That is all."
"A boy? Yes. No doubt.... But Destiny is too strong. Italian! What
if----"
He paused, running his bony fingers through his long hair.
"Impossible. It cannot be," she soothed him.
"I have much to do--tomorrow or next day they are coming--the conference
is momentous. If anything should----"
"Sh----! He shall be gone."
The girl turned to the American as though to atone for the strange
conduct of her compatriot, and smiled graciously.
"You will forgive the whim of Monsieur Ivanitch, I am sure. He works
too hard, all day, and most of the night. You would understand, if you
knew his problems, his suspicions, his labors."
"I'm still willing to go, Mademoiselle, if Monsieur still desires
it----" said Rowland easily.
For a moment they had been lost in each other. A gasp from the
direction of the fireplace, and as they turned, Kirylo Ivanitch fled
past them silently and out into the darkness of the night. The look the
American sent after him gave the girl a true vision of what was passing
in his mind.
"You think that he is mad," she said soberly. "It is not so. An
obsession----" she paused abruptly as though the words had been stifled
upon her lips and shrugged lightly. "I can tell you nothing--but on
this I am resolved. You shall not be sent forth tonight or taken
tomorrow when France, my country's ally, needs you yonder."
He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. And then, with a joyous
smile:
"I shall fight the better for the memory of this hour. Whatever your
mission here, Mademoiselle, God grant you success in it. And for the
part of one soul which passes yours like a ship in the night, I pray
that we may meet again."
"It shall be so, perhaps," she said easily, though she flushed at the
warmth of his words.
"When a razor and a bath shall have made me once more a gentleman," he
added with a laugh.
"Perhaps that may be tomorrow?" she returned gaily.
The roguish smile that had died still-born upon her lips, there,
earlier, in the garden, came suddenly upon the sweetness of her lips and
gave them new lines of loveliness, which made him glad that she had
saved it for the light where he might see.
She noted the look of admiration in his dark eyes, and turned quickly
away, taking up a candle from the table.
"Until tomorrow, then, Monsieur," she said decisively. "For now you
shall go to bed."
"I am no longer tired."
But she was already moving toward the stairway to the upper floors.
"If you will follow me--" she said calmly, and led the way up the
stairs, her soft black robe caressing her slender ankles.
A lamp set in a bracket burned dimly upon the second floor, and he
followed her heavily down the high, echoing corridor. A large hall,
scantily furnished, dim and mysterious with many doors to right and
left, a house, it seemed, more like a hotel than a villa, and more like
a monastery than either. The girl led the way and opened at last a door
near the end of the corridor, entering the room and setting the candle
upon a table. In the flickering light which cast its shadows upward
along her face she seemed to have taken again the character of the
Priestess, the Shade of the garden, with the cowl and robe of mystery.
Her expression too seemed to have grown more serious, though the golden
nimbus of light was again entwined about her ruddy hair.
"Good night, Monsieur Rowlan'," she said gently. "Tomorrow morning you
will find a change of clothing upon the chair outside the door. Sleep
safely. If you fear--" she paused.
"Fear?" he asked. "Of what?"
"I forgot that you are a soldier. But when I go out, nevertheless, you
shall bolt this door upon the inside." And as he turned to her in
inquiry, "No. You must ask no questions, but only obey."
His smile met with no response. And so he shrugged and bowed.
"It shall be as you desire, Mademoiselle."
And without a word, she was gone.
He listened for a moment to the light tap of her footfalls down the
corridor until he heard them no more, when he closed the heavy door,
bolted it and sank upon the small iron bed while he tried to ponder a
solution of the events of the evening.
Out of the train of vague occurrences stood clearly the wholesome
friendly figure of this girl, Tanya Korasov. Her robes, her cowl, the
vestments of her strange association with the fanatic Kirylo Ivanitch,
seemed only to bring her sanity, youth and kindliness into stronger
relief. That she was a member of some secret association of which her
compatriot was the head seemed more or less obvious, but what was the
personal relationship between them? The man had intellectual power and
doubtless held his sway as the official director of some sort of
propaganda for the freedom of Russia, but his deference to the wishes of
the girl made it also evident that she too was high in his councils.
His niece? His cousin? Or was their relation something nearer,
something----? Impossible. The man was fifty, the girl young enough to
be his daughter. A relationship purely intellectual, more deeply welded
by the bonds of a cognate purpose. But what of the robes, the vigils,
the dais in the garden, the strange dialogue about the escaping slave
which seemed to have so large a part in determining his own status as a
guest in this house of mystery? What was IT? And what the danger
suggested by the final injunction of the girl to bolt the door of his
bedroom? From whom? Ivanitch? From the shock-headed youth in the
kitchen who had stared at him so curiously? Or from others whom he had
not seen?
He gave up the problem and slowly removed his boots and tattered
clothing which he tossed with some disgust into a corner. The order of
the room reproached him, and tired as he was, he cleansed himself to be
worthy of the immaculate linen, then blew out the light and with a sigh
of delight at the luxury of sheets, he crawled into bed and tried to
relax. He had thought of this moment for weeks, and how he would sleep
if he was ever again offered a bed, but now strangely enough, his
muscles twitched and his eyes remained open, staring into the obscurity.
Tanya! That was a pretty name--Tatyana probably. There was a fairy
princess of that name who came to him suddenly from out of the mists of
childhood--a princess with a filmy veil, a diadem upon her forehead and
a magic white wand which accomplished the impossible. She was pure, she
was beautiful and had happened long ago, before--before his rather
variegated career across two continents. This new Tanya was a part of
the night, a gracious kindly shade with a ruddy diadem and a roguish
smile, which set aside the symbols of her strange servitude. He smiled
as he thought of her and closed his lids again, but they flew open as
though actuated by hidden springs.
He was aware of some movement in the house about him, the soft pad of
footsteps in the corridor outside which went along a few paces and then
seemed to pause just at his door. Then a murmur as though of voices in
a low tone. Once he fancied the knob of his door was tried by a
stealthy hand. So sure was he of this that he got out of bed and
without striking a light, examined the bolt to reassure himself that the
door was firmly fastened.
Then he smiled to himself and went noiselessly back to bed. The soldier
Rowland was merely aware of a devouring curiosity. But presently the
demands of his weary muscles vanquished even this, and he slept.
He awoke suddenly, as he had often done in the dugouts at the warning of
the sentry, and started upright in bed, listening. The softness of the
sheets perplexed him, and it was a moment before he realized where he
was. No sound but the murmur of insects outside the house and the
sighing of a breeze. What had awakened him? Noiselessly he got up and
tried the bolt of the door. It was fastened. Then he stole cautiously
to the window, and peered down into the garden.
By the star-light, he could dimly see the lawn, the path and the dais
beyond where he had first seen Tanya. His eyes, trained like a cat's to
the darkness, during his weeks of night traveling, pierced slowly into
every part of the obscurity beneath the trees. Something was moving
there near the mound of earth, a dark figure with a cowled head and a
robe. The figure moved forward slowly a few steps, peering from right
to left and then darted suddenly around to the other side of the dais,
but always eager and watchful, near the mound of earth. Rowland seemed
to identify the figure by its broad bent shoulders and shuffling walk as
Kirylo Ivanitch. As the American watched, he saw the Russian turn and
walk slowly toward the house. Beneath Rowland's window the Russian
stopped with folded arms and looked upward. From beneath the black cowl
the American seemed to feel the blazing eyes of Ivanitch upon his, but
he knew that in his place of concealment he could not be seen and so he
did not move. And presently, the man turned swiftly and went back to
the mound of earth to resume his strange sentry duty.
Philip Rowland shrugged as he turned away from the window and went back
to bed, grinning to himself.
"Batty," he muttered to himself. "Completely batty."