THE RUNAWAY
He was going to run away. But he was not going to sneak away. He
was just as kind and forgiving to Paul as he had always been. He
bore him no ill-will for his three years of abuse, now that he had
determined upon a course of action, which would free him from a
continuance of it. He had often felt angry over Paul's treatment of
him, but he had kept down his anger under his vigorous will.
But now he made up his mind that Paul would receive something of a
shock the next time he had resort to his now almost habitual
amusement of beating his younger brother. Meantime, he bought a
peasant's tunic and a pair of rough shoes that would be serviceable
for his long march.
It was not long before something or other Stanislaus did or said
woke Paul's easily aroused rage. He began with oaths, of which he
seemed to possess a pretty stock. He worked himself up into greater
and greater heat of temper - a substitute for courage with many
people. Finally he sprang at Stanislaus. Formerly, on such
occasions Stanislaus was so busy holding his own temper in check
that he could do little else, he stood almost like a statue. But
this time Paul felt there was something wrong. Stanislaus was
looking straight at him. When he leaped to strike him, Stanislaus
quietly and skillfully thrust him aside. Paul stumbled, staggered,
recovered himself. But when he looked again, fear took hold of him.
He was afraid of what he saw in Stanislaus' eyes. The younger boy
spoke quietly, coolly.
"That will be about enough," he said; "I've put up with your
cowardice and brutality for three years. I'll stand it no longer.
Since I cannot have peace here, well,. I'll look for it somewhere
else. You can answer to our father, and tell him how it happened."
Paul was still frightened. The situation was extremely novel to him.
The turning of the worm! What would happen next! He was afraid at
first that Stanislaus was going to give him his long-due payment,
and he had no stomach to face the reckoning. He had not noticed
before how wiry and strong Stanislaus looked. But when he saw that
the boy made no movement, only spoke in that quiet voice, he plucked
up a little courage. He began to bluster and swear.
"You'll go away, will you?" he cried. "What the devil do I care? Go,
and be hanged to you!" - that was the gist of it, only a trifle more
ornamental.
"Don't forget! " said Stanislaus. " Send word to father. I'm
certainly going away."
Paul was waxing eloquent again, but Stanislaus turned on his heel
and walked away. Nor did the bullying big brother venture to follow
him. He contented himself with calling him hard names which he could
not hear, and muttering savagely to himself for some time. But,
naturally, he did not believe at all that Stanislaus was really
going to run away9 He looked upon the words as an empty threat.
And so it was all over. Stanislaus sighed a sigh of relief. There
was nothing ahead of him now save the road to Augsburg. He said his
prayers tranquilly and went to bed.
Morning came, or the dawn that precedes the morning. Stanislaus got
up, selected his finest suit of clothes, and dressed. His first care
was to write the letter for Paul and his father. This he put between
the leaves of a book.
The servants, of course, even in the primitive housekeeping of the
Kostkas, slept in another room than the big common apartment of
their masters. Stanislaus went to the bed of one of them, named
Pacifici, who was rather particularly devoted to him, and who
afterwards became a Franciscan. He shook Pacifici and woke him. The
servant rubbed his eyes sleepily, then gazed in astonishment at the
brilliant figure standing in the half-light beside his bed. What was
the Lord Stanislaus doing, dressed in this unusual finery, at such
an unearthly hour!
"Listen," said Stanislaus, "I am going out for the day. I have
received an invitation which I must accept. I am going now. If
Bilinski or the Lord Paul ask for me, tell them that."
"I will, your grace, I will," said Pacifici. But he was almost too
astonished to speak.
Stanislaus left the room and the house. He walked quickly to the
Jesuit church, where he heard Mass and received Holy Communion. At
Mass he met a young Hungarian, with whom he had been very intimate.
He beckoned him aside and whispered:
"Wait for me a minute. I just want to say a word to Father Antoni."
Then he hurried away, but was back shortly at his friend's side,
eyes dancing, lips smiling, hand outstretched.
"I have just bid Father Antoni good-by," he said, with a little
excitement. "I am running away. I am going to Augsburg' to ask
admission into the Society of Jesus. I told Paul yesterday that I
should not stay with him, and I have written a letter and put it in
a book. Do not tell any one what I tell you now. But after a few
days, please go and point out the letter to Paul."
His friend listened with wonder. Going away!' Going to Augsburg!
"But how?" he asked. "Not on foot?"
"On foot, to be sure," answered Stanislaus gayly. "Do you think I
have a horse secreted about me? Or could I take one of ours and wake
the house?"
"And you will be a Jesuit, and teach, and never ride a good horse
again, and give up your people and your place in the world!"
"I shall be a Jesuit, if I can," said Stanislaus. "As for what I
shall give up, well, I'd have to give it up when death came,
wouldn't I? And since God wants it, I'd sooner give it up now."
But he had not much time for talk. Day was growing; he must be off.
He got his friend's promise about the letter, bade him good-by
heartily and cheerily, and turned his face towards the Augsburg
road. What happened else that day we have already seen, and how Paul
and Bilinski followed him, and how he got away, and how he did walk,
bravely, gayly, in less than two weeks the four hundred miles to
Augsburg.