The inside of Paulina's
house was a wreck. The remains of benches
and chairs and tables mingled with fragments of vessels of
different sorts strewn upon the filth-littered floor, the windows
broken, the door between the outer and inner rooms torn from its
hinges, all this debris, together with the battered, bruised and
bloody human shapes lying amidst their filth, gave eloquent
testimony to the tempestuous character of the proceedings of the
previous night.
The scene that greeted
Paulina's eyes in the early grey of the
morning might well have struck a stouter heart than hers with
dismay; for her house had the look of having been swept by a
tornado, and Paulina's heart was anything but stout that morning.
The sudden appearance of her husband had at first stricken her with
horrible fear, the fear of death; but this fear had passed into a
more dreadful horror, that of repudiation.
Seven years ago, when
Michael Kalmar had condescended to make her
his wife, her whole soul had gone forth to him in a passion of
adoring love that had invested him in a halo of glory. He became
her god thenceforth to worship and to serve. Her infidelity meant
no diminution of this passion. Withdrawn from her husband's
influence, left without any sign of his existence for two years or
more, subjected to the machinations of the subtle and unscrupulous
Rosenblatt, the soul in her had died, the animal had lived and
triumphed. The sound of her husband's voice last night had
summoned into vivid life her dead soul. Her god had moved into the
range of her vision, and immediately she was his again, soul and
body. Hence her sudden fury at Rosenblatt; hence, too, the utter
self-abandonment in her appeal to her husband. But now he had cast
her off. The gates of Heaven, swinging open before her ravished
eyes for a few brief moments, had closed to her forever. Small
wonder that she brought a heavy heart to the righting of her
disordered home, and well for her that Anka with her hearty, cheery
courage stood at her side that morning.
Together they set
themselves to clear away the filth and the
wreckage, human and otherwise. Of the human wreckage Anka made
short work. Stepping out into the frosty air, she returned with a
pail of snow.
"Here, you sluggards,"
she cried, bestowing generous handfuls upon
their sodden faces, "up with you, and out. The day is fine and
dinner will soon be here."
Grunting, growling,
cursing, the men rose, stretched themselves
with prodigious yawning, and bundled out into the frosty air.
"Get yourselves ready
for dinner," cried Anka after them. "The
best is yet to come, and then the dance."
Down into the cellar
they went, stiff and sore and still growling,
dipped their hands and heads into icy water, and after a
perfunctory toilet and a mug of beer or two all round, they were
ready for a renewal of the festivities. There was no breakfast,
but as the day wore on, from the shacks about came women with
provisions for the renewal of the feast. For Anka, wise woman, had
kept some of the more special dishes for the second day. But as
for the beer, though there were still some kegs left, they were few
enough to give Jacob Wassyl concern. It would be both a misfortune
and a disgrace if the beer should fail before the marriage feast
was over. The case was serious enough. Jacob Wassyl's own money
was spent, the guests had all contributed their share, Rosenblatt
would sooner surrender blood than money, and Jacob was not yet
sufficiently established as a husband to appeal to his wife for
further help.
It was through Simon
Ketzel that deliverance came, or rather
through Simon's guest, who, learning that the beer was like to
fail, passed Simon a bill, saying, "It would be sad if disgrace
should come to your friends. Let there be plenty of beer. Buy
what is necessary and keep the rest in payment for my lodging. And
of my part in this not a word to any man."
As a result, in the
late afternoon a dray load of beer kegs
appeared at Paulina's back door, to the unspeakable relief of Jacob
and of his guests as well, who had begun to share his anxiety and
to look forward to an evening of drouth and gloom.
As for Simon Ketzel, he
found himself at once upon the very crest
of a wave of popularity, for through the driver of the dray it
became known that it was Simon that had come so splendidly to the
rescue.
Relieved of anxiety,
the revellers gave themselves with fresh and
reckless zest to the duty of assuring beyond all shadow of doubt,
the good health of the bride and the groom, and of every one in
general in flowing mugs of beer. Throughout the afternoon, men and
women, and even boys and girls, ate and drank, danced and sang to
the limit of their ability.
As the evening
darkened, and while this carouse was at its height,
Paulina, with a shawl over her head, slipped out of the house and
through the crowd, and so on to the outskirts of the colony, where
she found her husband impatiently waiting her.
"You are late," he said
harshly.
"I could not find
Kalman."
"Kalman! My boy! And
where would he be?" exclaimed her husband
with a shade of anxiety in his voice.
"He was with me in the
house. I could not keep him from the men,
and they will give him beer."
"Beer to that child?"
snarled her husband.
"Yes, they make him
sing and dance, and they give him beer. He is
wonderful," said Paulina.
Even as she spoke, a
boy's voice rose clear and full in a Hungarian
love song, to the wild accompaniment of the cymbal.
"Hush!" said the man
holding up his hand.
At the first sound of
that high, clear voice, the bacchanalian
shoutings and roarings fell silent, and the wild weird song,
throbbing with passion, rose and fell upon the still evening air.
After each verse, the whole chorus of deep, harsh voices swelled
high over the wailing violins and Arnud's clanging cymbal.
"Good," muttered the
man when the song had ceased. "Now get him."
"I shall bring him to
yonder house," said Paulina, pointing to the
dwelling of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, whither in a few minutes she was seen
half dragging, half carrying a boy of eight, who kept kicking and
scratching vigorously, and pouring forth a torrent of English
oaths.
"Hush, Kalman," said
Paulina in Galician, vainly trying to quiet
the child. "The gentleman will be ashamed of you."
"I do not care for any
gentleman," screamed Kalman. "He is a black
devil," glancing at the black bearded man who stood waiting them at
the door of the Fitzpatrick dwelling.
"Hush, hush, you bad
boy!" exclaimed Paulina, horrified, laying her
hand over the boy's mouth.
The man turned his back
upon them, pulled off his black beard,
thrust it into his pocket, gave his mustaches a quick turn and
faced about upon them. This transformation froze the boy's fury
into silence. He shrank back to his mother's side.
"Is it the devil?" he
whispered to his mother in Galician.
"Kalman," said the man
quietly, in the Russian language, "come to
me. I am your father."
The boy gazed at him
fearful and perplexed.
"He does not
understand," said Paulina in Russian.
"Kalman," repeated his
father, using the Galician speech, "come to
me. I am your father."
The boy hesitated,
looking fixedly at his father. But three years
had wiped out the memory of that face.
"Come, you little
Cossack," said his father, smiling at him.
"Come, have you forgotten all your rides?"
The boy suddenly
started, as if waking from sleep. The words
evidently set the grey matter moving along old brain tracks. He
walked toward his father, took the hand outstretched to him, and
kissed it again and again.
"Aha, my son, you
remember me," said the father exultantly.
"Yes," said the boy in
English, "I remember the ride on the black
horse."
The man lifted the boy
in his strong arms, kissed him again and
again, then setting him down said to Paulina, "Let us go in."
Paulina stepped forward
and knocked at the door. Mrs. Fitzpatrick
answered the knock and, seeing Paulina, was about to shut the door
upon her face, when Paulina put up her hand.
"Look," she cried,
pointing to the man, who stood back in the
shadow, "Irma fadder."
"What d'ye say?"
enquired Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
"Irma fadder," repeated
Paulina, pointing to Kalmar.
"Is my daughter Irma in
your house?" said he, stepping forward.
"Yer daughter, is it?"
said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, looking sharply into
the foreigner's face. "An' if she's yer daughter it's yersilf that
should ashamed av it fer the way ye've desarted the lot o' thim."
"Is it permitted that I
see my daughter Irma?" said the man
quietly.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick
scanned his face suspiciously, then called, "Irma
darlin', come here an' tell me who this is. Give the babby to Tim
there, an' come away."
A girl of between
eleven and twelve, tall for her age, with pale
face, two thick braids of yellow hair, and wonderful eyes "burnin'
brown," as Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, came to the door and looked out
upon the man. For some time they gazed steadily each into the
other's face.
"Irma, my child," said
Kalmar in English, "you know me?"
But the girl stood
gazing in perplexity.
"Irma! Child of my
soul!" cried the man, in the Russian tongue,
"do you not remember your father?" He stepped from the shadow to
where the light from the open door could fall upon his face and
stood with arms outstretched.
At once the girl's face
changed, and with a cry, "It is my fadder!"
she threw herself at him.
Her father caught her
and held her fast, saying not a word, but
covering her face with kisses.
"Come in, come in to
the warm," cried the kindhearted Irish woman,
wiping her eyes. "Come in out o' the cold." And with eager
hospitality she hurried the father and children into the house.
As they passed in,
Paulina turned away. Before Mrs. Fitzpatrick
shut the door, Irma caught her arm and whispered in her ear.
"Paulina, is it? Let
her shtop--" She paused, looking at the
Russian.
"Your pardon?" he
enquired with a bow.
"It's Paulina," said
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, her voice carrying the full
measure of her contempt for the unhappy creature who stood half
turning away from the door.
"Ah, let her go. It is
no difference. She is a sow. Let her go."
"Thin she's not your
wife at all?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, her wrath
rising at this discovery of further deception in Paulina.
He shrugged his
shoulders. "She was once. I married her. She is
wife no longer. Let her go."
His contemptuous
indifference turned Mrs. Fitzpatrick's wrath upon
him.
"An' it's yersilf that
ought to take shame to yersilf fer the way
ye've treated her, an' so ye should!"
The man waved his hand
as if to brush aside a matter of quite
trifling moment.
"It matters not," he
repeated. "She is only a cow."
"Let her come in,"
whispered Irma, laying her hand again on Mrs.
Fitzpatrick's arm.
"Sure she will," cried
the Irish woman; "come in here, you poor,
spiritless craythur."
Irma sprang down the
steps, spoke a few hurried words in Galician.
Poor Paulina hesitated, her eyes upon her husband's face. He made
a contemptuous motion with his hand as if calling a dog to heel.
Immediately, like a dog, the woman crept in and sat far away from
the fire in a corner of the room.
"Ye'll pardon me," said
Mrs. Fitzpatrick to Kalmar, "fer not axin'
ye in at the first; but indade, an' it's more your blame than mine,
fer sorra a bit o' thim takes afther ye."
"They do not resemble
me, you mean?" said the father. "No, they
are the likeness of their mother." As he spoke he pulled out a
leather case, opened it and passed it to Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
"Aw, will ye look at
that now!" she cried, gazing at the beautiful
miniature. "An' the purty face av her. Sure, it's a rale queen
she was, an' that's no lie. An' the girl is goin' to be the very
spit av her. An' the bye, he's got her blue eyes an' her bright
hair. It's aisy seen where they git their looks," she added,
glancing at him.
"Mind yer manners, now
thin," growled Tim, who was very considerably
impressed by the military carriage and the evident "quality" of
their guest.
"Yes, the children have
the likeness of their mother," said the
father in a voice soft and reminiscent. "It is in their behalf I
am here to-night, Madam--what shall I have the honour to name you?"
"Me name, is it?" cried
Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "Mishtress Timothy
Fitzpatrick, Monaghan that was, the Monaghans o' Ballinghalereen,
an owld family, poor as Job's turkey, but proud as the divil, an'
wance the glory o' Mayo. An' this," she added, indicating her
spouse with a jerk of her thumb, "is Timothy Fitzpatrick, me
husband, a dacent man in his way. Timothy, where's yer manners?
Shtand up an' do yer duty."
Tim struggled to his
feet, embarrassed with the burden of Paulina's
baby, and pulled his forelock.
"And my name," said the
Russian, answering Timothy's salutation
with a profound bow, "is Michael Kalmar, with respect to you and
Mr. Vichpatrick."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was
evidently impressed.
"An' proud I am to see
ye in me house," she said, answering his bow
with a curtsey. "Tim, ye owl ye! Why don't ye hand his honour a
chair? Did ye niver git the air o' a gintleman before?"
It took some minutes to
get the company settled, owing to the
reluctance of the Russian to seat himself while the lady was
standing, and the equal reluctance of Mrs. Fitzpatrick to take her
seat until she had comfortably settled her guest.
"I come to you, Mrs.
Vichpatrick, on behalf of my children."
"An' fine childer they
are, barrin' the lad is a bit av a limb
betimes."
In courteous and
carefully studied English, Kalmar told his need.
His affairs called him to Europe. He might be gone a year, perhaps
more. He needed some one to care for his children. Paulina,
though nothing to him now, would be faithful in caring for them, as
far as food, clothing and shelter were concerned. She would
dismiss her boarders. There had never been need of her taking
boarders, but for the fraud of a wicked man. It was at this point
that he needed help. Would Mrs. Fitzpatrick permit him to send her
money from time to time which should be applied to the support of
Paulina and the children. He would also pay her for her trouble.
At this Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, who had been listening impatiently for
some moments, broke forth upon him.
"Ye can kape yer
money," she cried wrathfully. "What sort av a man
are ye, at all, at all, that ye sind yer helpless childer to a
strange land with a scut like that?"
"Paulina was an honest
woman once," he interposed.
"An' what for," she
continued wrathfully, "are ye lavin' thim now
among a pack o' haythen? Look at that girl now, what'll come to
her in that bloody pack o' thieves an' blackguards, d'ye think?
Howly Joseph! It's mesilf that kapes wakin' benights to listen fer
the screams av her. Why don't ye shtay like a man by yer childer
an' tell me that?"
"My affairs--" began
the Russian, with a touch of hauteur in his
tone.
"An' what affairs have
ye needin' ye more than yer childer? Tell
me that, will ye?"
And truth to tell, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick's indignation blazed forth not
only on behalf of the children, but on behalf of the unfortunate
Paulina as well, whom, in spite of herself, she pitied.
"What sort av a heart
have ye, at all, at all?"
"A heart!" cried the
Russian, rising from his chair. "Madam, my
heart is for my country. But you would not understand. My country
calls me."
"Yer counthry!"
repeated Mrs. Fitzpatrick with scorn. "An' what
counthry is that?"
"Russia," said the man
with dignity, "my native land."
"Rooshia! An' a bloody
country it is," answered Mrs. Fitzpatrick
with scorn.
"Yes, Russia," he
cried, "my bloody country! You are correct.
Red with the blood of my countrymen, the blood of my kindred this
hundred years and more." His voice was low but vibrant with
passion. "You cannot understand. Why should I tell you?"
At this juncture
Timothy sprang to his feet.
"Sit ye down, dear man,
sit ye down! Shut yer clapper, Nora! Sure
it's mesilf that knows a paythriot whin I sees 'im. Tear-an-ages!
Give me yer hand, me boy. Sit ye down an' tell us about it. We're
all the same kind here. Niver fear for the woman, she's the worst
o' the lot. Tell us, dear man. Be the light that shines! it's
mesilf that's thirsty to hear."
The Russian gazed at
the shining eyes of the little Irishman as if
he had gone mad. Then, as if the light had broken upon him, he
cried, "Aha, you are of Ireland. You, too, are fighting the
tyrant."
"Hooray, me boy!"
shouted Tim, "an' it's the thrue word ye've
shpoke, an' niver a lie in the skin av it. Oireland foriver! Be
the howly St. Patrick an' all the saints, I am wid ye an' agin
ivery government that's iver robbed an honest man. Go on, me boy,
tell us yer tale."
Timothy was undoubtedly
excited. The traditions of a hundred years
of fierce rebellion against the oppression of the "bloody tyrant"
were beating at his brain and in his heart. The Russian caught
fire from him and launched forth upon his tale. For a full hour,
now sitting in his chair, now raging up and down the room, now in a
voice deep, calm and terrible, now broken and hoarse with sobs, he
recounted deeds of blood and fire that made Ireland's struggle and
Ireland's wrongs seem nursery rhymes.
Timothy listened to the
terrible story in an ecstasy of alternating
joy and fury, according to the nature of the episode related. It
was like living again the glorious days of the moonlighters and the
rackrenters in dear old Ireland. The tale came to an abrupt end.
"An' thin what
happened?" cried Timothy.
"Then," said the
Russian quietly, "then it was Siberia."
"Siberia! The Hivins be
about us!" said Tim in an awed voice.
"But ye got away?"
"I am here," he replied
simply.
"Be the sowl of Moses,
ye are! An' wud ye go back agin?" cried Tim
in horror.
"Wud he!" said Nora,
with ineffable scorn. "Wud a herrin' swim?
By coorse he'll go back. An' what's more, ye can sind the money to
me an' I'll see that the childer gets the good av it, if I've to
wring the neck av that black haythen, Rosenblatt, like a chicken."
"You will take the
money for my children?" enquired the Russian.
"I will that."
He stretched out his
hand impulsively. She placed hers in it. He
raised it to his lips, bending low as if it had been the lily white
hand of the fairest lady in the land, instead of the fat, rough,
red hand of an old Irish washer-woman.
"Sure, it's mighty bad
taste ye have," said Tim with a sly laugh.
"It's not her hand I'd be kissin'."
"Bad luck to ye! Have
ye no manners?" said Nora, jerking away her
hand in confusion.
"I thank you with all
my heart," said Kalmar, gravely bowing with
his hand upon his heart. "And will you now and then look over--
overlook--oversee--ah yes, oversee this little girl?"
"Listen to me now,"
cried Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "Can she clear out
thim men from her room?" nodding her head toward Paulina.
"There will be no men
in her house."
"Can she kape thim out?
She's only a wake craythur anyway."
"Paulina," said her
husband.
She came forward and,
taking his hand, kissed it, Mrs. Fitzpatrick
looking on in disgust.
"This woman asks can
you keep the men out of your room," he said in
Galician.
"I will keep them out,"
she said simply.
"Aye, but can she?"
said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, to whom her answer had
been translated.
"I can kill them in the
night," said Paulina, in a voice of quiet
but concentrated passion.
"The saints in Hivin be
above us! I belave her," said Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, with a new respect for Paulina. "But fer the love o'
Hivin, tell her there is no killin' in this counthry, an' more's
the pity when ye see some men that's left to run about."
"She will keep the
children safe with her life," said Kalmar. "She
had no money before, and she was told I was dead. But it matters
not. She is nothing to me. But she will keep my children with her
life."
His trust in her, his
contempt for her, awakened in Mrs.
Fitzpatrick a kind of hostility toward him, and of pity for the
wretched woman whom, while he trusted, he so despised.
"Come an' take an air
o' the fire, Paulina," she said not unkindly.
"It's cold forninst the door."
Pauhina, while she
understood not the words, caught the meaning of
the gesture, but especially of the tone. She drew near, caught the
Irish woman's hand in hers and kissed it.
"Hut!" said Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, drawing away her hand. "Sit down,
will ye?"
The Russian rose to his
feet.
"I must now depart. I
have still a little work to accomplish.
To-morrow I leave the city. Permit me now to bid my children
farewell."
He turned to the girl,
who held Paulina's baby asleep in her arms.
"Irma," he said in Russian, "I am going to leave you."
The girl rose, placed
the sleeping baby on the bed, and coming to
her father's side, stood looking up into his face, her wonderful
brown eyes shining with tears she was too brave to shed.
He drew her to him.
"I am going to leave
you," he repeated in Russian. "In one year,
if all is well, at most in two, I shall return. You know I cannot
stay with you, and you know why." He took the miniature from his
pocket and opening it, held it before her face. "Your mother gave
her life for her country." For some moments he gazed upon the
beautiful face in the miniature. "She was a lady, and feared not
death. Ah! ah! such a death!" He struggled fiercely with his
emotions. "She was willing to die. Should not I? You do not
grudge that I should leave you, that I should die, if need be?" An
anxious, almost wistful tone crept into his voice.
Bravely the little girl
looked up into the dark face.
"I remember my mother,"
she said; "I would be like her."
"Aha!" cried her
father, catching her to his breast, "I judged you
rightly. You are her daughter, and you will live worthy of her.
Kalman, come hither. Irma, you will care for your brother. He is
young. He is a boy. He will need care. Kalman, heart of my
life!"
"He does not understand
Russian," said Paulina. "Speak in
Galician."
"Ha," cried the man,
turning sharply upon her as if he had
forgotten her existence. "Kalman, my son," he proceeded in
Russian, "did you not understand what I said to your sister?"
"Not well, father,"
said the boy; "a little."
"Alas, that you should
have forgotten your mother's speech!"
"I shall learn it again
from Irma," said the boy.
"Good," replied the
father in Galician. "Listen then. Never
forget you are a Russian. This," putting the miniature before him,
"was your mother. She was a lady. For her country she gave up
rank, wealth, home and at last life. For her country, too, I go
back again. When my work is done I shall return."
Through the window came
sounds of revelry from the house near by.
"You are not of these
cattle," he said, pointing through the
window. "Your mother was a lady. Be worthy of her, boy. Now
farewell."
The boy stood without
word, without motion, without tear, his light
blue eyes fixed upon his father's face, his fair skin white but for
a faint spot of red on his cheek.
"Obey your sister,
Kalman, and defend her. And listen, boy." His
voice deepened into a harsh snarl, his fingers sank into the boy's
shoulder, but the boy winced not. "If any man does her wrong, you
will kill him. Say it, boy? What will you do?"
"Kill him," said the
boy with fierce promptitude, speaking in the
English tongue.
"Ha! yes," replied his
father in English, "you bear your mother's
face, her golden hair, her eyes of blue--they are not so beautiful--
but you have your father's spirit. You would soon learn to kill
in Russia, but in this land you will not kill unless to defend your
sister from wrong."
His mood swiftly
changed. He paused, looking sadly at his
children; then turning to Mrs. Fitzpatrick he said, "They should go
to the public school like Simon Ketzel's little girl. They speak
not such good English as she. She is very clever."
"Sure, they must go to
school," said she. "An' go they will."
"My gratitude will be
with you forever. Good-by."
He shook hands with
Timothy, then with Mrs. Fitzpatrick, kissing
her hand as well. He motioned his children toward him.
"Heart of my heart," he
murmured in a broken voice, straining his
daughter to his breast. "God, if God there be, and all the saints,
if saints there be, have you in their keeping. Kalman, my son,"
throwing one arm about him, "Farewell! farewell!" He was fast
losing control of himself. The stormy Slavic passions were
threatening to burst all restraint. "I give you to each other.
But you will remember that it was not for my sake, but for Russia's
sake, I leave you. My heart, my heart belongs to you, but my
heart's heart is not for me, nor for you, but for Russia, for your
mother's land and ours."
By this time tears were
streaming down his cheek. Sobs shook his
powerful frame. Irma was clinging to him in an abandonment of
weeping. Kalman stood holding tight to his father, rigid,
tearless, white. At length the father tore away their hands and
once more crying "Farewell!" made toward the door.
At this the boy broke
forth in a loud cry, "Father! My father!
Take me with you! I would not fear! I would not fear to die.
Take me to Russia!" The boy ran after his father and clutched him
hard.
"Ah, my lad, you are
your mother's son and mine. Some day you may
go back. Who knows? But--no, no. Canada is your country. Go
back." The lad still clutched him. "Boy," said his father,
steadying his voice with great effort and speaking quietly, "with
us, in our country, we learn first obedience."
The lad dropped his
hold.
"Good!" said the
father. "You are my own son. You will yet be a
man. And now farewell."
He kissed them again.
The boy broke into passionate sobbing.
Paulina came forward and, kneeling at the father's feet, put her
face to the floor.
"I will care for the
son of my lord," she murmured.
But with never a look
at her, the father strode to the door and
passed out into the night.
"Be the howly prophet!"
cried Tim, wiping his eyes, "it's harrd,
it's harrd! An' it's the heart av a paythriot the lad carries
inside av him! An' may Hivin be about him!" |