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Title: The Trappist's Vow Author: Baroness Orczy * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 2000251h.html Language: English Date first posted: March 2020 Most recent update: March 2020 This eBook was produced by: Walter Moore Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg Australia Licence which may be viewed online.GO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
She knew he had seen all; he met her look of terror with one of such unutterable
contempt that she closed her eyes to shut out the fearful vision.
When she opened them again he was gone.
Chapter 2
Yes, 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 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.
Chapter 3
How Sergius Kousmenski spent the remainder of that day he scarcely
knew. He found his servants anxious about him, wondering where His Excellency
could thus have spent a whole night.
His harsh severity against the inhabitants had rendered him an object of
fear and almost hatred in the Polish city, and it was a very likely thing,
if he chanced to be out alone at night, that some desperate patriot might
succeed in ridding Poland of her dreaded governor.
But, even with an aching heart and a throbbing brain, duty must be gone
through, and Sergius lived through that weary day—and waited for the
night. The Trappist monastery lay two or three miles distant from the governor’s
palace, and yet in Sergius’ ears, during that long day, there incessantly
tolled the soft-toned bell of the Angelus.
When all was dark and quiet again within the city walls, Sergius Kousmenski
went out—out through the gates, across the fields beyond which lay
that convent chapel bathed in the moonlight.
The night was far advanced, and it was with a thrill of satisfaction that
Sergius saw that the stained-glass windows were lighted up from within.
He pushed open the heavy panelled door, which was never closed on those
who wished to enter for rest, meditation, or prayer. The little chapel at
first seemed quite deserted, and Sergius paused, wondering, till presently
at the foot of the altar to the Virgin he spied the Trappist kneeling.
He was a middle-aged man, his face worn, thin, and pale from long fasts
and vigils. Sergius looked at him long; at him who must know all. Would he
speak?
The convent rules are rigid, Sergius knew. From the day that the final vows
are taken, the Trappist monks’ lips are sealed forever; complete silence
shuts them out from all intercourse with man-kind, and that silence may only
be broken in order to give the prescribed greeting to each other as they
pass: “Memento mori.” All other words may only be addressed to
God or his saints, in prayer.
Sergius knew this, and yet he crossed the chapel aisle, and touching the
kneeling monk on the shoulder he said:
“Father, I would speak with you.”
The monk looked toward him, and for an instant a look of wonder crossed
his impassive features; but it was a mere flash; he turned his eyes again
heavenward, and continued counting his beads.
“Father, a broken-hearted man seeks comfort at your hands; won’t
you speak to him?”
“Memento mori,” muttered the monk half audibly.
“Aye! I remember!” said Sergius, drearily. “But before
I die I will know the truth. Is it wrong to seek for truth?”
The monk seemed to have forgotten his presence; he was saying his beads
devoutly, all absorbed.
“Father,” again said Sergius, “I wish to speak about Olga
Kriwenko. What was she doing in this chapel last night?”
The monk once more turned toward Sergius. There was a wistful tenderness
in his sunken eyes, but he was still fingering his beads, and his lips still
murmured endless Ave Marias.
“Monk, whoever thou art,” said Sergius, “if thou art
a man, answer me. What dost thou know of Olga?”
He might as well have been talking to one of the stone images round the
chapel walls. The monk remained silent and prayed.
Then the untamed Tartar blood rushed wildly to Sergius’ head. He looked
with eyes of hatred at the fanatic monk, and, drawing a short dagger from
his belt, he let it glimmer in the low lamp-light.
“What did Olga do in this chapel last night?” he hissed in the
monk’s ear. “Remember, man, thy life is in my hands.”
The monk looked at the knife with contempt, at Sergius with pity. “Memento
mori,” was his sole answer.
He made no attempt to defend his life, but, when he felt the stab and felt
his blood beginning to flow, with his hands and his robe he tried to staunch
the wound, so that he should not pollute the Virgin’s altar. But his
lips remained sealed to the end. To the end the Trappist had kept his vow.
Sergius took him up in his arms, horror-struck at what he had done, and
carried him out of the chapel to the little cemetery beyond. He laid the
monk in one of the graves, and, being a devout Catholic, he knelt by its
side and recited some prayers for the dead. Then he left him, and walked
away across the fields.
Chapter 4
It was a cruel time that now followed. A fresh Polish conspiracy had
been discovered, and His Excellency, Sergius Kousmenski, the governor, was
more pitiless than ever toward those that fell into the clutches of the Russian
police.
A woman, one Olga Kriwenko by name, was implicated in the plot. The governor
heard that she was young and beautiful, and that she even succeeded in softening
the hearts of her jailers. Many an influential person pleaded for her life,
but the governor refused to listen, and ordered that she should be shot the
next morning, along with the others; and he also ordered that the Angelus
should be rung from the Trappist convent chapel at the hour of their death.
People heard this curious decision, and wondered if His Excellency was really
sane. He hardly knew himself, but he thought that if he once heard the Angelus
sound together with that volley of musketry it would cease to haunt him as
it had done for all these long days.
And when night came he wandered once more toward the convent chapel. Nothing
seemed altered in the peaceful little house of God. A monk—was it the
same?—was kneeling before the altar. Sergius sat in the chapel he knew
not how long. The hours seemed so wearying. Would dawn never come? Dawn,
when she would die, she who had broken his heart while quietly telling her
beads.
The chapel seemed oppressive. He wandered out and into the little cemetery
toward the spot where that open grave had been that night, which now held
the body of the Trappist who would not speak. Sergius had some difficulty
in finding the exact spot; it had been levelled in this short while, and
no crosses or stones mark the graves of the Trappists. Suddenly he paused;
at his feet, over some newly trodden earth, something white was gleaming;
it was a piece of paper pinned to the earth by a dagger. Sergius stooped
to look. He could read the words, stained by mud and rain though they were:
“To His Excellency, the Governor of Warsaw, if he should chance to
pass this way.”
Feverishly Sergius pulled out the knife and unfolded the paper. It contained
a few scribbled lines written by a feeble hand:
“Sergius Kousmenski. I could not speak to thee in life, let me speak
in death. My moments are numbered; thy dagger did its work well, but not
quite so well as thou hadst thought. I forgive thee my death. Forgive Olga
Kriwenko; her sins were not against thee. Poland needed money; she undertook
to find it. She alone knows how she succeeded. The man she saw here was her
brother. To him she gave the money. Go thou, and on thy knees ask her pardon
for having suspected her purity.”
The paper dropped from Sergius’ hand. A look of joy and hope illumined
his face. All was not yet lost. Thank God! Thank God! She still lived.
At that moment the first sound of the Angelus came from within the convent
chapel, and the monks once more began to chant “Ave Maria!”
“No! no! Stop! stop! in the name of God, wait!”
Wait! Who should wait? Time or eternity?
“Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death!”
And a distant volley of musketry rent the still night air.
Sergius Kousmenski fell forward on his face, and buried his head in the
dust.
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