CHAPTER XV

BLESSING THE HERETICS

AT night Father Cyril could not sleep. The scenes he had recently passed through haunted his brain, and drove away sleep.

On the day that was just past, the last day, he had allowed every mother to see the children she was compelled to leave behind, for the last time. Tatiania had not come to say good-bye to little Clava; and to Father Cyril this seemed the saddest thing of all. He dreaded the day that was coming; for then the women would be carried away from their native village, probably never to return.

They were in his parish, his people, though they did not acknowledge him. Yet he was absolutely powerless to help them. He had gained a few alleviations for them. He had obtained permission for Michael to join the convoy at the nearest railway station, which was two days' march from Kovylsk. But that was all.

His brain whirled with useless and hopeless thoughts. Hour after hour he lay awake, praying for the unhappy people who would rather perish in Siberian wildernesses than forswear themselves. More than the rest, the fate of Tatiania and her children perplexed him.

Between two and three hours before the dawn, he heard stealthy footsteps pass his window. Most of the rooms were on the ground floor; and the little chamber where Velia and Clava slept opened out of his own. Very quietly he got up, and looked cautiously through the window. It was bright moonlight, and, three shadows, one that of a woman, lay upon the ground. Very soon he heard a stifled cry. The door into the children's room fitted badly, and there was a chink wide enough for him to look through. He recognised Michael and Sergius; Michael was bending over Velia asleep and softly kissing her hair, whilst Sergius was holding Clava in his arms, and wrapping a sheepskin about her. Father Cyril understood in an instant what the boys were going to do.

He stood spellbound; tears smarting under his eyelids. He had never doubted for a moment that to take children from their parents was a crime against God. He had hesitated to carry out the order of the consistory, but to refuse to obey was simply to give over his parish to the hands of those who would execute the sentence without mercy. What was he to do now?

He watched the silent and rapid movements of the boys, and saw them give the sleeping child into the stretched out arms of the woman whose shadow he had seen. They were only going to steal Clava away. He knew the vital importance of this step for Khariton Kondraty's family. If they remained in Knishi, to-morrow they would be plunged into the direst distress. The boys were doing the best thing in their power. Should he hinder them?

"No!" he said to himself. "God help them!"

It was Paraska who received little Clava into her arms; for the boys had not ventured to tell Tatiania of their desperate scheme. Michael and Paraska were to start at daybreak in the telega for Kovylsk, and the child could easily be concealed at the bottom of the cart, till they were far enough away to be no longer afraid of detection. Once in Kovylsk, Clava could be included in the convoy, as Kondraty's children, three in number, were entered on the list. They started at the first streak of dawn, calling at Tatiania's house, that she might see for herself that little Clava was with them. Michael was so much excited that he scarcely thought how he was leaving home again, this time probably for ever.

Sleep was farther than ever from Father Cyril's eyes, after what he had seen. He felt almost as if he was a boy again, rejoicing with the boys' joy over the success of their enterprise. At any rate, the burden of Kondraty's family would now be taken from him.

He had never before been in a parish containing heretics. He was known throughout the diocese as a very estimable and successful parish priest in country places. And in consequence he had been chosen to follow Father Vasili, and had been sent to Knishi to wage war with the Stundists. He came willingly, with high courage and confident hope. But instead of finding blasphemous, ignorant, and godless people, he met with devout and simple Christians, better grounded in the Scriptures than himself, though ready to listen to him with respectful attention. Now he saw and shrank from the pitiless spirit of persecution. He had never been face to face with it before. Well might our Lord say to His disciples, who wished to command fire to come down from heaven on the Samaritans, "Ye know not what spirit ye are of." Father Cyril understood now the spirit of persecution, and he quailed before it. It might turn cowards into hypocrites, but it could not make true men forswear their consciences.

When the Matoushka awoke in the morning, Father Cyril was up and dressed. His eyes looked heavy, and his whole appearance was dejected.

"Clava is gone to see her mother," he said briefly; "do not speak of her to anybody, my dear wife. Take Velia and our little ones into the forest for the day. I do not wish them to see the women and children setting off."

"Is Clava going with her mother?" asked the Matoushka, who sympathised deeply with Tatiania.

"It is not quite settled yet," he replied.

The hour for starting was early, and Father Cyril went down to the barrier. A crowd of villagers surrounded the carts which were taking away their old friends and neighbours, probably for ever. There were nine women, the oldest, Matrona Ivanovna, nearly seventy years of age; and the youngest just over twenty, with her first baby, only two months old. Thirteen children were with them, either big boys and girls over ten years or babies under two years of age. All the children between those ages were left behind in Knishi. Six out of the nine were bereft of some of their children. One amongst them was bereft of all, and she sat in the cart, tearless and speechless, with a look of despair on her face. The others were weeping and lamenting, calling out the names of their little ones, and beseeching Father Cyril to take care of each of them. All except Tatiania, who sat still, with closed eyes, yet with an expression of secret satisfaction struggling against the sorrow of quitting her native village.

Marfa gazed about her with bewildered and sombre eyes. All of them had been born there, and most of them had never been a day's journey from Knishi. They were passing out of a familiar and beloved world to enter into one of which they knew nothing. It would have been less strange to go to the City of God, whose pearly gates and streets of gold they had often dreamed about.

In the crowd, watching their departure, there were brothers and sisters and other relatives who had not abandoned the Orthodox Church. The young wife who had a baby two months old had a father and mother gazing their last at her with tear-dimmed eyes. What crime had their child committed that she should be torn from them, with scarcely a hope she should ever see them again?

Yarina was there, her heart aching for the mothers of the two children whom she had adopted, who were now holding their little ones in a last passionate embrace.

"They shall be as my own," she cried, sobbing; "and when I know where you go, I will write to you about them."

The last minute was come, and Matrona stood up in the cart where she was sitting, and looked round her with eyes dimmed with age.

"I've lived here sixty-five years," she said, "and now I go away; and I shall never go to the well again, and never hear the church bells ringing. Tell me, have I done any one of you any harm? Have you aught against me? Have I ever refused to help when I could help?"

"No, no, Matrona Stepanovna!" sobbed Yarina.

And a shout of "No!" came from the crowd.

"Then I bid you farewell comforted," said Matrona; "for this I know, that wherever they send us, we shall be in the hollow of God's hand, and no man can pluck us out of our Father's hand."

"Come, we are all ready to start," said the officer who had come to convey the women and children to Kovylsk.

Then Father Cyril stretched out his arms in the attitude of blessing. The Orthodox people knelt down, and the women in the carts bent their heads, whilst he said in a tremulous voice—

"'The peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.' . . . 'The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Ghost, be with you all. Amen.'"

At last the sorrowful cavalcade set off. The banished women stood up in the carts, and stretched out their arms towards their lost homes, the hearths where they had rocked their babies, and the roofs that had sheltered their happy families. The villagers tried to set up a shout, but they broke down. Now the heretics were going, old animosities and jealousies were forgotten. These sorrow-laden women and sad boys and girls were never to return. As they passed slowly out of sight, a low wailing came back on the wind, and was echoed by the sobs and moans of the crowd.

Father Cyril went home, and passed the long day in solitary meditation and prayer before the altar in his church. He was greatly distressed in spirit. These exiled men and women were accepted of God; for did they not fear, ay, and love Him, and work righteousness? Yet they were despised and rejected of men, oppressed and afflicted, and acquainted with grief. They were fellow-Christians, disciples of the same Lord, and yet they persecuted them in His name, and thought that even when they hounded them to death, they were doing God service.