Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
THE
Playground _of_ Satan
BY
BEATRICE BASKERVILLE
AUTHOR OF
"Baldwin's Kingdom," "When Summer Comes Again,"
"Their Yesterday," "The Polish Jew,"
English Translation Of Gogol's "Taras Bulba," Etc.
NEW YORK
W. J. WATT & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1918, BY
W. J. WATT & COMPANY
TO
Janina Korsakova
WITH LOVE
_Rome_, 1917
THE PLAYGROUND OF SATAN
I
Ian went into his mother's sitting-room, carrying an open telegram.
"Roman Skarbek has wired for horses to meet the express from Posen," he
remarked. "He says it's important business."
As Countess Natalie looked up from her letter--she wrote hundreds a
year--her hazel eyes twinkled with a mischievous thought.
"Roman and business, indeed! He's after Vanda."
Ian's brows contracted over his clear gray eyes; they were of the kind
you find in outdoor men, used to gazing over long distances and watching
for wild fowl to come out of the rushes at the dawn of day. Vanda was
his cousin, and an orphan; she had lived at Ruvno since her babyhood.
"Give me a cigarette," said his mother, leaving her letter.
He obeyed, offered one to Minnie, who refused, and lit another for
himself. The two smoked on in silence for awhile. Roman Skarbek was
his cousin, too, though not Vanda's.
"I don't think so," he said.
"Why?" asked his mother.
"He's been to Monte Carlo. If he's had any luck he'll want some
horses."
"He never had any luck. No. It's Vanda. _She's_ in love."
"Vanda in love?" He laughed. "Nonsense!"
"Why not?" put in Minnie, the English girl, from her seat in the window.
He did not answer. His mother went on:
"Something has happened to Vanda lately. I don't know what, yet. When
she was stopping with Aunt Eugenie she must have seen Roman every day.
They rode together, too."
He walked over to the long window which opened into the rose garden. On
the sward beneath it, thirty years ago, his father was shot in a famous
duel with the rakish Prince Mniszek, neighbor and quondam friend.
"What will you say to him, if it is?" he asked.
The Countess considered. In her little world marriages were "arranged,"
thought out with the help of the Almanach de Gotha and a profound
knowledge of the young couple's incomes, debts, acres and ancestors.
"Roman," she said, "is generous and chivalrous. I shouldn't mind
helping him with his debts, if he'd only stop gambling."
"Does a man ever stop?"
"Not when it's got into his blood," said Minnie.
"It's in his right enough," rejoined Ian. He gambled, too, but with
circumspection, unhampered by passion.
"I wonder what he sees in Vanda," the Countess mused.
"She's a charming girl," remarked Minnie.
Ian went out, his setters following him. An hour later he sought the
two women with another telegram, finding them in the rose garden. The
Countess walked with a stick, though she was only sixty. Her hair was
perfectly white and her face much lined. Perhaps her youth, so full of
interests and emotions, had faded too soon. But she looked the great
lady she was, queen of herself and fit to rule Ruvno, with its
traditions, its wealth and dignity.
"Here's Joseph now," he announced. "Wants to be met at the afternoon
train from Warsaw."
"Which Joseph?" asked Minnie. "You know a dozen."
"Roman's brother."
"What does he want?" asked the Countess.
"Vanda," he returned, a twinkle in his eye.
They walked down the garden together, Ian and Minnie sparring gently, as
often happened. But his mother was thinking of Vanda again, for she
said at last:
"If I were her, I'd choose Roman. Joe is cold."
"I'm sure they're coming to see us, that's all," said Ian. "They're
coming from opposite directions. I'll send a motor for Roman. He's
always in such a hurry. Joe can have horses."
And again he left them.
Until August, in the year of strife nineteen hundred and fourteen, you
could find no pleasanter country house than Ruvno, Poland. It stood a
little way back from the high road between Warsaw and Kutno, slightly on
a hill, surrounded by pines and hardy hornbeams which guarded it, like
sentinels, from the gaze of passers by. It had stood thus for
centuries, ever since another Ian, Lord of Ruvno, built him a great
house with the spoils of war against the Turk, laying the foundation of
a hard-fighting, hard-living race, good for anything on earth but trade,
always ready for a row, out of sheer love for adventure and broken
heads. And of adventures they had full share, both in love and war.
All the hordes of Europe passed over their land during the centuries;
for Poland is Europe's eastern battlefield, as Belgium is her western.
And the plows were forever turning up human bones, which lay where they
fell; and human treasure, which lay where it was buried, either because
the owners failed to find it when peace came again or because they
happened to go where neither Turk nor Swede, Russian nor Prussian, could
trouble them more.
And so the domestic history of Ruvno, half fortress, half palace, filled
many parchment volumes. I am not going to bore you with it; but quite
recently, as Ruvno counts time, Napoleon slept there when on his
luckless march to Moscow. And he supped at the large oaken table which
was carved out of Ruvno oak long before the discovery of America brought
mahogany to Poland. And in his clumsy, violent way, he made love to the
reigning Countess of Ruvno, toasting her in that Hungarian wine which
looks like liquid sunshine and makes your feet like lead. Some of the
same vintage still lingered in the cellars when one smaller than
Napoleon crossed the Polish borders a hundred years later.
Napoleon, remembering the good cheer, paused here again to take breath
on his homeward flight. But this time there was neither toasting nor
courting. The Countess, in solitude, wept for her gallant husband,
whose body lay at Beresina, his gay tongue frozen forever, his blue eyes
staring up at the stars in the fixed gaze of death. So the great man
sat at the dead one's board, silent and sullen, surrounded by the weary,
ragged remnants of his staff. Those who were in Ruvno that night said
that he paced his room, restless and sleepless, till daybreak. Then he
went his way, no longer a conquerer, but a fugitive.
A century later, Ruvno belonged to another widow and her son Ian, ruddy
of face and broad in the shoulder. They were both up to date. They
spoke English and French, and followed the fashions of western Europe.
But their hearts and souls were with Poland, not only because they loved
her, but because, too, race is stronger than love and hatred and death
itself.
Ian spent most of his time on the Ruvno estate, and his mother's
patrimony in Lithuania; but Ruvno was his heart's beloved. The
Lithuanian estate was let on a long lease. He had a lively sense of his
responsibilities, knowing that two watchful neighbors, Russia and
Prussia, were ever working to denationalize the country and stamp out
his race. His many acres were well cultivated, the peasants who worked
on them well cared for. Though the Russian government forbade Polish
schools, he and his mother saw to it that the children on their land
learned to read and write their mother tongue. The Agricultural Society
that had spread its branches all over Poland, despite opposition from
Russian bureaucracy, had no more energetic member than he. Modern
machinery and methods were rapidly replacing the old throughout the
country, which was prosperous and enterprising. Ian did his share of
this good work with intelligence and cheerfulness.
He thoroughly enjoyed his life; was a keen hunter; had no hankering
after urban pleasures; knew no debt, confined his distractions to
racing, in which he was moderate, and to a very occasional supper party
after the opera, in Warsaw, Paris or Vienna.
To his mother he felt bound by a degree of affection and sympathy which
rarely survive a son's early childhood. Other women bored him. His
name had not been linked with one, of good repute or bad. Indeed, his
circumspection with the opposite sex had become a joke among his
friends, who teased him about it and searched for some well-hidden
passion. But they did not find one, and contented themselves with
dubbing him a woman-hater; which he was not. He knew he must marry some
day; for what would become of Ruvno without an heir? But as the
pleasant years slipped by, he told himself there was still time. And
far down in his heart he had always relied upon Vanda.
Did he love her? The question rapped him as he left the rose garden for
the paddock. He thought not. He liked to have her in the house, driving
with his mother, keeping her company, helping her to entertain visitors
during the shooting season, or going with her to Warsaw for shopping and
the play. He knew she was fond of him; accepted her affection as he
accepted so many other things which were daily facts in his existence.
In the rare moments when he thought about marriage at all he comforted
himself with the reflection that she was there, ready for the asking
when the inevitable day came. It never crossed his mind that she might
refuse. It would be so comfortable, one day, to wed her. Life would be
the same as before. His mother would go on living with them; Vanda would
wear the family jewels; the rooms that had been his own nurseries would
be reopened and refurnished. And in due time little people would play
and sleep in them as he and Vanda had done.
He was shy of other girls; they bored him; he never knew what to talk
about. And he would have had to woo anybody but Vanda; no girl with any
self-respect would marry him without preliminaries in which compliments
and attention played a large part. Vanda did not ask to be wooed. They
had met daily for years. And she was so suitable; so comely and
well-bred, so thoroughly sound in her ideas of life, marriage and
society. She would not want to drag him off to Monte Carlo and Paris
every year. She loved the country, and Ruvno; knew his life and would
not expect him to change it. Another bride might have all kinds of
ideas in her head, might not like the place, or his mother, from whom he
refused to be parted, whatever happened. Therefore her remarks about
the Skarbeks worried him; if she noticed a difference in Vanda, then a
difference there must be. He had not noticed it; but then he was
particularly interested in some alterations that he was making in the
Home Farm and had not paid much attention to her and to Minnie Burton,
the English girl who was staying with them. He and Minnie "got on" very
well; she was a good horsewoman and a good comrade; rode about with him
and Vanda, quite content to talk of whatever work happened to be going
on at Ruvno, or not to talk at all. He had been to England a good deal,
spent a couple of years at Oxford after leaving Theresarium and made
friends with Minnie's two brothers, who were coming to Ruvno for
shooting in a month's time. She was to return home with them.
Thus the summer had been passing very pleasantly. Crops were promising,
the weather kept fine. Life had never seemed fairer, he and the two
girls had agreed that very morning, on their way back to breakfast after
an early canter.
And now, the aspect was subtly changed. He looked up at the sky; it was
still clear. There would be no rain; his hay was safe. What meant this
feeling of vague unrest? Vanda? The idea was absurd. Both brothers
could not be coming after her. Roman and Joseph were as different as
any two men of one class and race can be. No; they were after horses,
or Roman wanted to buy an estate in the neighborhood. He had often
spoken of it; all he needed was the cash. Perhaps he had won plenty at
Monte Carlo and was coming to spend it. Joseph, with his business head,
was meeting him to see he did not spend foolishly. That was the whole
thing in a nutshell. Anyway, they would be here before long.
Near the paddock he met Vanda. He was glad; he wanted to watch her
face.
"Not so fast," he called out as she was running past with a nod. "Where
are you going?"
"Aunt Natalie. I promised to give her an address and forgot all about
it. My filly is better. I've just been there."
"You're very smart to-day," he remarked.
She looked down at her skirts.
"It's a hundred years old. You've seen it dozens of times."
"And very bonny," he added. And so she was. She had pretty brown hair
and soft brown eyes, carried herself well and bore the marks of the
healthy outdoor life they all led at Ruvno. A sweet wholesome girl, he
thought, not for the first time, but with more interest than ever
before. He did not guess that under her quiet manner lay a capacity for
a deep passion; and pride to quell it.
She blushed at his compliment; he rarely gave her one.
"The Skarbeks are coming," he said, watching her closely. She was
frankly pleased, but he noticed she did not blush again.
"Oh, how nice. It's years since they were here together. We can have
some long rides." And she left him.
He watched her closely at lunch; but failed to see signs of the change
which his mother professed to find in her. And he felt relieved.
Nevertheless, he thought about her a good deal during the afternoon; the
vague uneasiness of the morning returned. After all, she might find a
lover elsewhere, marry him and leave Ruvno forever. He would have to do
something to avoid that; and without further delay. He had waited too
long. He never doubted that she would marry him. True, he had not made
love to her; but they were such good friends, and he had always been
fond of her in a quiet, unquestioning way, without passionate
discomforts. Yes, he must secure her before another man stole her
affections. He went to speak to his mother about it.
He came to this decision whilst riding back from some meadows; but the
Countess he found sitting under the chestnuts behind the garden with
Minnie and Father Constantine, the chaplain who had lived with them for
years and taught Ian his catechism and the Latin declensions. A moment
later Vanda joined them. So he put off again. He would wait till the
evening, when he always had a quiet chat with his mother, in her
dressing-room.
The Skarbeks met in the Countess' sitting-room.
"You here?" was Roman's curt greeting. Ian noted the tone and wondered
what they had quarreled about.
Joseph kissed his aunt's hand before replying. They were both fine men,
alike in figure, unlike in feature and temperament; both on the right
side of thirty, straight, lissome and as thoroughbred as you please.
Roman was dark, generous, lithe; Joseph fair, blue-eyed and cold.
Matchmaking mothers were very civil to him; but their daughters liked
Roman better.
"I've come from Warsaw," remarked Joseph at his leisure. He looked
round the room, presumably for Vanda; but he did not ask for her. Ian
knew she was sitting in the garden with Minnie. It was unnatural for
her to hold aloof thus; his uneasiness grew.
"I'd no idea you were coming," said Roman hotly. "I ought to have been
here sooner." He turned to his aunt. "It's no use mincing words; I've
come to ask for Vanda."
"For Vanda!" echoed Ian blankly. Then he turned from them, to compose
his face.
"Joe has cone for her, too," pursued Roman. "It's in his face. It's
just as well to have it out at once. She must choose for herself."
"Yes," said Ian quietly. "Vanda must make her own choice. She is quite
free." Privately, he determined to speak to her himself, as soon as he
could escape from the room with decency.
"You followed me," said Roman to his brother.
"No. I thought you were still gambling." Joseph spoke with a sneer.
How well Ian remembered it; it used to drive him to fury in their boyish
days, and many a fight had it caused between him and the superior
Joseph, who could use his fists all the same.
"If I win her I'll never touch a card again," cried Roman.
"You forget your debts," his brother retorted.
"Debts!" fairly shouted the other. "Look here, all of you!"
Out of inner pockets, he drew bulky pocket-books, took banknote after
banknote and put them side by side on a table. And when there was no
room for them to lie singly he set them three and four deep, till a
fortune lay there, in the evening sunlight.
"Look at them! Count them!" he cried in triumph. "Where are my debts
now?"
They gazed at the money in silent wonder. Never had they seen so big a
harvest from turf or green table. The Countess smiled across at Ian; he
said something in a careless undertone. He would not let even her see
what was on his mind.
"It's a haul," admitted Joseph. "You must have broken the bank."
"Luck. Six weeks of it. And now I've done with gambling forever."
He crammed the notes away carelessly, as men treat money lightly won.
He paced the room, talking.
"I was afraid of it," he admitted. "I wanted to win. But it grew so
huge that it became a menace. Luck at play, no luck in love. And
now..." he swung round to his brother: "I meet you here."
"It's unfortunate," remarked Joseph.
"Unfortunate? It's Destiny! Oh, you'll have the family on your side; I
don't blame 'em. You're a deuced-good match, well off, sober,
economical. I'm not. I don't pretend to be." He measured the room
with his long stride, and hurled at Joseph: "But I've something you
haven't!"
"You?" This with a sneer. Ian felt inclined to punch his head, as in
years gone by.
"Me. It's love. You don't know what it means. Men like you--" he
jerked his head at Ian--"and Ian there, can't love. You want to keep up
the race, that's all. What could you do to prove your love?"
Ian said nothing, though the challenge was for him as well. Was Roman's
reproach true? Was this new uneasiness, that fast became pain, love, or
but wounded pride?
"I'll ask her to marry me," Joseph was saying. "Offer my name, home,
protection and ... and affection."
"Ah ... affection!" and Roman laughed.
"What more can any man offer?" put in Ian.
Roman was at the door now. He threw them a stream of hot words over his
shoulder, and left the room. He was going to her.
There was silence after he left. Ian tried to say something, but
failed. The brothers were poaching on his preserves; yet he could not
find the words to tell them so. And now Roman had gone to her, and
again he must wait. What a fool he had been! He was angry with them
and furious with himself for being angry. The whole business was a
nuisance. But, after all, why should he mind? Sitting on one of the
broad window-sills, he lighted a cigarette and tried to calm his
thoughts. Some time passed. He heard Joseph and his mother talking in
low tones at the far end of the room, and was glad they did not expect
him to talk. What was Roman telling Vanda now? He was the sort of man
girls always liked. Words would never fail in his wooing. A
spendthrift, a gambler, yes; but handsome, full of life, eloquent.
There was the rub. He, Ian, had always to search for words when he
wanted to speak of things near his heart. Roman, as a lover, surpassed
him by untold lengths. He realized that now. And yet Roman, as a
husband, could hardly give happiness; but girls don't think of those
things till it is too late. And he could not go and tell Vanda so,
either. He had had years in which to tell her many things; and he had
wasted them. Now, when seconds were of importance, he could not even
get her alone.
He shook the ash off his cigarette, watching it fall on to the bed
outside; glanced at the other two, and determined to go to the stables.
He had only to slide his legs over the window-sill and be off. They
would not notice his departure, and he would be alone, unwatched, free
to shake off this sudden malaise and regain his old composure. He
wanted solitude; had new thoughts to worry out, vague awakenings which
he must stifle. He wanted to be quite honest with himself, to examine
his heart, free it of this new burden and go back to the old, quiet life
of yesterday, of this morning even.
But he did not move. He knew he would not till Roman came back. Would
he come hand-in-hand with Vanda, or alone? He would not come alone.
Vanda would take him and there would be a wedding. That meant a lot of
fuss. He had put off his own wedding year by year to avoid a pother,
and here it came, all the same. And with the same bride, too: only the
bridegroom and best man had changed places. Roman was right. Destiny
played odd tricks. He would see Vanda go off with another man; give her
away to an unconscious rival. Was it going to hurt?
Suddenly the door opened. Roman burst in. He was alone; he addressed
Ian.
"Can I have a car, at once?" he asked. His sunburnt face was drawn, his
eyes haggard. No need to ask for Vanda's answer. It was written all
over him. They rose; the Countess took his hand and said something to
him, Ian knew not what. A load had fallen from his heart. Vanda still
cared for him. Sweet, loyal little Vanda! He might have known it, and
saved himself all that worry.
"But you're not going yet?" he said.
"I am. I'll be in Warsaw to-night; and, by God, I'll never go home
again. Will you order the car, old man?"
"If you must go." Ian walked towards the bell that lay on his mother's
writing-table. Roman turned to Joseph.
"I put it to her, squarely," he said in hoarse tones. "You've won.
She's in the library." And he strode from the room before any of them
could speak.
Ian rang the bell and stood by the table, his back to the others. He
had heard every word that Roman said and it burnt his brain, if not his
heart. So Joseph had won! It was preposterous. Roman as a rival he
could bear. But that cold, selfish prig! He could never give a woman
happiness. Vanda must be saved from herself. And he would do it.
Mastering his face, he turned round, ready with passionate words to save
Vanda from Joseph, to use his authority as head of the family. But the
room was empty.