“SHE IS BETROTHED”
I was by no means sorry that Father Ambrose preferred to see Volna
alone. It was her influence, not mine, which would have any effect
upon him; and it was certain she would be able to exert that influence
better alone than if I were present at the interview.
I judged, too, that the priest was shrewd enough to see the wisdom
of hearing our story from us separately. I had already told him one
falsehood and Volna had acquiesced in it; so that we could not blame
him for using any caution which his suspicions might prompt.
That she would win him round to her side, I had little doubt. My faith
in her made me very confident. But what would he do then? What could
he do? How could he, a mere parish priest, help us to turn our failure
into success and get those papers to Cracow?
I had ample time to meditate upon this, for it was more than an hour
before he came back to me. He looked exceedingly grave and troubled,
and asked me to go to his study. Volna was not there. He took his seat
at his writing-table and waved me to one opposite to him; and for a
moment or two he said nothing.
I felt very uncomfortable. Somewhat as I used to feel in the old Corpus
days when carpeted by the Head. He pressed his finger tips together,
and when he spoke there was a mixture of censure and kindness in his
tone.
“Mr. Anstruther, I don’t know how you regard the falsehood you told me
yesterday and induced my friend’s child to act?”
“It was on the impulse of the moment, and I am compelled to admit it
was only one of many I have had to tell in the last two days. But don’t
think it is my habit to lie.”
“Your name is really Robert Anstruther.”
“Yes. But I can give you no proof. My papers were taken----”
He interrupted with a wave of the hand. “I know. I am aware that I must
take your word.”
“I have perhaps deserved that word ‘must,’ but it rankles. If you feel
that my action yesterday prevents your believing what I tell you, we
may as well close this conversation at once.”
“Spoken hastily, like a young man, but not unnatural, perhaps, in
the circumstances. That you should have deceived me with such ready
speciousness is scarcely calculated, however, to convince me of your
good faith. Perhaps you can appreciate that.”
His cold tone and calm clear glance emphasized this, and it hurt. I
made no reply and dropped my eyes.
“Can you see that?”
“You are quite entitled to take your own view of it, of course. But if
the conditions were repeated, I should probably do it again.”
“Then you would do very wrong, Mr. Anstruther,” he said, with some
warmth. “A falsehood is not only a sin in the eyes of the church, but
wrong in every way.”
“I daresay you are quite right. I have never tried it as a policy
before, and it has landed us in a pretty bad mess. But if you can show
me how we could have got out of the hands of the police without lying,
I’ll listen readily. And if we had got into them, the mess would have
been much worse than it is.”
“If you had been candid with me yesterday, all the troubles since then
would have been avoided.”
“They would also have been avoided if the storm had not overtaken us
and we had not lost our way. But can we do any good by dissecting
causes? I am man enough I hope not to shirk responsibility for my
acts. I take all these lies on my own shoulders. They appeared to be
necessary. The necessity no longer exists, and I shall tell you none.
If you can’t believe me, there is an end of things. That’s all.”
He sat for perhaps a minute frowning in thoughtful silence. “Will you
tell me exactly all that has occurred?”
“Has Volna told you?” I asked.
“Yes; but I wish to hear it from you also.”
“A natural precaution,” I admitted; and then told him as succinctly as
I could everything from the moment of the meeting at Bratinsk station.
He listened very closely, interposing some questions now and then, and
when I finished lapsed into thought again.
Presently, with a smile, he said: “You have left some things
unmentioned.”
“Not intentionally.”
“Descriptive of your own acts in places--at least, as told to me.”
“I have said all that need be said. Volna may take an exaggerated view
of some things.”
“I think I have done you an injustice, Mr. Anstruther.”
“That is of no consequence.”
“Tell me, why did you plunge into this hazardous matter?”
“I don’t think that matters. Put it that I liked the prospect of an
adventure. That is quite true.”
“Is it all the truth?”
“There is no falsehood in it, Father. We’ll leave it there, please.”
He looked at me very earnestly indeed and then held out his hand. “Will
you let me beg your pardon?” he asked.
I grasped the hand cordially and shook my head. “No, I will not. If I
had been in your place I should have been much more suspicious. You
hurt me when you thought I might lie to you. But you see now that I
shall not. And that’s all.”
“The child is very dear to me for her mother’s sake, and I see that
you had absolutely nothing to expect in helping her except the risk and
danger that you ran.”
“I ran no risk. I have powerful and very influential friends who will
see me through all right.”
“That I did not understand,” he said quickly. “It makes a difference.
It will be easier.” He spoke rather to himself than to me it seemed.
“You are sure you can rely upon your friends?” he asked presently.
“My father carried through some large financial matters for the German
Government from time to time, and I myself have had evidence of the
good will of several men high in office in Berlin.”
“But this is Russia, Mr. Anstruther.”
“True, but their influence would not stop at the frontier. You may take
it from me, I am in no sort of danger.”
“What are your plans?”
“To get those papers through to Cracow. How, may depend upon you in
some measure.”
He paused and then said slowly: “They are on their way already.”
I sat up in intense surprise. “On their way? Why, has----”
He understood the unfinished question and smiled. “No, she has not
taken them. But they will be in Cracow to-night. A day has been
lost--precious hours, perhaps--by your action yesterday.”
I drew a deep breath of bewilderment.
“You do not understand the wide-reaching influence of the Fraternity,
Mr. Anstruther, and had better ask no questions. But now that the
papers are gone, what are your plans?”
“I had not got as far as that. I have none.”
“You will wish to return to England?”
I hesitated. There was something behind his question I could not read.
“I suppose so--yes, of course I shall return there. My home is there.”
He bent a kind but searching look on me. “I hope you think I am your
friend as well as----” he said after a pause, leaving the sentence
unfinished.
“Oh, yes indeed. I should be sorry not to think so. Is--is Volna going
home to Warsaw?”
“Have you been quite frank with me? I don’t mean that unkindly,” he
hastened to add in reply to a start from me. “As to your motive in all
this? It will be best to be quite frank. Young folks are young folks
all the world over.”
“I should be sorry to misunderstand you,” I said.
“You entered into this thing from love--of adventure only?”
“As it is over, does my motive matter?”
He shook his head slowly. “It may. It may. I don’t know. It may. I am
so afraid of appearing impertinent, or of making a mistake. We old
people fall so readily into mistakes,” he said with a deprecating smile.
“Don’t you think the best way to avoid them is to speak plainly?”
He picked up a sheet of paper and played with it with a suggestion of
nervousness. “I am tempted to tell you a story, a chapter of my life,
Mr. Anstruther. I was not originally intended for the priesthood;
but was to have married. I was betrothed, in fact. Then something
happened--the result of misunderstanding--I knew afterwards how easily
it could have been avoided, but it was not avoided; other influences
intervened, and--and so the marriage which took place was not mine;
and I am now a priest with just a memory. Does that incline you to any
special frankness with me as to your motives in this?”
“You mean with regard to Volna?”
He looked at me again very intently. “You know that she is betrothed?”
he asked.
“Oh, yes. She told me her uncle’s plans.”
His look now was more sympathetic and kind than searching; and he
sighed. “Ah, you do not know, I see.”
“I am not a child, Father Ambrose.”
“I can say no more. I ought not, perhaps, to have said so much. I am
going to deal with you as a man, Mr. Anstruther. Of course all that has
occurred in these two days must never be mentioned. The dear child’s
future must not be compromised.”
“It will not pass my lips.”
“You and I together can secure her safety; I am going to ask your help.
She will remain here until I can get her back safely to Warsaw.”
“I will do anything to secure her safety.”
“The one thing you can do is to put yourself in the hands of the
police.”
“The police?”
“You say your friends will help you in any explanation.”
“I don’t follow you yet.”
“The police have tracked you here from Bratinsk. They were in the
village yesterday evening. They are coming to me again this afternoon.
It happens that my housekeeper’s niece was to have come here to-day--in
a village like this all private matters are public, you know. She is
not coming, but Volna can take her place for the time without any
suspicion being aroused. What you have to do is to cause the police to
believe that Volna has crossed the frontier with you and that you have
returned alone.”
“How cause them to believe this?”
“Go and get your horse and ride through the village this afternoon and
call here.”
“Here!” I cried in astonishment.
“Yes. I shall then send for the police agents and hand you over to
them, as the man who told me the falsehoods yesterday. This will clear
this house of the danger of any suspicion.”
I could not restrain a smile, remembering how he had emphasized the
heinousness of falsehoods. “It will at least be in a good cause,” I
said.
“God forgive me--but the child must be saved, Mr. Anstruther. You’ll do
this?”
“Why, of course.”
“And when your trouble is over, you will go to England?”
“One thing at a time. They might send me to Siberia.”
“It will be best so,” he said earnestly.
“What? Siberia for me?” I laughed.
“No, no. God forbid. England--England as soon as you can.”
“And Volna? Does she--know of this?”
“Indeed, no. Her one thought is of the trouble she may already have
brought upon you. She would never agree to it.”
I believed that. “Should I--see her to--to say good-bye?”
This perplexed him. “It would be better not, but”--his eyes wandered
all round the room before he finished--“I suppose she would wish it.
And you won’t meet again and--and you’ll tell her you are going home to
England?”
“I’m afraid you must leave it to me what to say,” I replied, with a
smile. “I think you may trust my discretion. And you must do your part
afterwards carefully. Keep her out of the way when we play the comedy
of that arrest later, or she may cast herself for a part in it. She’s
plucky enough to avow herself, and that would mix things up a good deal
for us all, you know.”
He frowned, threw up his hands in troubled perplexity and pushed his
chair back.
“We had better get it over,” he exclaimed resignedly. “I’ll go and tell
her you are leaving.”
He walked toward the door, paused, and turned as if to say something
more, then tossed up his hands again and went out of the room.
I stared out of the window into the small, but carefully tended garden,
a prey to the very mixed thoughts which the good Father had succeeded
in rousing.
Then the door opened and Volna came in alone.